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She studies the angle of the palm, the direction of movement, the position of the fingers. What if I perform it incorrectly? she wonders. What if my attempt appears careless rather than sincere? The scrape of a chair interrupts her thoughts.

Elias rises, carrying his volume with him. “I shall return this to its shelf,” he remarks, already making his way toward the back of the library, where the taller cases stand.

As his figure recedes among the long rows of books, Elara senses the small privacy afforded to her. She straightens in her seat and glances once toward the shelves, ensuring Elias’s attention remains occupied. Then she looks back to the page.

She lifts her hand and positions her palm exactly as the illustration instructs, adjusting her fingers with precision. Her dominant hand rises, fingers straight and joined, thumb relaxed. She places it near her temple with the palm facing outward, hesitates for a moment, then moves it forward in a graceful arc away from her head, resembling a restrained and courteous salute.

The motion is awkward. She lowers her hand and glances around, relieved that no one has witnessed it. A sigh escapes her. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, she lifts her hand and tries again. This time the movement feels smoother, more certain.

As her hand rises to repeat the motion, the positioning pulls at the sensitive skin of her knuckles, a reminder of the stranger’s touch from the courtyard. In Veyrenn, under her father's heavy rules, the blame for such a transgression belongs to her, and the memory of King Eric’s punishments makes her entire frame lock with terror. She braces for a blow, fearing the retribution Cael might hurl at her for the encounter.

Instead, the lingering warmth of his skin where he wiped the stranger’s trace away in the bedchamber breaks her fright.

She repeats the motion once, then again. Her fingers feel awkward at first, unaccustomed to such precision. The muscles in her hand protest the deliberate positioning, reminding her that grace requires practice. However, with each repetition, the movement grows steadier. She commits not only the position but the intention behind it to memory. She turns the page, wondering if this is how he felt at five years old, discovering the small triumph of a hand doing exactly what the mind asked of it. The next lesson presents four phrases.

Good morning. Good afternoon. Good evening. Good night.

They appear simple, and she approaches them with a disciplined attention. For good morning, she begins with the sign for good, resting one palm flat before her other hand descends to meet it. Her forearm rises in a fluid line, a clear representation of the sun ascending. She repeats the motion before skimming through the remaining symbols for the day's progression. The gestures for good afternoon, good evening, and good night follow a similar pattern, each motion shifting her hands to mirror the descent of the light beyond the horizon. She practices the sequence multiple times.

Time passes around her. Sunlight stretches across the table in pale bands, illuminating the open pages before her, while dust drifts through the air. The library remains undisturbed, save for the occasional rustle of a turning page somewhere among the shelves.

Footsteps eventually approach. She does not lower her hands. Instead, she straightens and performs the sign for hello as Elias rounds the corner. He pauses when he sees it. Then, without words, he lifts his own hand and returns the greeting. His smile deepens as he lowers his hand once more, carrying something beyond approval.

Elara lowers her hand. An unexpected tide of emotion floods her chest, catching her by surprise. It is only one word, only a beginning. It is the first time she has reached toward him in his own language and been met there, and the difference between that and every other gesture she has made feels immeasurable.

Elias retrieves another book, thinner than the one before her, and places it upon the table near her resting arms.

“This,” he says with the same gentle smile, “is a guide to simple sentences. It aided Cael greatly. He mastered its contents within a week.” It is a dark, muted blue, its surface unadorned save for gold foil lettering pressed across the front. Common Sign Phrases.

Elara accepts it. The weight feels greater than the first volume, as though it carries expectation alongside instruction. She opens it and turns several pages, her eyes moving across rows of diagrams, structured examples, and explanations beneath each illustrated hand. There is far more here than she anticipated.

The urge to learn everything all at once is overwhelming. She wants to memorize every page, every gesture, every meaning hidden within the diagrams. She knows well enough to recognize impatience when it appears. She does not need to master everything today. Carefully, she closes the second book and places it beside the first.

Elara rises from her seat and gathers both volumes against her chest. She adjusts her hold on the books, carrying with her not only the weight of the volumes but the image of a small boy who once sat in this very chair, laughing silently at his own mistakes until he no longer made them. She will begin where he began.

A rustle and the thud of an item hitting the floor sounds just down the hall, making her freeze. With it comes the sound of ragged breathing. Elara moves toward the noise, her steps measured. At the end of the hall is a door she has never flourished a glance toward until this moment.

Tightening her grip on the books, she moves forward while the sounds continue. She reaches for the handle, her posture freezing when the metal clicks to alert the presence on the opposite side. The wood flies open and a tall form rushes out, colliding into her frame. Elara rights herself and steps back, looking up to find Cael standing before her. His eyes are wide, his black hair disheveled, and his breathing uneven.

“Cael, are you…” Her words trail off when she catches sight of his hands, stained with black ink and vibrant paint, holding a single red rose.

What is wrong with him? Was it only hours ago they stood so close, tenderness and warmth closing the distance between them before her gaze wandered to places she had no intention for it to go? This looks like a different man than the one who so gently brushed his fingers through her hair. What could cause such an abrupt change? Could his father be worse?

“You seem unwell,” she admits, her voice low.

Cael does not move as his breathing stabilizes. His eyes then move down to the books she is holding, his gaze tracking the title. His eyebrows furrow.

Elara shifts the volumes, pressing them against her hip. “I am only curious. Elias convinced me to learn it.”

Her eyes drift away to avoid his, only to find a canvas by a desk in the same chamber behind Cael. When Cael realizes where she is looking, he turns and closes the door. Elara blinks and realizes that he is hiding far more than poems within his booklet.

Cael keeps his hand pressed firmly against the solid wood behind him, his broad frame blocking the threshold like a sentinel guarding a forbidden boundary. His breathing, though stabilized, remains shallow as he downplays the presence of the single red rose in his hand. He lowers his arm, tilting the stem back toward the shadow of his thigh to conceal the velvet petals, yet the rich fragrance of the bloom has already escaped, hanging thick and undeniable in the narrow space between them.

He looks at her with an intensity that borders on desperation, his gray eyes searching her flushed face. His ink-stained fingers twitch against the dark fabric of his clothes, but he does not reach for his pockets. He does not try to bring out his new booklet, refusing to ruin the clean leather with the wet paint and charcoal darkening his palms. He simply stays rooted in place.

Elara watches his stained hands. Realizing she has touched upon a vulnerability he is desperate to guard, she takes a careful step back. She draws her dark skirts closer to her frame to grant him the physical distance his posture is silently begging for, ensuring her sign language books remain tucked away out of his sight.

“Rest well, Cael,” she whispers into the dim light of the corridor, her voice carrying a gentleness that requires no translation.