Page 67
Before the merchant can even draw his next breath, the air fractures with the heavy, metallic clatter of armor. The blond vanguard steps forward with blinding speed, his armored shoulder driving into the space between them to force the merchant back. The knight’s gloved hand grips the hilt of his broadsword, the steel releasing a sharp, warning click as it slips an inch from its scabbard.
“Watch your tongue, trader,” the vanguard growls, his vivid green eyes flashing with fury from beneath his helm. He plants his boots against the stone, his massive shield shifting forward to form a firm wall that pins the merchant back into his stall. “One more treasonous breath against the crown prince, and your trading license will be the very least of what you forfeit today.”
Cael remains expressionless. His jaw clenches until the muscle aches, but his posture never breaks. He ignores the merchant’s trembling terror. Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, he pulls out a silver-tipped quill, dipping it into a small well of blood-red ink he carries at his belt.
He turns the parchment pages of the ledger. His eyes track the numbers, scanning the falsified timber prices the merchant had inflated to profit off the lower-district housing crisis. Without a single sound, Cael strikes a crimson line through the fraudulent figures, carving the true, fair prices into the paper with enough force to indent the page.
He slams the book closed with a definitive snap that makes the merchant flinch. He pushes the ledger back to the edge of the wood, his storm-grey eyes fixing upon the man with a severe, chilling finality that requires no words to be understood. He has corrected the corruption, and he has done it in total silence.
He guides Snow along the broken cobblestone path, his guards forming a protective perimeter as they arrive at the edge of the lower district. Before him lie the gray stone foundations of the collapsed granary. Stacks of dark slate and bags of dry mortar line the perimeter, where the scent of earth and wet stone hangs in the air.
Cael crouches near the newly laid baseline, running his gloved fingers over the edge of the mortar to check the consistency. He presses his thumb into the drying paste, ensuring the thick binder will withstand the coming frost. The crunch of loose gravel draws his gaze upward.
An elderly laborer steps out from the construction line, his leather apron stiff with dried grey slurry and his bare hands calloused from decades of handling flint. He stops a few paces away, his shoulders stooped under the weight of his age. This man had been here the night the roof timber gave way. He had seen the prince discard his formal title to lift the crushing granite beams off the trapped scaffolding crew with his own hands.
Slowly, the old bricklayer bends at the waist, lowering his chin toward his chest in a deep bow. When he speaks, his voice is faint and rough, trembling like dry parchment under the cold wind.
“May the light of the true valley keep your path clear, Your Highness,” the old man murmurs, his eyes fixed on the stone floor. “My family is alive today because you refused to leave us under the rubble. May the heavens shield you as you have shielded the small.”
Cael freezes, his hand remaining suspended over the raw foundation. He does not bring out his booklet. Instead, he simply lowers his head in a deep nod of respect.
One of the guards, Maveric, nearly mirroring Cael’s height with his tanned skin and black hair, steps forward along the path. He maintains a disciplined posture, keeping his voice low as he delivers the report. “Your Highness, the lower-district food cellars require an immediate review. The morning reports indicate the storage shafts are failing to vent properly, threatening the salted meat reserves before the frost locks the kingdom down.”
Cael nods once, his expression flat, and they all walk there together through the narrow stone passages. The damp chill of the underground cellars rises to meet them as they descend the stairs, the air thick with the heavy scent of salt, stone, and curing wood.
An elderly woman stands by the entrance of the primary vault, wrapping a worn shawl around her thin shoulders. Her face lines with false compliance when she recognizes the prince. “Oh, Your Highness, we are deeply blessed by your sudden presence,” she murmurs, bowing her head with an exaggerated reverence. “We are merely keepers trying to preserve what little remains for our families. The cellar is at your disposal, a testament to Riverath’s fine care.”
Cael ignores her, stepping past her to inspect the low ceiling grid. His gray eyes narrow as he tracks the problem, finding a subtle flaw where the primary ventilation shafts are blocked with damp winter straw. If left untouched, the trapped moisture will rot the entire district’s food supply within weeks.
He lifts his hand, reaching up to clear the dense blockage.
“Such a shame I miss the opportunity to meet our new princess, and I suppose the chance is gone,” the elderly woman says. “It is unsurprising how easy it is for a silent prince to trade his bride away.” The malice in her words drops like a stone into a dark void.
Maveric steps forward, his hand dropping toward the hilt of his blade as his jaw tightens to defend his prince against the treasonous insult. Before the knight can utter a word, Cael raises his right hand, his palm open in a silent command that halts the guard in his tracks.
Cael’s fingers clench so fiercely that a vein pulses over his hand and wrist, his eyes darkening as he stares at the cold stone wall. He forces the anger beneath his skin under control.
He forces his focus back to the task before him. He drives his fingers into the shaft, ripping out the rotting clump of wet straw and throwing it onto the floor. He checks the airflow one last time, ensuring the vent runs clear, before turning on his heel. He makes his way back toward the stairs without looking at her, his boots grinding against the stone as he leaves the bitter atmosphere of the cellars behind.
“Of course, a silent prince like him is angry,” one of the women whispers, scoffing at her own remark from afar, though Cael’s ears do not miss the words. “It is pathetic that he is still here, carrying out his duties as if it would change what he is.”
The burning heat inside his chest drains away, leaving only a hollow sense of defeat. He does not turn around. He steps toward his steed and signals a halt near a narrow alleyway, offering a slow incline of his head to his men. Dismounting, he leaves the reins with Maveric and walks down the pavement alone, needing space from the watchful eyes of his guard. His steps slow before the large glass window of Olivia’s boutique.
Displayed behind the clean pane, catching the pale morning light, rests a garment that draws his attention. The skirt flows downward in long, graceful folds, entirely devoid of the heavy hoops or overbearing wire structures most court ornaments demand. Across the heavy cream-colored fabric runs a delicate pattern of pale pink and white floral embroidery.
Cael stops, his gaze anchoring on the long, full sleeves tailored to taper at the wrist to keep the chill from slipping past.
The image of Elara fills his thoughts, erasing the remaining traces of the cellar confrontation.
He remembers the way she shivered on her bed, her small hands clutching her heavy gowns. He recalls the nervous way she had smoothed her fingers over the glittering fabric at dinner, her posture tightening whenever Queen Maereth would glare at her across the table. She is trapped beneath the burden of expectation, trapped inside clothes meant to make her an ornament rather than keep her safe.
His cheeks grow warm, the stern lines of his face softening as he studies the protective sleeves. He has spent enough time noticing the small things that make Elara uncomfortable to know he cannot leave the shop without it. Cael walks up the stone steps, not bothering to spare a sign or statement to his waiting guards and knights. Stepping inside the warm chamber, he bypasses the fabric racks to avoid the few people browsing the stalls to meet Olivia in the middle of the store while she finishes smiling with s customer.
Her smile fades when she finds Cael. His expression hardens, expecting another complaint, an insult, or another trade worker to abandon him after the rumors. Instead, her smile grows wider.
“Greetings, Your Highness.”
Cael lets out a slow breath, the defensive armor around his posture dropping. Because Olivia knows the language of the hands, he lifts his fingers to sign, though a shy hesitation makes his movements smaller than usual. I want the dress by the window, he signs, his gaze drifting toward the floor as the deep warmth on his cheeks darkens. The white and pink floral one.
