Page 32

HIS PRIVATE CHAMBER

C

Cael guides Snow back to the palace.

His hand grasps the saddle leather as the two guards by the gates bow to him and to King Raelith beside him, who sits visibly spent upon his steed. A few of their knights and Hartwell rush from the palace entrance down the stairs, as if they have been waiting for his return.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Hartwell says, his gaze landing on King Raelith to study his condition. “You were out for so long. We were worried for you.” His voice trembles with growing concern. “Oh, Your Majesty, you seem entirely spent.” He carefully guides King Raelith off his steed, offering his reliable strength for support.

“I am all right, Hartwell,” King Raelith coughs, shaking his head. “I am merely parched.”

“I will fetch you the coolest water, refreshing like the clean rivers of Riverath.” Hartwell begins guiding the king inside.

Cael stands motionless between his own horse and his father’s, Aldric. He frowns at how his father limps, the skin of his face appearing more wrinkled and loose, the dark circles beneath his eyes heavier than a stone cast upon his back. It is starkly evident to him that his father is growing older and weaker.

Swallowing a surge of aching emotions, he turns to one of the knights and raises his hands to sign. Please take Snow and Aldric back to the stables, feed them, and quench their thirst. His hands tremble from exhaustion, and the movement of his arms and shoulders ache.

One of the knights, Synthia, a warm-complexioned woman who has trained for five years, is a relatively new member within the palace but perfectly sharp. “Yes, Your Highness,” she says. “Do you wish for any of us to escort you to your quarters? You seem deeply exhausted as well.”

Cael shakes his head, needing absolute privacy at a time like this.

Synthia bows. “Very well, Your Highness. We will keep the steeds safe and lead them to the stables as you requested.”

Forcing his feet forward, his legs feeling like lead as though dragging him down, he enters the palace and reaches the corridor outside his old bedchamber. It belongs to Elara now. The arrangement took place the same day the marriage dinner was held. He cannot sleep within the same bedchamber as her. Even if they possessed separate mattresses, the arrangement would prove far too awkward. They would likely both suffocate in such close proximity.

So, Cael abandoned his bedchamber as if it were never his own. Not that he minded, really. It felt like brushing away the physical memories of harm. This is the exact sanctuary where Queen Maereth once slashed his bare back while he silently screamed for breath into his mattress, crying until he passed out from exhaustion with his body trembling and bleeding.

Cael stands before the threshold, his hand hovering above the brass handle despite his urgent need to wash and change. Pressing the metal carefully, the soft mechanism alerts Elara if she is awake. When no sound answers from within, he opens the door cautiously, only to find her sitting on the edge of the mattress with a thick volume held open in her palms.

Elara’s entire body tenses, her eyes lifting to meet his. “Cael,” she whispers his name, as if testing the weight of it.

Inclining his head, he enters and makes his way past her toward the dressing chamber and the bathing area. He turns the brass fixtures, knowing the flow is freezing in the upcoming winter. Sinking into the deep marble basin, his clothes crumble to the stone floor far aside. A sudden chill runs through his frame, and his aching muscles only tense further. Forcing his head beneath the water, he clears his mind as best as he can.

Cael lets the freezing water sting the permanent marks on his back, his scarred, rough palms, and the black ink marking his left arm.

The tattoo glistens under the dim light, revealing the jagged black lines he carved into his own flesh at the age of fifteen. It was a time when the crushing weight of his tasks and the constant trauma inflicted by his stepmother fractured his memory, causing him to forget names, dates, and daily details out of pure psychological survival.

Terrified that the heavy stress would eventually erase the only pure thing left in his mind, he took a risk to preserve a single memory. It was the memory of the girl who made him feel seen. Sitting alone in the freezing dark of his private chamber with a stolen sewing needle and a bottle of thick ink, he sterilized the metal tip over a candle flame. In silence, he forced the instrument deep into his skin, dot by dot, enduring the bleeding and the biting pain without making a single sound.

It was a forbidden, permanent rebellion against his royal blood, a black anchor etched forever onto his forearm to ensure that no matter how much the kingdom broke him, he would never forget her presence.

In a traditional kingdom like Riverath, a royal’s skin is considered property of the crown and a symbol of the realm’s purity. Marking the flesh is seen as a high crime because it permanently ruins the royal image. By marking his arm, Cael was claiming ownership over his own body, taking that power away from King Raelith and Queen Maereth.

He finishes and dries himself, leaving his hair damp and dripping as the water drains away, he pulls on his black silk sleepwear. His shirt is buttoned, his trousers fit loosely, and he adds a comfortable robe that is not thick enough to warm him fully from the cold. Exiting the changing chamber, he finds Elara standing, arms hidden behind her back and her expression uncertain.

Cael is confused by her stance, though he does not press. He attempts to walk away, but his eyes find his thick black coat folded by the edge of the bed. It is his favorite one. A coat he was given by Elias, who had gifted it to him a few birthdays ago, crafted by the librarian’s niece who stitches coats and sweaters when Cael was deeply ill.

Craving the comfort of those good memories, he reaches out to take it before pausing. His eyes land on the three thick layers of covers crumbled on the bed, indicating they are still being used by Elara. Knowing her thick dress leaves her arms and neck exposed to the cold, he ignores the item and forces himself to exit the chamber.

“Cael,” Elara says his name, clearly this time.

He pauses and turns, finding her holding the silver quill he dropped that night along with his lost booklet. It had been an overbearing weight, knowing his volume of secretive poems and silent written words was lost where anyone might find and read it.

“I found it after it dropped. I have been keeping it safe,” she says, glancing away before meeting his eyes, then looking away once more.

The revelation is not entirely relieving, knowing his private thoughts are exposed to her. He carefully steps forward and takes it by the very end, ensuring their skin does not make contact. When the silence remains unbroken, he offers a nod of gratitude, turns on his heel, and exits the bedchamber.

He walks the familiar path to remain hidden, stepping up the stairs until he reaches the very top of the palace. Up here, no candles are lit and no chandeliers glow. The only light is the faint brightness of the moon filtering through the glass of the pointed ceiling. The only official chamber on this level is the library, closed and soundless behind an unlocked door.