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Cael looks at her momentarily before turning to Asma, raising his hands to sign something. Elara focuses on his silent language and the easy understanding Asma shows in her expression, nodding after every movement he makes with his fingers and hands.
“Absolutely, Your Highness. I will ensure these pink poppies are stored safely and plan ahead for their spring planting, and I will let Her Highness accompany me when the time comes,” Asma smiles.
Cael dismounts his steed and has one of the guards guide the horse away. Asma then bows to both of them before she goes to handle the poppy seeds Cael gave her.
The breeze returns, and with Elara’s exposed skin, it sends a small shiver and spots of goosebumps. Cael steps closer to her, his boots grinding against the stone. He reaches down to secure his stained silver sword into its sheath, the dull metal scraping into place. As his gloved hand moves, Elara notices the silver quill she returned to him earlier is tucked into the side pocket of his structured vest.
Her gaze drops to his bare hand again, her fingers gripping the green silk of her skirt at the sight of his missing wedding ring. The memory of his hidden poem flashes through her thoughts, prompting her to step back and square her frame to meet his evaluation.
Cael slowly lifts his left hand, turning his palm over in the afternoon sunlight as if checking the leather grip. He intentionally lets her see the empty space where his wedding band usually rests. He does not sign a single word, but his grey eyes snap up to lock onto hers, challenging her silent judgment. Elara shifts her own right hand, her silver band gleaming brightly in the sun, drawing a contrast between her loyalty to the public vow and his sudden defiance.
Any lingering warmth or positive thoughts she harbored about his secret flower orders instantly fade. The small, hopeful illusions shatter under the weight of his bare glove, reminding her that his gestures mean nothing when his public actions show complete disregard. He remains a stranger, an unreadable prince who casts away the symbol of their alliance without a second thought.
Turning her gaze away from him to conceal the sharp sting in her chest, she forces her posture to relax and steps back toward the flowerbeds. She chooses to ignore his presence, resuming her time with Asma by focusing her attention back on the dark, damp soil and the winter camellia seeds waiting for her care.
XVI
THE CRIMSON BAND
C
Cael’s boots thud down the hallway.
The sound of books settling onto shelves and a cloth wiping against dark wood echoes from the library as Elias works. Slowing his pace to remain discreet, Cael enters his private chamber and closes the heavy door with a silent click, locking it from within.
The ache in his body fades as he sinks against the chaise, his hand grasping the weight of his crown and sword to toss them gently onto the floor. With no windows to connect him to the world, the pitch-black sanctuary feels like a tomb.
Something ached within him after witnessing Elara’s discomforted expression earlier. It was a look of disgust. Frustration. Anything and everything but good. His heart had sunk at the ire in her green eyes, a sensation he had not felt since the first time his stepmother took a belt to his back.
What had he done wrong? Perhaps it was how vulnerable he appeared, covered in dirt and buried under heavy exhaustion. Turning his body onto his right side, he swallows a bitter wave of emotion. He does not know why he cares so much for her to find something acceptable in him. All his life, he was never desperate for one particular person to be pleased with him. Not the people who work for him, not Kaera, and he never was this desperate to be loved by his father.
He does not know why Elara means this much to him. Her comfort, her space, how she feels toward him. This whole marriage was only arranged for political reasons. It should not mean anything to him.
Neither should she.
A burning sensation builds behind his eyes. Before it can overtake him, he whips out his notebook and quill, discarding his coat on the chaise. He places the quill on the table and pulls off his thick black gloves, his palms hot and sweaty. The silver band on his finger glints, fogged with the heat.
He had been forced to remove the ring from his gloves and wear it bare on his finger while helping the guards clear the heavy debris of a collapsed stone warehouse that held the lower city’s winter supplies. The manual labor required hours under a freezing sky, forcing him to haul jagged granite blocks and soot-covered timbers to rescue the trapped workers. His father remained at the palace managing a separate, demanding political issue. The friction tore right through his gloves, leaving his bare hands split, raw, and bleeding.
He slides the silver wedding band over his injured finger, his jaw tightening into a rigid line as the cold metal catches against the raw, torn edges of his flesh. A flash of pain shoots up his arm, a brutal reminder of the moment his left hand caught beneath a jagged granite slab while he pulled a trapped worker from the rubble.
He forces the band past the swollen knuckle anyway, refusing to leave his behind despite the bleeding. The silver finally settles tight against the base of his finger, a protective, stinging weight that burns against his raw skin.
Reaching for a matchbox near the corner of the table, he strikes a match against the rough strip, a small spark of orange fire cutting through the darkness. He holds the flame against the wick of a heavily melted candle resting on a silver holder, the wax pooled and hardened into an irregular shape from the past three nights. The flame catches slowly, casting a low, amber glow that dances across his workspace.
Overwhelmed by the ache of that final gaze, he dips his silver quill into the fresh black inkwell. With his split knuckles throbbing as he grips the metal, he forces the instrument across the paper, letting the booklet capture the heavy pain he can never say aloud.
The raw and crimson bleeding of my hand,
Is nothing to the coldness of her stance.
Each dawn arrives, I hope she finds her peace,
But from her flinching face, there is no release.
It makes me think I am the silent beast,
Upon whose curse my bitter people feast.
