The morning after the banquet feels like waking up inside a headache.

Elian lies in bed long after the servants begin moving through the halls. The light through his windows is too bright, the air too heavy, his thoughts too sharp. He isn’t hungover—Rowan made sure of that—but his mind feels bruised all the same.

He keeps replaying fragments of yesterday: Isla’s calm, assessing eyes; his father’s firm hand on his shoulder; the musicians’ relentless cheer; Rowan in the alcove, saying I would, and the way the world had seemed to tilt around that single truth.

He finally sits up when there’s a quiet knock and the door eases open. Not the front door—the private one, the one only Rowan uses.

“Are you awake?” Rowan’s voice comes through the crack.

Elian rubs his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“That’s almost a greeting,” Rowan says dryly.

Elian swings his legs out of bed. “Come in.”

Rowan steps inside, closing the door behind him. He’s already dressed for the day—dark uniform, short cloak fastened neatly at one shoulder, hair tied back with the same careful precision he applies to everything.

“You slept through half the morning,” Rowan says.

“My apologies,” Elian mutters. “Next time I’ll schedule my existential dread earlier.”

A faint crease appears between Rowan’s brows. “You needed the rest.”

Elian reaches for the cup on his bedside table and drinks the last of the water. “I needed many things.”

“Breakfast,” Rowan says, ignoring the implication. “And probably fresh air.”

“Did my mother send you to check on me?”

“No,” Rowan says. “I came because you left the hall last night looking like you were about to climb out a window.”

Elian sighs. “And you’d be obligated to drag me back.”

“Only if you climbed out above the third floor,” Rowan replies.

The corner of Elian’s mouth quirks despite everything. “Thank you for your continued flexibility.”

Rowan’s expression softens, just a fraction. “Come on. There’s a council meeting at midday. You should at least eat before you’re subjected to Lord Ferris’s voice.”

Elian groans. “Spare me.”

“You’d prefer to face it on an empty stomach?” Rowan asks pointedly.

“Fine,” Elian relents. “Breakfast.”

Rowan moves to the wardrobe, selecting something simple—a soft linen shirt, a dark vest, a coat without the usual gold detailing. Something Elian can breathe in.

“You’re merciful this morning,” Elian says as Rowan lays the clothes out.

“You’re difficult to deal with when you’re uncomfortable,” Rowan says. “Making it worse doesn’t help anyone.”

Elian snorts. “You know me too well.”

Rowan doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at Elian for a moment—longer than necessary—and Elian feels something under the scrutiny, something like recognition and grief intertwined.

He looks away first.

***

The council meeting is—predictably—awful.

Lord Ferris drones on about grain storage projections while Elian tries not to imagine placing his head on the table and staying there until winter. A few councilors pepper him with questions meant to test his grasp of policy, which he answers correctly but without heart.

Isla and her advisors attend as well. She sits upright, composed, even though the discussion is essentially a prolonged exercise in boredom. She glances at Elian once, perhaps checking that he’s still conscious.

He lifts a brow in silent solidarity. She almost smiles.

Almost.

When it ends, Elian steps into the corridor and immediately pulls in a deeper breath.

Rowan is there.

He rises from where he’d been standing against the wall. “Survived?”

“Barely,” Elian mutters. “Ferris was halfway through a metaphor comparing trade routes to irrigation channels.”

Rowan winces. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Elian rubs his temples. “I think he enjoys causing pain.”

“Then you two should get along well,” Rowan deadpans.

Elian turns his head just enough to glare at him. “I didn’t say you could be funny.”

“You never do,” Rowan says. “And yet.”

Elian shakes his head. “I need air.”

Rowan nods. “The courtyard? Or somewhere further?”

Elian hesitates.

Isla steps out of the council room then, speaking in low tones to one of her advisors. She looks tired—subtle, but there, in the way she holds her shoulders.

Her eyes flick to Elian. “Prince Elian.”

“Princess,” he says politely.

She dismisses her advisor. “I’m going for a walk in the south garden. Would you care to join me?”

Elian opens his mouth before thinking. “I—”

Rowan steps slightly closer, almost imperceptibly. A silent Are you sure?

Elian feels his pulse trip. Every instinct pulls in opposite directions.

He wants out. Out of the palace, out of expectations, out of this slow march toward a fate that has his name but not his heart.

He wants Rowan nearby, not three paces behind him.

But he also knows what refusing Isla would mean, politically and personally.

He draws a steady breath. “Of course,” he says. “I’d be glad to.”

Rowan’s expression doesn’t change, but Elian feels something quiet and sharp flicker between them—understanding or disappointment, or a mix of both.

He turns to Isla. “Shall we?”

She nods and begins walking. Elian moves beside her.

Rowan follows.

***

The garden is warm with early afternoon sun. Bees drift lazily between blossoms. The pathways are empty except for a few gardeners pruning the hedges with meticulous care.

They walk in companionable silence for a minute.

“You look as if the council drained the life from you,” Isla says without preamble.

“It did,” Elian replies. “I’m a shell of a man now. Congratulations to our future kingdom.”

She huffs something like a laugh. “My council meetings are worse. At least here you have windows.”

“I’ll treasure them,” Elian says.

Isla glances at him. “Tell me something honest.”

The abruptness makes him blink. “About what?”

“Anything,” she says. “Every word spoken today was crafted by ten people before it reached our mouths. I’d like something that isn’t weighing the air with meaning.”

Elian considers.

“Honestly,” he says slowly, “I am exhausted.”

“I expected that,” she says.

“And,” he adds, “I’m not entirely sure how to feel about all of this. About us.”

“That I expected as well.”

He shoots her an unimpressed look. “Is this a game to you?”

She stops walking and turns to him. “No. It’s my life. And yours. I take both very seriously.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

Then she asks, “Do you want to be king?”

Elian inhales slowly. “Want isn’t the right word.”

“Is there a right word?” Isla asks.

He thinks. “Expected,” he says. “Required. Inescapable.”

She studies him, something softening in her expression. “You know… my brother was supposed to inherit Virell.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I don’t,” she says. “Anymore.”

Elian’s chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” she replies. “He died when I was eight. I barely remember him, except that he used to put frogs in my shoes.”

Elian’s lips twitch.

“After he died,” Isla continues, “everyone looked at me differently. I became… valuable. Not for myself, but for what I represented. What I could secure. Who I could marry.”

Elian listens, the knot in his throat forming by degrees.

“I used to think,” Isla says quietly, “that if I did everything right—studied, trained, obeyed—they would see me again. Me, not the crown on my head.” She shakes her head once. “It never worked.”

Elian swallows. “I understand that.”

“I know you do,” she says.

They stand there, the silence gentle rather than heavy.

Then Isla’s gaze flicks behind Elian, toward Rowan. Rowan stands a respectful distance away, posture neutral.

“Your guard,” she says softly. “He watches you like a hawk.”

Elian’s heart jolts. “He’s always been diligent.”

“I didn’t mean it unkindly,” Isla says. “There’s loyalty, and then there’s… something deeper. He looks at you as if he’s responsible for holding the sun in place.”

Elian’s breath catches.

“He’s good at his job,” he says weakly.

“I’m sure he is,” she replies. “Just be aware—others will see it, too.”

He forces a neutral expression. “It isn’t—”

“None of my business,” Isla interrupts gently. “I know.”

Elian exhales shakily. “We’re not—”

“I don’t need the explanation,” she says. “Truly.”

The conversation dies there. Not abruptly—more like a candle burning out.

“Thank you,” Elian says after a moment.

“For what?” Isla asks.

“For not pretending,” Elian says. “For speaking plainly.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies. Then, after a pause: “We should go inside before the sun burns our dignified expressions off.”

Elian actually laughs.

They walk back. Rowan falls in step behind them.

And Elian feels torn in three directions again—duty ahead of him, Rowan behind him, and the hollow echo of something unspoken inside him.

***

The journey to the coastal estate begins early the next morning.

Officially, it’s a diplomatic excursion so the Virellian delegation can experience Aurea beyond the palace walls. Unofficially, Elian suspects it’s meant to occupy them with scenery while the council finalizes the marriage contract.

The party includes both royal families, a limited number of advisors, and a contingent of guards.

Rowan is among them—of course—and Elian is absurdly relieved.

They travel in a line of carriages flanked by mounted soldiers. Elian’s carriage is comfortable but cramped, built for two passengers. Rowan enters behind him, shuts the door, and sits across from him.

Elian raises an eyebrow. “I thought I’d be sharing with my parents.”

“I requested this arrangement,” Rowan says simply.

Elian blinks. “Why?”

“So you don’t climb out the window.”

Elian stares at him. Rowan meets his gaze with infuriating calm.

“I wouldn’t have climbed out the window.”

“You absolutely would have,” Rowan replies, settling back as the carriage lurches forward.

Elian crosses his arms. “I don’t climb out of every window.”

Rowan’s mouth twitches. “Just the ones adjacent to political engagements.”

Elian looks away, trying—and failing—to hide a smile.

The road winds through countryside: rolling hills, patches of forest, occasional glimpses of the sea. The air inside the carriage is warm with late-spring sunlight streaming through the curtains.

It is quiet.

Too quiet, maybe.

Elian shifts, adjusting the fall of his cloak. Rowan watches. Not intrusively—just noticing everything, as he always does.

“You haven’t spoken,” Rowan says after a while.

“I have,” Elian replies. “I said you were infuriating.”

“That hardly counts.”

Elian sighs. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Rowan says. “For both of us.”

Elian rolls his eyes. “Do you ever tire of being clever?”

“No,” Rowan says. “Do you?”

Elian glares at him. Rowan pretends to study the passing scenery.

A moment passes.

Then Rowan says quietly, “How was your walk with Isla?”

Elian hesitates.

“It was… honest,” he says.

Rowan nods once. “Good.”

“Good?” Elian echoes.

“Better than artifice,” Rowan says.

“You sound like her,” Elian murmurs.

“Maybe she’s right,” Rowan replies. “About honesty.”

Elian looks at him carefully. “Would you like to test that theory?”

Rowan’s eyes flick to him. “About what?”

“About honesty,” Elian says. “You said you weren’t angry last night. You lied.”

Rowan’s jaw tightens. “I was not angry with you.”

“But you were angry,” Elian says softly.

Rowan looks out the window again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Rowan closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he looks… tired. The kind of tired Elian feels in his own bones.

“Elian,” he says quietly, “every time you take on another part of this—another meeting, another expectation—I watch you shrink. And I can’t fix it. I can’t even tell you that I want to fix it. Because wanting doesn’t change anything.”

Elian’s breath lodges in his throat.

“And yes,” Rowan says, voice low, “it makes me angry. Not at you. At the shape of the world around you. At the fact that you keep trying to fold yourself into it.”

The carriage bumps over a patch of uneven road. Neither moves.

After a moment, Elian whispers, “What would you have me do?”

Rowan looks at him then—really looks—and Elian feels the force of it like a weight.

“Live,” Rowan says quietly. “Whatever that looks like. Whatever you can claim.”

Elian swallows hard. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Rowan says.

The carriage jostles again, and the moment breaks into something they can tuck away, unspoken but not forgotten.

***

They reach the coastal estate by mid-afternoon.

The manor is built on a cliff overlooking the sea, its pale stone walls stained salt-white. Terraces step down toward the water, dotted with cypress trees that lean slightly in the wind. The air is cooler here, sharper. The crash of waves fills the space between thoughts.

Elian stands at the terrace railing while servants unload trunks.

He inhales deeply. The sea wind tastes like freedom—wild, briny, unpredictable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Isla’s voice says behind him.

“It is,” Elian replies.

“It was built by one of your ancestors,” Isla says. “A king who hated court and preferred the ocean.”

“Tragic,” Elian says. “We might have been friends.”

Isla glances at him sideways. “If you had the chance, would you leave the palace and live here?”

Elian doesn’t answer quickly. “I don’t know,” he says. “It would feel like running.”

“Sometimes running is survival,” Isla says.

He considers. “Would you choose differently, if you could?”

She exhales. “I’d choose not to be anyone’s political solution.”

Elian doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

Isla places a hand on the railing. “There’s a feast tonight,” she says. “Consider this your one hour of peace before the chaos resumes.”

“Noted,” he says.

She leaves him then, walking back toward the manor.

Rowan steps up beside him a few seconds later.

“You left quickly,” Elian says.

“You seemed occupied,” Rowan replies.

Elian huffs a soft sound. “She asked if I would live here.”

“And would you?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Elian murmurs. “Tonight… I think I’d live anywhere that lets me breathe.”

Rowan’s fingers brush the railing near Elian’s. Not touching—just close.

“This place is too exposed,” Rowan says. “Too easy to ambush from the cliffs.”

Elian glances at him. “You think of danger everywhere.”

“You give me reason to,” Rowan murmurs.

Elian looks out at the sea. “Rowan.”

“Yes?”

“Would you…” He stops. Too much lies under that question.

Rowan waits. Patient. Steady.

Elian closes his eyes. “Never mind.”

Rowan’s voice is soft. “Okay.”