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The servant smiles nervously and bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Underneath the heavy linen tablecloth, away from Queen Maereth’s watchful eyes, Cael lowers his left hand to gently find Elara’s fingers. Their fingers do not intertwine, though the roughness of his hand presses firmly against her skin. Elara looks down toward the drape of the tablecloth over her lap, flustered by the hidden interaction.

The servant returns to the dining hall, carrying a fresh porcelain pot of steaming tea. The clatter of the porcelain against the dark wood breaks the heavy domestic silence, granting Elara an excuse to lift her eyes from her lap and regain her composure. As the steaming liquid fills King Raelith’s cup, Cael slides his hand back to his own side of the table. The absence of his physical touch leaves her skin feeling cold.

Queen Maereth shifts her gaze to Elara, her eyebrows arching. “I expect to see you in the high court tomorrow morning, Princess,” she commands. “Since you have spent the entire afternoon wasting your time in the library, you will find our financial and border logs far more useful to the crown than fictional tales.”

Elara straightens, her pulse quickening at the direct order. Before she can stumble over a verbal response, she catches Cael’s expression out of the corner of her eye. His jaw remains locked, but he gives her a soft gaze, signaling that he will stand with her when tomorrow comes.

Both King Raelith and Queen Maereth stand, making their leave, though King Raelith pauses to look back at the three of them with a warm, tired expression, smiling despite his fatigue. “Have a good night’s rest, my children. Do not let the burdens of this evening steal the morning from you.” With those gentle words, he follows his wife out of the dining chamber, a heavy silence settling over the table.

Kaera breathes out, rubbing her palms over her face. “Thank Riverath,” she says, a sudden smile breaking across her features. “Do not worry, Elara. Cael and I will accompany you.”

“Thank you.” Elara’s voice lowers. “Why does she not like me? I have never meant any harm, and I rarely ever speak with her. All she does is insult and mock me.”

Cael’s hand slides to hers beneath the table, slowly intertwining their fingers. Her breath catches at the contact, the thick fabric of his glove pressing firmly against her palm as if to absorb the lingering chill of her anxieties. She looks up at him, finding him smiling. A dimple is evident on his right cheek, and Elara cannot help but stare, the comforting proximity melting her remaining defenses.

“I will now take my departure. Before I do, I would love some sweets,” Kaera smiles excitedly, placing a few baked pastries onto a small plate before she exits, moving almost like a child who just received a reward.

Elara cannot help but laugh, her eyes landing on Cael’s once more, only to realize he is already looking at her. His hand slides away from hers to pull out the forest-green booklet, a silent routine she privately hopes to outgrow as she leans his language. He turns the open page toward her.

I will go out into Raeverband tomorrow alone. Kaera will accompany you, and you will remain safe. I have duties to handle.

“Cael, what about the rumors? They have not been solved,” Elara says, her posture tightening as she leans toward him. “I wish to accompany you.”

His grip on the quill tightens with a sudden flash of anxiety, the silver tip scratching rapidly across the pristine paper before he presses the booklet flat against the table for her to read.

You were uncomfortable last time. I cannot have you experience the same thing again. My own knights will accompany me and keep me safe.

Elara reads the frantic ink, her jaw tightening. Instead of pulling back or allowing him to withdraw the booklet, she places her palm flat over his fresh script, her fingers covering his words. She leans in, her eyes locking onto his with an uncompromising clarity.

“I panicked because I did not understand,” she says, her voice steady and hushed in the empty dining hall. “I cannot force you to bring me with you, considering that I am overwhelming to handle. It is alright if you do not want me to come along.”

Cael stares at her hand resting against his booklet. Then he shakes his head, writing on the same page with his left hand. Pulling away, he gives her a chance to read.

There is no part of your presence I find unwelcome. You are merely a storm to look upon, overwhelming in a grace I have no words to match.

The raw sincerity of his words catches her by surprise, leaving her flustered beneath the low glow of the chandeliers. She looks up from the booklet to meet his eyes, deep color rising along his cheeks. Her lips part, but no sound follows. Her fingers loosen from the table fabric. Looking up, she traces the soft color on his cheeks.

XXVI

THE UNSPOKEN LEDGER

C

Snow paces steadily beneath Cael.

He keeps his eyes fixed ahead as his knights and guards remain close beside him, moving through the main area of Raeverband. When he finalizes his spot near the market center, he pats the side of the steed’s neck, indicating for the steed to stop. She obeys, and he dismounts with grace. His other companions do the same.

The townspeople do not launch an active riot or form a dangerous crowd because the wall of armored guards keeps them contained. Still, their hatred is palpable. He catches their sharp glances, their hushed murmurs, and the way the merchants deliberately look away when he passes.

Before him rests the heavy oak merchant table, where the high-tier trade masters review the kingdom’s distribution logs. Cael extends his hand towards the head timber merchant, his fingers open in a silent, authoritative demand for the morning’s import ledgers.

The merchant, a broad-shouldered man with a grease-stained apron and a sneering mouth, locks eyes with the prince. He does not bow. He does not lower his chin in the mandatory reverence required by the crown. Instead, he lifts the heavy leather-bound volume and shoves it across the wood, letting it slide with a loud scrape that knocks against Cael’s knuckles.

“There are the numbers, Silent Prince,” the merchant mutters. He leans forward, his hands pressing flat against the timber desk as he drops his voice to a venomous whisper. “Though I doubt a ruler who hoards our grain and barters his own Veyrenn bride to the southern savages cares much for the price of common pine.”

The insult cuts through the space like a blade. Along the perimeter, several trade masters stifle low, mocking chuckles.