They return from the coast as if the trip was nothing more than a pleasant diversion.

That’s how it will be recorded, Elian knows: a line in some court scribe’s neat hand about a diplomatic excursion to the western estate, shared views of the sea, mutual goodwill. No mention of the wind that cut through his coat as he stood beside Rowan on the rocks, trying not to lean closer. No mention of Isla asking if he would live there, if he could ever run.

The carriages roll back through the palace gates in late afternoon. The sun sits lower than it should; Elian feels like they’ve dragged a different light back with them, one that’s thinner somehow, harsher.

The moment the carriage stops, Rowan reaches for the door handle, pausing just long enough to give Elian a brief, questioning look.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” Elian says. “But go on.”

Rowan huffs a breath that might almost be a laugh and steps out, then offers a hand to help Elian down.

Elian hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. His palm is swallowed by rough warmth. He lets go a beat sooner than he wants to.

The courtyard is alive with movement: footmen unloading trunks, stablehands leading horses away, courtiers hovering at a respectful distance. The king and queen are already halfway up the steps, flanked by Virell’s royals, servants fussing around them like well-trained birds.

Elian falls into place beside his parents, Isla a few paces ahead with her father. Rowan slides into position behind him, the world snapping back into its familiar formation.

There’s a flurry of welcoming words, servants eager to show that everything has been prepared for their return. Elian’s mother says something gracious about the sea air; his father makes a remark about the journey. Aldren gives a short, satisfied nod as though the whole trip has passed some unspoken test.

Elian hears very little of it.

He hears instead the hollow thump of his own pulse in his ears and the faint drag of armor behind him as Rowan follows.

Inside, the cool of the palace wraps around them, carrying its own smells—beeswax, old stone, something floral and indistinct. The familiar weight of it settles on Elian’s shoulders like another cloak.

He just got back and already he wants out again.

“Rest for a few hours,” his mother is saying. “We’ll have a quieter supper tonight, just family and a few of the council.”

“Quieter,” Elian echoes under his breath, too low for her to hear.

Rowan hears. He always does.

He leans in just slightly as they walk. “You look like you want to bolt,” he murmurs.

“I always want to bolt,” Elian mutters back. “Sometimes I just remember how bad I am at running.”

“You’re better than you think,” Rowan says.

“Is that what you tell all your reckless charges?”

“I only have one,” Rowan replies. “And yes.”

Elian almost smiles.

Almost.