My room is quiet when we arrive. Functional. Spacious enough to justify the word “royal,” but not so ornate I feel like I’m trespassing in a museum. Bed against the far wall. Writing desk near the window. A low fire burning in the hearth, already banked for the night.

There’s a small table set near the fire with two proper chairs angled toward it—meant for conversation, not ceremony. A rug thick enough to muffle footsteps. Heavy curtains. Two exits—the door we came through and the window if I absolutely had to make a point.

Comfortable. Temporary. Mine for now.

Eladril kicks off her sandals without ceremony and drops into one of the chairs by the fire, folding one leg over the other. She pours herself a generous amount of wine, then pauses and sniffs it.

“Decent,” she decides.

She looks up at me over the rim of the cup, eyes bright with the familiar mix of affection and razor-sharp awareness.

“So,” she says. “Now that we’re alone and no one’s trying to save the world for at least an hour—tell me the parts you didn’t say in front of everyone.” She tilts her head. “Start wherever it hurts most.”

I sniffle at her, feigning heartbreak. “Eli, all the guys here are so hot, but they’re all so stoic. It’s terrible!”

Eladril stares at me for exactly half a second.

Then she bursts out laughing, loud enough that she has to clap a hand over her mouth to keep it from carrying down the corridor.

“Oh no,” she says, wheezing. “Not hot and stoic. Truly the cruelest fate a professional hero can suffer.”

She leans back in the chair, eyes sparkling, wine sloshing dangerously. “Let me guess—emotionally repressed, devastating jawlines, tragic sense of duty? Says things like ‘it’s my responsibility’ and then stares into the middle distance?”

She squints at me. “Please tell me one of them is a knight. It’s always worse if one of them is a knight.”

She takes another sip and sighs contentedly. “Gods, I missed this. Save a world, rewrite endings, get emotionally blue-balled by handsome men with feelings locked in a vault.”

She props her chin on her hand, studying me now, grin softening into fondness. “All right. Which one already has you in trouble?”

I scoff. “Please. You already know.”

Eladril groans like she’s been waiting for this confirmation.

“Oh for—of course I do,” she says, rolling her eyes and pointing her cup at me. “Tall. Principled. Carries the weight of an entire nation like it’s a personality trait. The kind of man who looks like he was born knowing how to disappoint himself.”

She takes a long drink, then peers at me over the rim. “Let me guess. Soft when you catch him off guard. Inflexible in public. Absolutely doomed if he ever lets himself want something selfish.”

A beat.

“…You kissed him, didn’t you.”

She doesn’t ask it like a question. She asks it like a woman who has watched me make this exact mistake before.

My face is in my hands and beet red.

She leans back, studying me with the long-suffering affection of someone who has seen me fall for impossible men across planes and eras. “Let me guess—gentle after? Like he realized halfway through that he’d crossed a line and decided to be respectful about it?”

A pause.

“…Cael,” she adds, more quietly, “you do have a talent for finding men who will ruin themselves over you.”

She lifts her cup in a mock toast. “To doomed romances, bad decisions, and saving the world anyway.”

Then, grinning again: “All right. Tell me everything. Start with his hands.”

I clink my glass against hers, downing my glass and immediately refilling both our cups to the brim.

“There’s nothing to tell. Just… tomorrow when we go to breakfast, don’t stare at his forearms. I know it will be so tempting. But you must resist lest you fall under his spell too.”

Eladril accepts the refill like it’s a sacred rite and clinks her cup against mine with mock solemnity.

“I make no promises,” she says. “You know forearms are my weakness. Especially the rolled-sleeve, burdened-by-duty variety.”

She takes a generous sip, then squints at me over the rim. “But fine. I’ll behave. I’ll stare respectfully. From a safe, non-compromising angle.”

She leans back, stretching her legs out and kicking one heel lightly against the table leg. “Honestly though, this place?” A shrug. “It’s got good energy. Tragic, crumbling, demon-infested energy—but good bones. And good men, apparently.”

“Yeah.” I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “That’s kind of the problem.”

She glances at me, sensing the shift.

“You know me. You know my life. My calling. All my loves are doomed.”

Her smile softens, just slightly.

“Even if I wanted to stay, I have no way of knowing when I’ll be summoned to another world. How long I’ll be there. Or whether I’ll ever make it back.”

I run my thumb along the rim of my cup.

“I’m glad I was able to bring you over. And I’ll make sure you get back. But when this is done, I’ll end up back on Earth. Poor. Unemployed. Powerless. For God knows how long until I get another summons.”

A breath.

“My life is… a mess.”

Eladril’s humor fades—not all at once, but gently, like a curtain being lowered instead of dropped.

She sets her cup down and leans forward, elbows on her knees, looking at me the way she only ever does when she’s done laughing and is ready to be honest.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know.”

Not pity. Not consolation. Recognition.

“You’re the hinge,” she continues. “You move where you’re needed, not where you’re wanted. You don’t get roots—just impact craters.” A small, crooked smile. “And the cruel joke is that you’re good at it.”

She reaches out and flicks one of my rings lightly with a fingernail. “You save worlds, Cael. Then you get dropped back into a place that doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name correctly, let alone value what you’ve done.”

I don’t argue.

A pause. Softer now.

“But listen to me.” She waits until I’m looking at her. “That doesn’t make your loves meaningless. It makes them real. Temporary doesn’t mean fake. Fleeting doesn’t mean shallow.”

She reaches for her cup again but doesn’t drink. Just holds it.

“So yeah. Your life’s a mess,” she says plainly. “But it’s a mess because it’s in transition—not because it’s broken.”

Then, gently teasing again, just enough to keep me afloat:

“And if a handsome crown prince wants to be part of that mess for however long he gets?” A shrug. “That’s his brave, stupid choice. Not your burden.”

She looks at me, steady and warm.

“Ah, true. And really, he’d probably have a harder time if he thought it could be permanent. He’s the one and only prince of this kingdom.”

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking at her again.

“Can you believe that? Thirty-two and no siblings and no heirs. Wild.”

She studies me like she’s deciding whether I’m spiraling or strategizing.

I finish my wine and set the cup down with deliberate finality, sitting up to grin at her—shaking off my melancholy.

“Now c’mon. I need you to use those saintly powers to help me find the secret passage that leads to his room.”

Eladril blinks at me.

Once.

Twice.

Then she snorts. “Oh, now you want miracles.”

She pushes herself up from the chair, swaying just a little from the wine, and plants her hands on her hips. “You bind a saintess to your soul—and the first thing you ask of divine power is architectural espionage.”

She closes her eyes and exhales, the air around her shifting—not dramatically, just attentively. Like the palace itself perks up.

“Mm,” she murmurs. “Old stone. Lots of secrets. This place was built by people who assumed betrayal was a hobby.”

Her eyes open and she gestures toward the door. “West wing corridor. The stretch between the royal apartments and the old council gallery. There’s a tapestry—battle scene, lots of red.”

She lifts two fingers, counting in the air.

“Behind it, third stone from the left at chest height. Slide it left, then press.”

She squints at me. “And for the record, I am absolutely not helping you sneak into a prince’s bedchamber. I am merely conducting an architectural audit.”

She grabs her cup again and settles back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other like she’s about to watch a play.

“Go. Be doomed. Be charming. Just—” she lifts a finger, mock-stern, “—don’t do anything that makes me have to explain interdimensional ethics to a royal council.”

I grin.

She watches me for another second, fond amusement softening into something more pointed.

“And, Cael?”

I pause at the door.

“If you trip a ward, I’m not bailing you out until morning.”

I wave her off. “Oh please. I ignore the rules of causality. If I wanted, I could just walk through his wall. I’ll be fiiiine~.”

She rolls her eyes.

I step back long enough to lean down and kiss her lightly on the cheek. “Night, Eli. Thanks for being the best world-saving wing woman ever.”

Eladril snorts and makes a shooing motion at me with her cup. “Of course.”

Then she adds, almost lazily:

“But it’s not for free—I expect details. Eventually.”

I grin, pull the door open, and slip into the corridor before she can add anything else.

The door shuts softly behind me.