Mer awoke with a soft inhale, blinking as light flooded her vision.

Cecil’s palm was brushing her cheek, warm and gentle.

“I fell asleep?” she asked, her voice hazy.

“Just for a few seconds,” Cecil said. His voice was low, soothing. “Are you all right?”

She smiled and turned her lips to his hand, pressing a kiss into his palm.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “You’re here.”

Just then, a polite knock tapped at the carriage door.

“Your Graces,” came the butler’s voice. “We have arrived at the Iris Palace.”

Mer sat up slowly.

Her heart was still racing—not from the dream, but from the sense that somehow, it wasn’t just a dream.

---

The twin doors of Iris Palace swung open with ceremonial precision, revealing the grandeur within.

Mer drew in a quiet breath.

It was exactly like her dream.

Velvet-draped corridors, polished marble floors, and golden chandeliers shimmering like constellations. They passed through the vast halls in silence, led by two attendants toward the audience chamber.

The great doors opened.

Inside, King Darius Regulus sat with practiced authority on a massive throne. At his sides stood two figures: the Crown Prince, Philip, elegant in his tailored uniform, and the ever-poised Princess Penelope, dressed in icy lavender.

“Welcome, Duke and Duchess of Ravenrow,” Darius said, voice echoing through the chamber.

Cecil bowed with a hand to his chest. Mer curtsied in perfect form.

“Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you,” Cecil said, voice steady.

Darius leaned slightly forward. “What brings you to Sovia? A visit to your in-laws?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cecil replied. “It’s been a year since my wife last saw her family.”

“Good,” the King said with a slight nod. “It is well if you are getting along so well.”

Then his gaze shifted to Mer, assessing her.

“I heard you had quite a fall, Duchess. Have you recovered?”

“I have, Your Majesty,” Mer said with a graceful smile. “Just a small bump on the head.”

Darius chuckled. “You should drink moderately next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied politely.

There was a brief pause, then the King offered, “Would you join us for dinner?”

“We are honored,” Cecil answered.

An attendant approached, bowing.

“Please, this way. We will call upon you when dinner is ready.”

---

They were led to a waiting chamber—lavish and quiet, with high arched windows, a grand piano in the corner, and two sofas arranged beneath a sweeping oil painting of the royal family. It was beautiful, yet sterile.

As the door closed behind them, Mer moved to the sofa and sat, her gaze trailing across the intricate frames and tapestries.

Cecil watched her for a moment.

Then his jaw clenched.

Philip had looked at her—too long, too familiar—back in the throne room. And it lit a quiet fury in Cecil’s chest.

He sat beside Mer, letting his fingers comb gently through her hair.

“That was a sudden invitation,” Mer said, her voice calm but thoughtful.

Before Cecil could respond, a knock broke the moment.

The door opened.

Princess Penelope.

They both stood, bowing politely.

“Your Highness,” they greeted.

Penelope stepped inside without a word of greeting to Mer. She crossed the room and seated herself opposite Cecil with a practiced grace, her gown rustling softly.

The silence that followed was thick.

Penelope crossed one leg over the other, gaze fixed only on Cecil.

“How have you been, Lord Lance?” she asked, her voice light, too casual.

“Well, thank you,” Cecil answered politely.

The conversation that followed was meaningless—weather, court events, recent performances at the royal theater. But it was all directed at him.

Mer said nothing.

She watched Penelope’s subtle gestures—the tilt of her head, the soft laugh, the way she leaned ever so slightly forward. It was deliberate. Confident.

She wasn’t just interested.

She didn’t even try to hide it.

Mer folded her hands in her lap, the silence between her and the princess deeper than any words.

Then—a knock.

An attendant stepped in.

“Dinner is ready, Your Highness. Duke. Duchess.”

Penelope stood first, her smile blooming like a flower as she turned to Cecil.

“I’ll see you at the table,” she said sweetly, casting Mer no more than a passing glance.

She exited with the grace of someone who believed the room was always hers.

Mer didn’t speak.

But as she took Cecil’s arm to follow, her grip was just a little tighter.

---

The grand dining table stretched beneath golden chandeliers, glimmering with crystalware and polished cutlery. King Darius sat at the head, his expression calm and ever-watchful.

To his right: the Queen, serene in her sapphire gown; then Crown Prince Philip, regal and composed; Princess Grace, quiet and observant; Penelope, always radiant; and Prince Nicolas, murmuring to a nearby servant.

To his left: Cecil, composed in his dark embroidered coat; and beside him, Mer, graceful and poised as ever.

The meal progressed with polite conversation.

King Darius inquired about the state of Ravenrow—its border conditions, recent beast migrations, the health of the land.

Cecil answered with clarity, detailing their strategies and cooperation with the northern wards. Mer contributed where needed, keeping her responses crisp and diplomatic.

But all through the dinner, Penelope's gaze never wavered.

Her eyes, bright and unblinking, lingered on Cecil as if he were the only soul in the room.

And across the table, Mer felt another gaze—softer, but still heavy.

She turned her head slightly—and met Philip’s eyes.

He was watching her.

She offered him a polite, cautious smile and quickly returned her focus to her water.

When the plates were cleared and servants began bringing dessert wines, the king leaned toward Cecil, speaking in a low voice about military logistics.

Mer seized the moment.

“Please excuse me,” she said softly.

An attendant approached and guided her down a corridor toward the powder rooms.

---

The moment the door closed behind her, Mer let out a slow breath.

It wasn’t the food. It wasn’t the people.

It was everything—the stares, the unsaid, the weight of being watched, measured, remembered.

She splashed cool water on her wrists, trying to clear her head.

When she emerged—he was there.

Philip.

Leaning casually against the opposite wall. The attendant had vanished.

“It’s been so long, Mer,” he said, softly.

She stopped in her tracks. “Crown Prince,” she said stiffly. “Please excuse me.”

She tried to walk past him, but his hand caught her wrist.

“I’m sorry—please let go,” Mer said, her tone firm but quiet.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t move. “Why are you so cold toward me?”

She pulled free and took a step back, rubbing her wrist. “I never intended to offend you.”

Philip took a breath. “Are you still angry? About what happened before? I should’ve proposed when I had the chance—”

Mer’s breath caught.

Her skin prickled. This is dangerous.

It didn’t matter that she had no memory of such a past.

If anyone saw them here—alone—if anyone heard this conversation, it would be all over the court by morning.

“Please excuse me, Crown Prince,” she said with cool precision. “My husband must be waiting for me.”

She curtsied and turned, walking quickly but with composure until she was safely away.

---

When she returned to the dining hall, only Cecil, King Darius, and Penelope remained at the table, now sipping after-dinner tea.

Cecil looked up the moment she entered.

Mer gave a small smile, then sat beside him—closer than before.

Without a word, she reached for his hand beneath the table and clasped it tightly in hers.

Cecil glanced down at their joined hands, then up at her face.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

She didn’t need to say what happened.

Her presence beside him said enough.