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A familiar figure stands inside, his back turned toward her. Cael’s dark hair falls against his neck, leaving the scars crossing his back exposed. Some are thin and pale, others darker against his skin. Elara’s gaze catches on one before moving to another, following the uneven marks without meaning to. The floral tattoo winding around his left arm is partially visible, the lilies stretching along his skin in intricate patterns.

Fragments of his poems return to her thoughts. Lines she read in isolation now carry a different meaning. The wounds he described in those verses have remained hidden beneath his long sleeves and the clothes covering his skin all this time.

Elara’s eyes drift toward the lilies winding around his arm. She has no memory of reading about those. Why lilies? Why had he chosen to place something so delicate against skin marked by so much pain?

She turns her head away, realizing how long she has been looking. Her fingers tighten against the door. She should close it. She should give him the privacy he was never meant to lose.

He turns at the sound of the door. His eyes meet hers.

Elara’s cheeks grow warm. Her gaze drops to the floorboards. “I am sorry. I did not know you were here.” She turns and pulls the heavy door shut behind her.

Burying her face in her palms, Elara stands there, mortified. She can still see the scars whenever she closes her eyes, and worse, she can remember the fragments he had written about them. Had he written those poems because he could not speak of the wounds aloud? Had anyone ever known what he meant when he wrote them?

Her hands slowly fall from her face. Her own scars come to mind, the ones she had spent years hiding beneath fabric. Had Cael ever looked at his in the same way? Had he once wished they were not there, or had he simply learned to live with what could not be changed? Elara turns toward the wardrobe, determined to occupy herself with anything else. She takes two steps before stopping, her fingers curling against the fabric of her nightgown.

She cannot forget what she saw.

A moment later, the door pulls open. Cael wears a long black coat with wide lapels over a dark vest. A silver chain hangs against his high collar, catching the dim light. His black trousers are held by a leather belt with a silver buckle, his hands hidden within his dark leather gloves. It takes Elara a moment to stabilize herself.

He halts in the doorway, a familiar gray coat draped over his forearm. His jaw is set, while one gloved hand rests against the polished silver pommel of the ceremonial sword at his hip.

Elara studies him for another moment. The formal coat. The silver chain. The ceremonial sword. Even the rigid way he carries himself is different from the man who had stood before her only moments earlier. He is about to step before the kingdom.

“Are you leaving somewhere?” Elara asks, her voice breaking the silence of the bedchamber.

To court. Everyone is waiting for my presence, Cael signs, his gaze avoiding hers as the tips of his ears and nose redden beneath the dim light.

“Has something occurred again?” Elara’s eyebrows furrow, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her nightgown.

He pauses, his expression composed. Then he steps forward and places the coat over Elara’s shoulders, guiding her arms into its thick fabric before stepping back.

The high council and the outer lords have gathered, Cael signs. They are demanding answers and signatures regarding the marketplace blast. His hands pause before continuing. Father wants Kaera and me to present the vanguard deployment and sign the emergency logs in his place.

Elara remains still, the warmth of his coat still draped over her shoulders as she takes in his explanation.

“What about Raelith? Will you attend without him?” Elara asks, pausing before her voice lowers into the silence of the chamber. “How will you be able to bring your words out in court?”

He is still weak, Cael signs, his eyebrows relaxing into their usual furrow. Kaera will speak her part, and we will accompany each other.

A painful knot tightens in Elara’s throat. “You did not tell me.”

You are ill, my petal. You need rest. Cael reaches forward and brings his palm to Elara’s forehead.

Elara closes her eyes, the tension in her shoulders loosening. His touch is warm against her forehead, familiar enough to silence the questions pressing against her mind.

He pulls his hand away, but Elara’s fingers close around the fabric of his coat. “Do not do all of this on your own. I know Kaera will be there, but...” She swallows and tries again. “I cannot keep lying here while everyone else decides what I am capable of.”

Elara forces herself to meet his eyes again. “I have spent my entire life being told that I am too fragile to matter. I will not let a fever make that decision for me again.”

Cael’s hands begin to rise.

“I know you are afraid,” she whispers.

His hands stop.

Elara takes a small step closer. “I am afraid too.” Her fingers loosen against his coat. “But I want to stand beside you.” She pauses, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let me be your voice, Cael.”

She shakes her head, forcing her voice out against the aching soreness in her throat. “You put the entire kingdom on your own shoulders all the time, but I cannot allow you to stand in that dark hall alone. I do not care about the rumors or the fever.”