Page 33

Farther down the hall lies another chamber that Cael enters. He does not know why it was originally built, though he is certain his father used it before. He first discovered it when he was younger, catching King Raelith rummaging through personal belongings and keeping a specific lock and materials to keep it sealed shut.

His father had abandoned the private chamber a few years later, when Cael was only four years old. Wanting a separate space apart from his bedchamber, and feeling a desire for his own sanctuary, his father did not hesitate to give him the key when he turned ten, deeming him grown enough to arrange things and understand privacy.

This week, he feels fortunate to have it. Cael unlocks the mechanism, pushing through the heavy door, welcoming the unheated coolness and the windows that overlook the night outside. Locking the door behind him, he turns to take in the private chamber filled with portraits he has painted over the years, the attempted and incomplete canvases stacked dry and forgotten in the far corner.

A wide desk of black wood stands near the middle far end, large enough to be considered a dining table. Black ink stains the dark surface, and quills are scattered across almost every corner. A single booklet sits open and incomplete, a reassurance that no one can enter his space without the key. Worn papers are spread out with words he disliked, despite being his own creation. Crumbled pages lie nearby alongside black ink drawings, filled with corrected mistakes and rough sketches. A long chaise crafted from light gray velvet rests in the center of the chamber.

The faint moonlight cuts across the center of the dark workspace, illuminating a single tall wooden easel standing separate from the cluttered corners. Resting upon it is an incomplete canvas, the rough charcoal lines tracing the side profile of a woman’s face, the slight curve of her nose, and the edge of a heavy collar.

It is a sketch he began from memory on the very first night she arrived. He stares at the silver light catching the unfinished texture of her hair on the canvas, his jaw tightening into a rigid line before he forces his eyes away.

All it brings is exhaustion. He sinks onto the large chair near the table, resting his head against the open pages of the large booklet. This is the place where he stays and sleeps, keeping only a single pillow and a blanket by the velvet chaise. It is all he possesses, despite being a prince of luxury. He did not think or plan much when Elara moved into his bedchamber. It aches his back and strains his already sore shoulders.

Not wishing to hassle his weak father, Cael does not request another mattress or make a move, preventing his father from knowing that he is sleeping in this chamber. He does not want anyone inside his private bedchamber anymore.

Cael’s scarred palm brush over the parchment, his skin catching against the coarse fibers of the paper. Looking down at the ink, his chest tightens with a familiar dislike for the incomplete lines and the jagged handwriting staring back at him. Each stroke feels wrong, a mess of ink and mistakes that fails to capture the true quiet inside his mind. With a shallow breath, he slams the thick volume shut, the solid thud sealing his private words away where only he can access them.

Moving away from the desk, he settles onto the velvet chaise, pulling the lone blanket over his frame. He lets his heavy silver crown slip, too exhausted to pick it up.

Hours dissolve into the expanse of the night until the pale, gray light of a winter dawn breaks through the tall glass windowpanes. Cael pushes himself up from the stiff cushions, a burning ache radiating across his shoulders and down his lower back.

He sits there under the dim light, forcing his breathing to remain steady as he prepares his tense body to face the palace duties awaiting him. His blankets only leaving him warmer than usual and the pillow offering no softness, he stands and brings his hands to his face, rubbing the exhaustion away, picking his crown and placing it atop his messy black hair.

Cael exits his chamber. He does not have time to dwell on his physical discomfort. He walks to his old bedchamber and hesitates outside the door. He is sure Elara is still asleep. She usually wakes an hour past him. Hearing soft footsteps approaching, he turns to find Annie. Elara’s mistress that he had asked his father to assign her after seeing how cumbersome her dresses were.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” she whispers, bowing. “Would you like your clothes?”

Cael nods, a flush of warmth coloring his cheeks. This silent coordination has served as their routine ever since Elara first arrived. Annie enters the chamber first to ensure the princess is awake, and he follows only after receiving confirmation. He does not keep his own personal valet or servant, ensuring his tattoos are kept as a solace secret and so do his scars of abuse.

Annie steps forward, walking into the bedchamber. “Good morning, Your Highness,” her voice is noticeably softer. “You are awake early. Did you sleep well?”

The thickness of the door between him and Elara in the bedchamber mumbles her voice, he can still understand what she says. “I woke up early to keep reading.”

Assured of his privacy, Cael enters the sleeping quarters and makes his way toward the changing area. He forces his stiff shoulders back to pull on his clean garments. While his fingers handle the silver studs and heavy leather fastenings, he listens to the muffled sounds filtering through the thick wooden door. He can hear Annie moving softly around the bedchamber, the light rustle of her footsteps accompanying the crisp, snapping sound of heavy sheets as she lifts and flattens them, tidying the wide mattress where Elara slept.

Once the final leather strap is secured, he checks his wrists, pulling the long, dark sleeves of his tunic down until they cover the glimpse of black ink that extends down his arm to wrap around his skin.

Cael opens the door and steps back out into the main bedchamber, expecting to see Elara. Instead, he freezes. The grand space is too silent, and his gaze drifts to the bed. The mattress is neatly made, the thick layers of covers pulled smooth.

She is not there.

Catching his sudden movement and tracking his silent glance toward the empty sheets, Annie stops her work near the washstand. She offers him a reassuring nod, her voice dropping into a soft, hushed cadence before he can move toward the corridor.

“The princess woke early today, Your Highness,” Annie updates, smoothing down her apron. “She went down to the gardens to spend her morning with the workers.”

A lump forms in his throat, feeling like a thick ball of stone. The feeling is inexplicable, prompting Cael to pivot away as he exits the sleeping quarters, angry with himself for being so foolish.

He makes his way down the hall to check on his father’s well-being, only to find Hartwell already entering the King’s bedchamber. As he increases his pace, a cold presence pricks the hair on the back of his neck. Queen Maereth. She does not bother to glance at Cael.

Instead, she offers a harsh comment. “Raelith does not wish to be burdened by your chaos and your useless silence,” she whispers venomously. “If you truly care for his failing health, you will leave him and let him rest. It is now your burden to step forward and take his responsibilities. You were not trained in the shadows for nothing.”

Cael’s falters to a stop, and Queen Maereth halts beside him. He still feels anxious anywhere near her. Her gaze feels like a knife piercing deep into his skin. He attempts to lift his hands and sign his firm reply, only for her to take a step forward.

Cael flinches.

Queen Maereth’s lips curl into a cruel smile. “Excellent.” Pivoting away, she enters the royal suite alongside King Raelith. The muffled chatter of their voices filters through the heavy oak door, mocking the silence of the corridor.

Cael stands alone in the empty corridor, the hollow thud of his heartbeat filling the silence.