Page 24
Elara does not return to her bedchamber.
She pauses at the sound of activity far below. The rhythmic bustle of servants crossing the threshold and the glimpse of Cael entering the main dining hall signal that dinner has begun. Memories of Veyrenn flash through her mind, where every shared meal with King Eric meant navigating a minefield of sharp remarks.
A sudden rumble cuts through the quiet corridor, a reminder of her empty stomach. Her hand presses flat against her waist. She hesitates, torn between the physical need for sustenance and the instinct to retreat to the sanctuary of being alone, even within a chamber that does not belong to her.
With a soft exhale, she forces her aching legs down the grand staircase, stepping into the cavernous hall only to find the royal family already assembled at the long table.
The atmosphere hangs thick and suffocating over the chamber. Elara glides into an empty seat, her fingers tightening around the edge of her porcelain plate as she observes the gathering. Rigid postures, the clink of silver utensils against ceramic, and averted eyes betray an invisible tension pulling through the air between the walls. King Raelith offers a smile that fails to lessen the chill, while the Queen and Kaera remain unreadable.
Beside her, Cael eats as though the rigidity in the chamber does not affect him at all. As the minutes stretch on and her plate remains empty, his hand shifts. Without a glance in her direction, he nudges the silver bread basket an inch closer to her side. Elara stares at the bread basket and takes a single slice.
Elara takes a spoonful of cut fruit, letting the sweet, juicy flavor melt against her tongue. The Queen’s sharp gaze cuts across the table to fix on her, making Elara freeze before lifting her spoon to her mouth again. She sets her silver fork down with a deliberate, echoing clink that draws Kaera’s attention.
“I see the weavers of Riverath waste their finest green silk on a girl who still eats like a starving peasant,” Queen Maereth says, her voice smooth but laced with a lethal, mocking venom. “In Veyrenn, do they teach princesses to hunch over their plates as if someone might steal their scraps? Or did King Eric neglect your court training before discarding you at our gates?”
Elara’s breath hooks in her throat, a wave of hot, suffocating humiliation rushing up her neck. Her fingers tighten around her utensil, the invisible walls of her protective barrier fracturing under the sudden, public assault. She lowers her eyes, unable to defend herself against a queen.
“Maereth, that is quite enough,” King Raelith commands, his voice dropping into a low rumble that vibrates through the mahogany table. He narrows his eyes at his wife. “Elara is our family and a princess of this palace. You will treat her with the absolute respect her status demands, or you will excuse yourself from this table immediately.”
Beside her, Cael slams his utensils down with enough force to make Elara jump. Her head snaps toward him just in time to watch a muscle in his jaw tick as he glares at his stepmother. The storm swirling in his eyes causes Elara to hold her breath, her gaze darting between her husband and her mother-in-law.
Maereth scorns them both, her lips curling into a tight sneer. She pushes back from the table and sweeps from the chamber, heels clacking on the marble floor.
Kaera watches, seemingly exhausted though not surprised, like a soul who witnesses this kind of scene more often than she does not. Just as Elara has her entire life.
King Raelith is the last to stand, pausing to offer a quiet goodnight before he follows his wife. His footsteps fade beyond the hall with the guards trailing after him.
Now only Elara, Cael, and Kaera remain, along with the knights stationed along the walls. Kaera’s shoulders relax and she lets out a slow breath. Cael slides his untouched glass of water toward Elara when her own runs empty, refusing to look up from his plate. Swallowing the tears strangling her, she murmurs a thank you. He offers a nod, and a small smile touches the corner of his mouth to reassure her. Her food sits untouched, getting cold.
“Do not listen to her,” Kaera reassures Elara, though there is no smile on her lips. “Mother has always been rather rude.”
“I understand. It can get quite exhausting,” Elara replies, her voice trails lower, the thought of her own father surfacing.
“Do not let her get to you,” Kaera says, a gentle smile returning to her lips. “Mother has never agreed with the customs of our valley, especially when it comes to the freedom our people possess. She clings to the rigid constraints of her own upbringing, and it is almost unheard of for a queen to oppose her own kingdom’s traditions so entirely.”
“It is alright to prefer modesty. I was raised under it. It often feels overbearing,” Elara replies, her focus shifting down to her plate.
Kaera nods with enthusiastic agreement. “Absolutely. Like you said, it becomes a burden. Not every woman wishes to navigate life in heavy, suffocating gowns, and I am grateful Father altered those regulations.” A pause softens her features. “Riverath has always embraced the freedom of our people, permitting women to wear garments that offer comfort and contour to their frame,” she explains. “It is only recently, as kingdoms like Veyrenn have closed their borders and enforced such unnatural restrictions, that our traditional styles have begun to cause a stir among outsiders.”
“King Raelith is compassionate,” Elara notes, a smile forming. “My own father never established such liberating laws. He simply demands every woman be held back.” A pang of regret strikes her chest for oversharing once more.
Kaera’s expression does not falter. “I knew you were resilient from the very moment our eyes met across the dining hall on that first evening. I know little of Veyrenn, but existence there must be incredibly difficult, and I cannot fully fathom it. I am truly glad you are here.”
Warmth stirs within Elara at her words. No one had ever looked past her title, save for her mother and Walker. Years of enduring hollow labels by those who coveted her title make Kaera’s confession a rare treasure. Elara takes her kindness and locks it deep within herself. A place where she can enjoy it in safety. Without fear of it being stripped away from her as everything else in her life has been. To Kaera, she offers only a slight nod.
Kaera’s smile dims, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Glancing at Cael, who maintains an unreadable expression, she blinks back something that might be disappointment and rises. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. I will retire to my bedchamber.”
Watching Kaera depart, Elara bites her lip, staring down at her plate. She should have accepted the kindness offered to her. She should have kept the conversation going and allowed herself a potential friend, but instead, she slammed a barrier in place between them and did not even wish her goodnight.
The image of the garden anchors itself in her thoughts like a physical necessity, a sanctuary where a silent prayer might calm the voices fracturing her composure. The food may have silenced her hunger, but her heart remains empty. Setting her spoon down, she rises, smoothing the green silk of her skirt.
She does not look at Cael as she leaves, but an intuition tells her his eyes track her departure anyway.
Turning toward the exit, the familiar habit of walking through the garden before resting guides her steps out of the hall. As she crosses the threshold and descends the grand outdoor stairs, a spiral of shivers runs along her bare arms and legs. The winter air is biting, but she does not care. She has survived far worse. Stepping onto the dark earth of the garden below, her eyes return instantly to the red roses. Their rich scent surrounds the chill, though many of the petals are brittle, browning at the edges from the oncoming frost.
Elara looks around, noticing another cluster of plants nearby. Poppies. They do not bloom in the winter, and currently, the patch holds nothing but tightly closed, dormant green pods buried in the cold soil. She stares down at them, her chest aching with longing, waiting for them to open to a sky that offers no warmth.
She wishes for the light pink petals to break through the frozen dirt, remembering how they used to remind her of the dresses her mother wore, long and smooth, beginning in soft pink and fading into white along the skirt. Sinking to her knees, she brushes a cold pod between her thumb and finger, hoping her touch might coax some life into the barren earth. Footsteps approach behind her. Elara turns her head and looks up to find Cael standing nearby. Her smile fades, though her expression remains soft.
