Not physically — the braziers burn high and gold, the light casting a false sense of warmth over polished stone. But the cold is underneath, in the glances, in the silence before someone speaks your name.
Kaelis stands in the center of the chamber, no sword on his hip.
He wasn’t summoned with honor.
He was summoned with suspicion.
I stand off to the side, near the raised platform, flanked by Maelis and two minor lords with nothing better to do than nod in agreement with whoever speaks first.
My father sits on the throne, though he’s said nothing yet.
Watching.
Waiting.
Letting the court do his dirty work.
Maelis steps forward. “Ser Kaelis,” she begins, her voice clear as glass. “You’ve served the crown with distinction for nearly two decades.”
Kaelis nods once. “I have.”
She smiles — tight, practiced. “Which is why we’re troubled by the… personal nature of your relationship with the princess.”
The air shifts.
Not gasps.
Just a long-held breath.
Kaelis does not react.
She continues, “There have been rumors. Behaviors observed. Discretion is expected of those in your position, but it seems you’ve grown too familiar.”
I take a step forward. “My knight has done nothing improper.”
Her head turns slowly. “Your Highness, you may be too close to assess that impartially.”
I clench my fists at my sides. “Kaelis has been loyal. Beyond measure. Beyond question.”
“Loyalty,” she says, “can become possession if left unchecked.”
Kaelis’s voice cuts through, steady and low. “Are you accusing me of treason?”
“No.” Maelis lifts her chin. “But I am asking whether your loyalty is still to the crown... or to the princess alone.” Kaelis doesn’t answer right away.
He looks at me.
Just for a moment.
And I see it — the conflict, the restraint, the truth.
Then he returns his gaze to Maelis. “I am loyal to Valenor and to Arathen,” he says. “But if the court can no longer see the difference between devotion and disgrace, then perhaps the shame lies not with me.”
Silence.
Sharp.
Clean.
My father shifts in his chair, but still says nothing.
Maelis narrows her eyes. “You are dismissed from the princess’s personal guard, effective immediately.”
“No,” I say.
She doesn’t turn. “It is not your decision.”
“Then make it mine,” I say. My voice is cold now. Controlled. “Because if you remove him, you remove me.” Another silence.
Kaelis doesn’t flinch.
Neither do I.
The court doesn’t argue.
But they don’t forget.
The hallway outside the Grand Hall is silent.
We walk without speaking — not because we’ve run out of things to say, but because too much has already been said in rooms where neither of us were truly heard.
When we reach the garden vestibule, Kaelis stops. I turn toward him, and for a moment, neither of us moves. Then:
“They humiliated you,” I say.
He shrugs one shoulder, but the edge of it’s sharp. “They tried.”
“You didn’t deserve that.”
He looks at me, and this time, it isn’t distant or practiced — it’s worn.
Tired.
Alive. “I’ve survived worse than words,” he says.
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
I take a step closer, voice lowering. “You could have denied it. You could have said nothing.”
He studies me. “Would you have believed me?”
The question catches somewhere in my chest.
“No,” I admit. “But I would’ve let you lie if it kept you safe.”
Kaelis shakes his head, just once. “I won’t lie about this,” he says. “Not for them. Not for you.”
I feel it then — not fear, not exactly, but the quiet grief of knowing there’s no putting this back in the bottle.
No more pretending we live beneath notice.
“I won’t let them take you from me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t smile.
But he doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t need to protect me,” he says. “You just need to be ready.”
Across the palace, in a high-ceilinged room lined with silver and crystal, Eiran stands beside the open window and listens. He doesn’t need to be in the Grand Hall to know what was said.
He’d laced the whispers well — no accusation, no vulgarity.
Just enough smoke to make the court sniff for fire.
And they had.
Predictably.
Beautifully.
Behind him, a young nobleman recounts the hearing with wide eyes and hushed reverence, breathless at the scandal and scandalized at the defiance.
Eiran barely hears him.
He watches the courtyard below.
A pair of guards adjust their positions.
A courier rides out.
The princess's shadow no longer walks behind her.
Good.
Let them whisper.
Let the court turn its eye inward.
Distraction is a powerful tool. And while they dig into hearts and scandal, they won’t see the knife he’s already set in the dark. He turns from the window, expression composed.
“We’ll begin the next phase tomorrow,” he says.
He picks up a ruby-hilted letter opener and slices through the seal of his next message with calm precision.
I don’t return to my chambers.
Too many ears.
Too many expectations.
Instead, I find the north tower — the old watchpoint that no one guards anymore, where the stone smells of moss and history, and the windows let the wind in without asking permission. I sit on the ledge, knees pulled close, cloak wrapped around my shoulders like I’m still the girl who used to hide from court banquets up here.
I’m not that girl anymore. And I can’t be.
I let my head rest back against the stone and close my eyes. Maelis and the court have made their position clear. Kaelis is no longer mine to keep close without consequence. And yet… I won’t let him go.
I can’t.
Eiran’s trap was clean. Not an accusation, just implication. One whispered seed, and the court did the rest. He doesn’t want the throne through me.
He wants me so tainted by scandal that I become easy to remove.
So what do I do?
Comply?
Distance myself from Kaelis and let the court think they’ve won?
Or lean in — not to the scandal, but to the truth of it? T
o the loyalty that threatens them, the closeness they can’t twist without admitting it’s real?
I think of Kaelis’s eyes in the garden.
You just need to be ready.
I am.
I’m not sure I know what it means yet — but I know this: I will not let my kingdom be ruled by those who think compassion is weakness.
I will not let them destroy the only person who has ever told me the truth, even when it hurt.
And I will not let them write my story in the voice of someone else's fear.
I stand.
The wind pulls at my hair, tugs at the edge of my cloak like it wants me to fly.
Not yet.
But soon.
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