Not in volume — the nobles speak in the same delicate tones, walk with the same measured steps — but the air vibrates.
With rumor.
With implication.
With fear.
They’ve seen me walk beside Kaelis in daylight.
They’ve heard me speak in my own voice, not the one the crown taught me to use.
And now they don’t know who they’re dealing with.
Some whisper that I’ve lost sense.
That I’m ruled by emotion.
That I’m weak.
But others — quietly, cautiously — wonder if perhaps I’ve grown into something else entirely.
A princess not molded.
A woman not moved by fear.
In Arathen, stories spread faster than grain in the wind.
The markets stir with talk.
Some call it scandal — the princess and her knight, walking through the courtyard as if they’ve nothing to hide. Others call it romantic, brave, even holy.
A few say foolish.
But the people — the real people, the ones not draped in velvet or lined in coin — look at the palace with something new in their eyes.
Not reverence.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Hope.
That afternoon, a proclamation is delivered to the court. Written in Eiran’s unmistakable hand, sealed with Evasian red wax, and read aloud by his steward in the Grand Hall.
“In light of recent disruptions to court unity, and in the name of preserving the dignity of our alliance, Prince Eiran of Evasia invites the court to a celebration of renewal. A feast to honor loyalty, clarity of purpose, and the unyielding strength of royal obligation.”
The implication is clear.
He will not retreat.
He will smile for the people.
Offer the princess his arm.
Raise a glass to unity — while sharpening the blade he hides behind his teeth.
That night, long after the court retires and the candles have been dimmed, Eiran meets in a private chamber with a cloaked man.
He pours the wine himself.
No servants.
No witnesses.
“You’ve watched him, yes?” he says, swirling his glass.
The man nods. “The knight. Constantly near. Rarely speaks. But when he does, people listen.”
“Dangerous, then?”
He hesitates. “Respected.”
“Worse,” Eiran replies coolly.
He sets his cup down.
His fingers brush a folded parchment — a list of names.
Old ties.
Favors owed.
Weak spots.
“I need him distracted,” he says. “Removed from the princesses side, but not killed. Not yet.”
“And the princess?”
He smiles faintly. “Let her come unguarded. Let her feel the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders alone.”
A pause. Then, softly:
“Everyone breaks eventually.”
Kaelis doesn’t sleep that night.
Not because he’s afraid — fear doesn’t keep Kaelis awake.
But instinct does.
There’s a difference in the palace now.
A shift in the air.
Like a pressure drop before a storm.
He walks the perimeter of the east wing in the early hours, not as a knight assigned, but as a man who knows how to trace danger from the corner of a room. The guards on post don’t meet his eyes like they used to. One of them — younger, recently reassigned — grips his spear a little too tight when Kaelis passes. In the training yard, a stablehand flinches when Kaelis asks a simple question about the horses.
Too many sideways glances.
Too much silence.
He enters his quarters to find a message waiting.
No seal.
No signature.
Just a slip of parchment on the edge of the table.
He opens it.
“They’ll come for your sword first. Then your name. Then her.”
Kaelis reads it twice.
Then burns it over the brazier.
Not because he doesn’t believe it.
But because he already knows it’s true.
I’m in the old study when Kaelis finds me.
The ledger in front of me is mostly untouched. I’ve written the same sentence three times and crossed it out twice. My fingers smell like ink and cedar wax, but nothing on the page feels solid enough to hold. I know it’s him before he speaks.
He closes the door behind him, quietly — no ceremony, no hesitation.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me the way he does when he’s deciding whether to speak as my knight or as himself.
“I was followed,” he says.
The words land hard — not sharp, but sure.
I sit up straighter. “Do you know who?”
Kaelis shakes his head. “Didn’t see the face. I think that was the point.”
A message, then.
“Someone’s telling me I’m being watched,” he adds. “Or warning me that it’s already begun.”
My jaw tightens. “Eiran.”
He doesn’t say his name.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence stretches between us.
Familiar.
Heavy.
“You need to be careful,” he says. “He won’t come at you directly. He’ll unravel things. Quietly. Slowly.”
“He already is,” I murmur. “They all are.”
“He hasn’t finished.”
I meet his eyes.
The room is dim, the candle at my elbow flickering with the draft through the old window panes. But I see him clearly. He’s not angry. He’s ready. And that terrifies me more than anything.
“I’m not afraid of him,” I say.
“I know.”
“But I don’t want to lose you in the process.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence.
He steps closer, just enough that I feel the heat of him, like always — like safety. “You won’t,” he says. Then, softer: “But if it comes down to choosing between this palace and your life…”
He leans in, voice barely above a breath.
“…I hope you let it burn.”
Something in me stills.
Not fear.
Not grief.
Something deeper.
Resolve.
I don’t answer.
I just nod.
Because I know he means it.
Because I might be starting to mean it too.
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