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Standing beside Kaera beneath the glow of the overhead lanterns, Elara watches the kitchen staff work, their movements aligned to meet the demands of the crown.

Kaera leans back against the flour-dusted edge of the central preparation table, her silver crown tilting as she watches the head chef scold a young baker who nearly dropped a tray of savory flatbreads. A smile touches her lips, though her eyes drop to her lap, the warmth fading into a heavy shadow.

“My mother used to tell me that the kitchens are the true heart of a kingdom,” Kaera murmurs, her voice dropping below the clatter of iron pots so only Elara can hear. “She said you can measure the fear of a palace by how fast the servants move. Look at them. They are terrified. They act as though tomorrow is a final hurrah because they know my father is fading, and they know my mother will look for any excuse to punish them if the facade breaks.”

A prickle of anxiety tightens against Elara’s ribcage at the mention of Queen Maereth. She casts a glance toward the kitchen entrance, her posture locking into a guarded stance. “I... I was afraid she would return to the council chamber this morning,” she admits in a soft whisper, her fingers tracing the edge of the wood. “The way she spoke to Cael yesterday... it was so cruel. I kept waiting for her to step out of the shadows and halt our work here.”

Kaera’s jaw tightens, a sharp edge of resentment hardening her posture as she looks ahead at the roaring stone ovens. “She sneers at Cael because his silence makes him an easy target in front of the high advisors. She ignores the truth. He spent his entire morning securing the fractured iron gate blockades at the eastern perimeter while she sat comfortably by the hearth.”

She pauses, swallowing hard as her breathing hitches with a sudden wave of protective anger. “She wants the council to believe he is a liability, but Cael carries the weight of this entire kingdom on his back while Father is weak. He bleeds for this palace in secret, and she dares to call him a curse upon the crown.”

A knot forms in Elara’s throat. The vivid image of Cael’s bleeding knuckles and the silent, agonizing weight he carries alone flashes behind her eyes, deepening the resolution in her heart. In her own past, her father had manipulated and harmed her because she was helpless, with no one there to defend her or keep his anger calm.

“Elara, your fingers are pressing onto the flatbread,” Kaera states with concern, watching her fingers curl inside the bread.

Elara returns to reality and gasps, pulling her fingers out as the scorching heat reddens her skin. “Oh!”

Elara startles as a broad shadow falls over her, only now realizing that Cael has entered the space. Before Kaera can step in to check the damage her unintentional mistake caused, Cael steps between them, his rough hand holding hers as his eyes study her reddening fingers. The chatter in the kitchen dissipates as a tremor flutters in her stomach at the unexpected contact.

Gently, Cael guides Elara toward the washbasin, turning the bronze fixture to let the cool mountain water rush out, and brings her fingers beneath the stream to cool the burning sensation. Elara opens her mouth to thank him, but all that comes out is a little whimper of pain, her mind still reeling at the memories of her father.

Cael's touch is entirely different from the manner of her father. He remains gentle, even over the blistering skin of her fingers. She finds herself looking at him instead of the injury, admiring the lines of his face and the intensity in his stormy eyes as he inspects the damage done to her hand. The chatter of the kitchen becomes nothing more than a low hum in her ears as Cael turns off the water and meets her eyes. Pink blooms across his nose and cheeks, but he does not look away from her, his thumb drawing gentle circles over her knuckles.

“I feel as if I am interrupting something,” Kaera says with a hint of a tease. “Though I hate to be the kind of person to ruin two lovebirds' growing bond, we have Omar coming in tomorrow.”

Elara snatches her hand from Cael’s. “Let us continue,” she says, her voice muddied as her face flames. Forcing her gaze away from Cael and his presence, the tingles in her stomach remain.

XX

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

E

Anxiety continues to occupy Elara’s thoughts,

driven by the stark reality that her wardrobe lacks the necessary finery for an unexpected royal banquet. The impending arrival of foreign leaders and their delegation ensures the gathering will demand absolute perfection.

Returning to the main fortress to ascend the central staircase, each measured step accompanies the restless beating of her heart. Upon reaching the upper landing to push the heavy doors open, the setting sun spills golden beams through the balcony curtains to stain the dark floor. The chamber greets her in silence.

She moves toward the dressing chamber, already preparing herself for the long task of sorting through the few gowns she owns, expecting difficult choices and disappointment alike. Her attention fixes on two wooden dress forms standing near the cupboards, positioned side by side like carefully prepared offerings.

The first frame displays a formal black doublet, where the soft light glimmers across the fabric to reveal delicate silver embroidery woven into the chest. Beneath the heavy velvet rests a crisp white silk undershirt fastened with dark clasps, paired with matching tailored breeches that lend the entire ensemble a sharp, polished appearance.

Beside the doublet stands a second apparel form dressed in a long black gown threaded with golden sparkles, the glittering hue echoing the jewelry she favors daily. The bodice is fitted to the form, rising into a high neckline supported by slender straps. Layers of soft fabric fall into a full skirt that shifts with the breeze drifting through the balcony doors.

Elara steps forward before she has realized she has done so, her fingers brushing against the textile, finding it smooth. She has never worn black before. Not in dresses, not in jewelry, not even in the embroidery of her veils or crowns. Her father banned the color entirely from her wardrobe, forbidding her from donning the shade even when mourning her mother.

She steps back, studying the gown beneath the fading sunlight while imagining the way the fabric will drape once worn, and how the golden details will catch the ambient candlelight across the dining hall. Her gaze shifts toward the matching suit beside it.

The dinner is still hours away. Elara withdraws her hand from the gown and leaves it resting on its mannequin before crossing toward the vanity. Lowering herself into the chair, she studies her reflection in the mirror as the late afternoon light softens her features.

Elara enters the adjoining bathing chamber. A twist of the sculpted silver valves allows only boiling hot water to rush into the basin, countering the freezing temperature of the stone. While she waits for the bath to fill, she undresses, setting her clothing aside before placing her crown beside the sink. She retrieves her lavender soap and rose-scented shampoo, then lowers herself into the bath, the intense heat of the water gradually relaxing her frame as she forces herself to adjust to the harsh northern climate.

A deep massage against her scalp allows the floral aroma to bloom. Rinsing her hair clean, she guides the lavender soap across her skin methodically until her gaze drops toward the faint blemish lines on her thighs.

Elara freezes, her palm stalling over her skin. Her fingers trace the uneven ridges of the marks, her chest tightening as the old discomfort returns. She forces her eyes away to stare blankly at the steaming water, waiting for the shaking in her hands to pass.

When she is done, Elara retrieves a folded towel from the cabinet beneath the sink and wraps it around herself. Her wet hair clings to her face and shoulders, tangled in small knots that she works free.