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Cael remains pinned against the wood of his door, his gaze following her movement as she begins to step away. He does not budge from his position, but as she turns back toward the main hallway, he offers a single, slow incline of his head through the shadows.

The unspoken intimacy from those moments in the bedchamber lingers between them in the silence, unbreakable and hidden even as she walks away, the books pressed against her heart.

XXV

THE BITTER TABLE

E

Elara sits on her bed.

She adjusts her pillows and setting herself against the headboard to draw her back upright. Her hair spills over her shoulders and along her arms, while the guide Elias lent her rests in her hands, nowhere near completed. She stares ahead at the door of the changing room, thinking of that night Cael held her through her panic.

She wishes she knew him better, to understand the thoughts whirling behind that stone expression. She looks down at the volumes in her hands, realizing that learning his primary form of communication remains the best place to begin. Pressing her head against the wood, Elara relaxes her frame, letting her breathing find a steady rhythm. She encourages herself to dismiss the chaotic events, opening the guide to turn back to the page she left.

For an hour, she sits in the very same position. Her legs ache, eyes staring at the faded light brown paper while the scent of thick parchment sticks to her fingers. Dinner awaits downstairs, and her absence will be noticed if she delays much longer. Still, Elara cannot bring herself to close the book. She has learned far more than she anticipated. What began with a simple greeting unfolded into longer phrases, then into short exchanges. How are you? I am fine, thank you.

Her hands rise before her once more as she repeats a phrase she has already mastered, refining the angles and smoothing the transitions between signs. Around her, the chamber darkens, though she barely notices. Sounds drift upward from the floors below, accompanied by the aroma of food that reaches her at intervals and stirs her stomach.

She lifts her gaze toward the door. Slowly, she raises her hands and begins to sign. She points gently to her chest for me. Both open hands move forward before drawing back toward herself, her fingers closing for want. Her index finger lifts to her temple and flicks outward for understand. Finally, she points toward the door for you, holding her focus steady as though someone stands there to receive it. Me want understand you.

A smile touches her lips as she lowers her hands. She adapts more quickly than she expected. Flipping back through several pages, she revisits earlier lessons and traces the symbols with her eyes. Each one feels less foreign than before. Though she has spent hours studying them, she fears they might slip away if neglected. She rereads a few passages, committing them once more to memory.

Three sharp knocks strike the door. She closes the book and slides both volumes beside her, her thick skirt concealing most of them from view. “Enter,” she calls.

Annie steps inside, her dark skin luminous beneath the soft glow filtering through the windows. Bright eyes lift toward Elara with a familiar smile. She offers a respectful bow before speaking. “Forgive the interruption, Your Highness. His Majesty requests your presence for dinner before the courses are set upon the table.”

Elara nods. She gathers the books and tucks them behind her neatly arranged pillows before rising from the bed. Her hands smooth the folds of her skirt. She would have preferred another hour alone with the pages, away from expectations and formalities, where she could focus entirely upon the strange language taking shape beneath her understanding but duty calls.

“Yes. I will be down shortly,” she replies, mirroring Annie’s smile.

Annie inclines her head and withdraws from the chamber, the door closing behind.

Elara releases a breath and crosses the chamber. The moment she steps into the corridor, the familiar sounds of the castle surround her. Distant conversations drift through the halls. Servants move between chambers carrying trays and linens. Guards stand watch along the walls, their armor catching the light.

The doors to the dining chamber stand open, letting warm light spill outward across the corridor. Inside, Cael, Queen Maereth, Kaera, and even King Raelith have already taken their places around the table. Elara steps forward and takes the empty seat beside Cael. He turns toward her almost immediately. His eyes meet hers, and a smile touches his lips, subtle enough that most would never notice it.

The simple exchange draws her thoughts back to their earlier meeting. He looks composed, bearing no resemblance to the unstable man she found in the corridor outside the library.His hands are now hidden beneath his black gloves, and the silver band around his finger shines under the light.

Next, her thoughts travel to the books hidden beneath her pillows. She considers the pages she occupied her hours pouring over, and the motions she practiced before her hands ached. She performs it for him. All for him.

Could I ask him to help me practice? Would he sit with me and correct my hands when they formed a sign incorrectly? Would he guide me through the structure of sentences that I still struggle to understand?

She hesitates. His days are already occupied by responsibilities she can scarcely imagine. Councils, meetings, matters of the kingdom, expectations that seem to follow him wherever he goes. She does not wish to become another obligation. The thought remains at the edge of her mind as servants begin placing the first course before them. Her attention drifts toward Cael as he turns to address his father. His posture straightens in an assured manner, while his shoulders relax into confidence.

His hands rise from the table. The movements that follow are fluid and precise. Each sign transitions seamlessly into the next, shaped with a certainty that comes only through years of practice. His fingers form words she does not recognize despite everything she studied throughout the afternoon. The signs arrive one after another, too quickly for her to examine individually.

His expression changes alongside them. His brows lift before lowering again. Tension touches his jaw as he emphasizes a particular point. Elara finds herself watching not only his hands but his entire face. The language exists beyond simple gestures. Every movement seems connected to the next.

Her eyes search for something familiar among the succession of signs. One word she practiced. One gesture she could confidently recognize. Occasionally, something appears vaguely familiar before disappearing again beneath the pace of the conversation.

She swallows. I cannot memorize everything so quickly. Not even the basics, she thinks. How can I ever reach his level and understand him fully?

His sentences are longer than the examples contained within her guidebooks. The structure differs from the simple exercises she repeated in her chamber. There is a refinement to the way he transitions between ideas, a natural ease that cannot be learned within a few days. It speaks of years spent shaping the language, until each sign becomes as effortless as breathing itself.

King Raelith regards him with a weak attentive focus before offering a nod. “Yes, I see why it is reasonable to do that. Though making the final decision is difficult. You may have to remind them not to proceed without confirmation.”

Cael’s hands lower to the table, and he returns his attention to the meal before him. He lifts the knife in his left hand and the fork in his right, cutting into the steaming beef. Nothing about him appears rushed, even during something as ordinary as dinner. Then, he sets his utensils on his plate, lifting his hands again to sign once again, shaking his head.