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The court vipers to break into a frenzy of agreement. King Raelith attempts to speak, but a violent fit of coughing seizes his chest, forcing him back against the throne as his breath fails him. Elara feels the tension radiating from Cael. He sits rigidly, his gloved hands tightening into fists flat against the table because he has no voice to strike back against their treasonous words.

King Raelith raises his hand, waving off the court physician who rushes forward with a vial of tonic. He forces his posture upright, his expression hardening as he stares directly at the defiant trade master. “You speak of the market like you represent the hearts of our citizens, yet you only echo the panic born of border shadows,” King Raelith says, his voice raspy but carrying the finality of the crown. “If my people require reassurance, they shall receive it from the throne itself. I shall address the outer districts publicly for the afternoon from the palace square. The princess and the crown prince will stand beside me, and the kingdom will see the truth of our alliance with their own eyes.”

King Raelith looks over at Elara, his eyes softening. “Until then, this ledger log dispute is closed. You may return to your quarters.” His eyes land on Cael, his smile remaining. “We must prepare our words for the late afternoon and ensure the people are prepared.”

The high court table clears and the murmuring nobles retreat to the corridors. Cael matches her movement, walking at her side through the heavy halls to escort her to the security of her threshold. They walk in a shared silence, his presence a shield against the eyes of the remaining court.

When they reach her doors, Elara enters the solitude of her space, not wanting to look back. She paces the stone floor, her fingers tracing the edge of the vanity while her anxiety mounts. She lacked training for this world. In Veyrenn, her father kept her isolated from the ruthless mechanics of statecraft, leaving her unequipped to navigate the volatile currents of a kingdom on the brink of revolt.

She knows she cannot remain a mere ornament when they step onto the public platform at morning. Forcing her posture straight, she begins a different kind of preparation. She practices speaking aloud to the empty space, her voice trembling as she shapes the raw, honest words she will need to defend the prince, forcing her tone to find its footing for the first time in her life.

“I am Elara and I declare,” she begins, then pauses, realizing how unnatural the words sound in her mouth. Shaking her head, she tries again. “Greetings, I am Elara Everwyn. The rumors are false, and Cael treats me kindly.” She pauses again, becoming frustrated as she stares at her reflection.

“Greetings. I am Elara Everwyn, you may hear of me as the newly arrived princess from Veyrenn,” she continues. “Cael Everhart, the Prince of Riverath and known as my…” she hesitates, the weight of the contract crashing down on her. “Husband.”

She turns away from her reflection, her breathing shallow. A low knock on the heavy door makes her jump as it fractures the tense silence of her room. It is not the rapid, official tap of a vanguard or Annie’s light touch. Elara clears her throat, forcing a calm composure as she smooths the white and pink folds of her skirt. “Enter,” she calls out, her voice strained.

The heavy door pulls open to reveal Cael standing on the threshold. His eyes track her with an intense focus. Elara takes an involuntary step back and bumps into the vanity, her lips parting.

“Cael,” she whispers.

Cael steps inside the sanctuary, closing the door behind him to seal out the distant, mounting roar of the gathering crowd below the balcony. His brow furrows with worry, his analytical gaze assessing her posture.

He walks closer, reaching into his tunic, he pulls out the forest-green leather booklet and silver quill. He quickly shapes a message and turns the book toward her, holding it steady beneath the morning sunlight for her to read.

You are safe within these walls, and I will be right beside you out there.

His words do not erase her fear, but they remind her that she will not be facing the crowd alone.

“No,” Elara shakes her head, her breath trembling. “I have no experience with public speaking, and the pressure of these rumors overwhelms me. I am terrified I will fail. I must speak with King Raelith to ensure I remain silent during the address.”

Glancing up at Cael, she studies him. He remains unreadable like usual, though something sad flashes briefly through his features.

Elara hesitates, then clears her throat. “I apologize,” she says, looking down to pick at her thumbnails. “I know you suffer as well. You were forced into this alliance the same as me. I watch you when we enter the village. You execute everything alone.” Her eyelashes flutter as she meets his eyes. “You perform so much, while I fail to achieve anything a princess should complete. I do not even know the methods, and now, I must face a crowd of angry people to calm their fears. I will fail.”

Elara’s throat tightens. She breaks eye contact with Cael and stares at the ground while her father’s voice echoes within her mind, calling her worthless and demanding she remain a pretty ornament. She is the creature of his design, a useless princess locked inside her quarters and crying to a mother long gone. Every person she ever allowed herself to trust has departed from her life.

Cael slips off his black gloves, placing the silver band onto his bare finger. "A testament to his vow, even when there is no one else to witness it. Elara’s eyes widen with confusion. Taking another step closer, Cael brings both of his warm, bare, and ink-stained palms to her cheeks. His thumbs brush her cheekbones. Delicately. As if she were the fragile petal of the rose he held yesterday.

“Cael,” is all she can utter, as if his name is the only familiar word her reeling mind can latch onto.

He continues to caress her soft skin, the booklet and quill useless in the inner pocket of his coat. Elara cannot help but lean into the gentle touch of affection she has craved all of her life.

Cael leans down his forehead to rest it against hers. She closes her eyes, focusing entirely on the rhythm of his breathing and the soothing pressure of his ink-stained palms holding her cheeks.

She swallows the rest of her unsaid words and steps even closer, her cheek nearly pressing against his shoulder. Cael tilts his head to watch her, only one of his hands remaining on her cheek while the other rests on her arm, indicating she can press closer.

Elara does without thinking, her eyes meeting his. He holds her there in the gentle stasis for a long moment. “You have shown me kindness like no other,” she admits, not wanting to regret the words her heart breaks to speak. “You have shown the strength you hold from your own people.” She recalls his poems but forces them aside. “Why?”

Cael stills for a moment before his hand leaves her cheek, though the other wraps around her shoulder. Bringing his booklet out again, he writes while keeping a hold on her. She reads the words as he writes them.

You have not insulted me. You have not stabbed another blade into my bleeding heart. It felt as if you were gently removing them. Removing the words people claim I am for something that is not my fault.

Elara’s heart aches at his raw admission. “It was never a bother to me that you are mute. It has been confusing, but I never thought that you are less than anyone else.”

Cael stares at her for a long moment, his gray eyes shining with an intensity that grounds her racing thoughts. He slides the green booklet back into the inner pocket of his coat, letting it rest against his chest as his hand lingers over the fabric.

His gaze drifts toward her collar. Stepping forward, he reaches out to let his fingers brush against the coat, adjusting the heavy lapels to close the gap against her throat. The topmost button secures beneath his touch, ensuring the thick material wraps around her frame to lock out the frost. A trace of color rises to Cael’s cheeks.