Page 61

“That is enough, Maereth,” King Raelith says, his voice carries an unbreakable authority that silences the chamber. The tone catches the Queen off guard, freezing her in her tracks. “You will not bring your malice into this chamber, nor will you threaten my children. Elara belongs to this house, and her placement beside Cael is absolute. Leave us.”

Queen Maereth’s jaw tightens, a flash of humiliation crossing her features as she realizes she has lost her political leverage.

Realizing she has been thoroughly outmaneuvered, the Queen turns on her heel. “You will regret this blind complacency when the outer districts burn,” she spits, her furious steps pounding against the marble as she sweeps out of the bedchamber, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.

Hartwell relaxes, releasing a long breath. He offers a respectful bow to the three of them before slipping out into the corridor to secure the threshold.

Cael turns his head toward Elara, his intense features softening into a profound, vulnerable worry as he notices her shallow breathing and her downcast eyes. He wants to comfort her, but he remains still, giving her the physical space she needs while her mind wrestles with the terrifying confusion of the rumors.

“Elara, I was just about to request your presence,” King Raelith says, his expression softening with a reassuring smile. “I want to personally assure you that the rumors are false. You are here, your place beside my son is absolute, and Riverath will never abandon you to our enemies. Not even to our closest of friends.”

Cael studies how Elara’s tension fades, noting the small smile that touches her lips. Reassured by the change, he turns to his father and signs the thought that has been gnawing at him ever since he first heard the report.

I think it is Amir who started this rumor, his bare fingers move through the silent chamber. Omar would not move a single step to forge such a calculated lie. Amir, his seemingly trusted knight, is the one who orchestrated this. Perhaps he was ordered, but it must be him.

King Raelith exhales. “It could surely be him. Let us avoid the political chaos for now and allow me to handle the court. As for the market districts, Hartwell and I will plan thoroughly to convince each and every one of our people of your innocence.”

It is impossible, Cael signs, his jaw tightening into a severe line. Many hate me simply because I do not have a voice. That is different from the rumors.

King Raelith offers them a weak but comforting nod, his fatigue catching up to him as he sinks deeper into his pillows. His eyes close under the weight of his exhaustion before he opens them to look at Cael and Elara one last time. He whispers for them to return to their chambers and rest, promising that Hartwell will guard his threshold through the evening to ensure no more disruptions fracture his recovery.

As they exit the royal bedchamber and walk down the freezing corridors of the main palace, the tension between them changes. It is no longer filled with the panic of Amir’s rumors, but a mutual exhaustion that slows their steps along the cold marble. Cael stays close to her side, his bearing still protective as the echoes of the courtyard riot finally fade from their thoughts.

The moment they step inside their chamber and the heavy wooden doors click shut, sealing out the hostile court, they turn to each other. They are finally alone in the sanctuary of their own space. The silence lingers and Elara bites her lip, Cael tracking the movement with his eyes. Finally, she speaks.

“Cael, have you…” she pauses, rethinking her words before letting them out at last. “Ever imagined having a voice?”

Cael halts, his hands freezing on the collar of his black coat as her sudden curiosity catches him off guard. She shakes her head, her posture stiffening with regret. “You do not need to answer me. I apologize. It is too personal.”

Cael looks at her, the fear that his silent hesitation might be mistaken for a harsh rejection gnawing at his chest. Bringing out the forest-green booklet and silver quill, a motion that has become necessary between them, he writes. Turning the page, he ensures the fresh script is readable under the low light of the lamps.

Yes, I have. I imagine my voice to be like my father.

She takes a step closer, narrowing the space between them until only a tentative distance remains. “I would imagine it to be softer,” she admits with a murmur, her gaze drifting down to the ink on the page.

Cael almost smiles at her honesty, before writing something else. He writes it on the same page, though leaving some space with his new words between the previous. He turns it again.

Why softer?

“Because your father speaks with the weight of his kingdom. Despite his gentle words, it will not be as soft as your voice,” Elara admits. “But, Cael… your physical gentleness, the way you reply to those who harm you, how you care for Kaera and me, despite us not knowing each other well,” she pauses. “Your voice would be the gentlest lullaby one can hear. Like a prayer.”

Cael forces a stilling strength into his frame to remain steady. His cheeks redden, darkening beneath the amber light of the lamps. He sets the green booklet and quill onto the nearby table, breaking their formal routine for just a moment. He takes a step forward, closing the remaining distance between them by a fraction.

Elara’s breath catches in her throat, though she does not pull away. Her eyes meet his, their earlier distance slowly closing as she remains anchored beneath his gaze. He notes the single gold fleck within the dark ring of her iris as the space between them vanishes. Her eyes flick down at the dark silk of his shirt, then lift to search his eyes once again.

For a second, Cael could swear her gaze drifted down to his lips.

Slowly, he lifts his right hand first, only to make sure Elara is not shocked by his sudden movement. Finding nothing but her eyes locked on his, his fingers adjust the collar of his coat around her neck, pulling her long hair over her shoulders, his touch feather-light against her skin.

It draws a trembling breath from Elara’s mouth. She almost tilts her face toward his fingers before she takes a step back, creating a larger distance than they already had. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head in a silent acknowledgment and turns, exiting the bedchamber. He steps outside and immediately presses his back against the solid wood of the door. Looking down at his fingers where they touched Elara’s soft skin, he almost wheezes to catch his breath, the overwhelming proximity leaving him undone. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Taking one last breath to steady his pulse, he makes his way toward his own private chamber.

XXIV

LEARNING HIS LANGUAGE