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The silence in the chamber becomes suffocating. Her hands clutch the thick fabric of her skirt, her knuckles turning a stark white as she forces her body into the low, agonizing movement of submission, her eyes fixed on the polished floor beneath her as she waits for the moment to end.

Elara straightens, her fingers still clutched in her skirt as she braces for a cold response. Cael steps forward, and Elara resists the urge to flinch away from him. His eyes search her face. Then, shattering every ancient rule of Veyrenn dictating a man never lower his head before a woman, he places a gloved hand over his heart and bends into a low bow.

A collective, horrified gasp ripples across the chamber. Her father’s shallow smile vanishes, his features darkening as his advisors exchange frantic glances. Across the space, the Riverath royals remain unbothered. The foreign King watches his son with pride, while the younger princess smiles even wider. Elara stands frozen, staring at the silver crown still lowered before her, unsure why he would risk such a political scandal in front of so many witnesses.

Cael straightens with grace, offering a small nod.

“Let us sit!” Eric’s voice bursts through the chamber, shattering the stunned silence. He gestures his guests forward with a sweep of his arm. “And enjoy this feast.”

VI

HUMILITY AND FAMILIARITY

C

Cael cannot tear his gaze away from Elara.

He is seated right across from her, Kaera seated beside him. Raelith and Maereth by his right side. The only voices disrupting the tense atmosphere in the dining hall belong to his parents and King Eric. The light from the bright golden chandelier above them, where warm candles cast a glow through the crystal, fades into a distant blur as he continues to study her.

He traces the melody of her features beneath the heavy crown and the rigid, suffocating structure of her pink gown, noticing the false flush painted across her skin. Familiarity warms his chest as his eyes follow the dark, crescent curve of her eyebrows. Her wide eyes hold the depth of a sunlit forest, mirroring a vibrant, living world that beautifully softens the full contour of her cheeks. Beneath the crown, her hair cascades down her back in soft chestnut waves.

The sheer reality of it leaves him breathless. He knows this face. He knows it because his private chambers back in Riverath are filled with canvas after canvas bearing these exact features. Brushstrokes captured in secret since the afternoon so long ago when she offered him her friendship. He locks his fingers together firmly beneath the table, his chest hammering.

He forces his eyes to focus down on the piece of meat and vegetables on his plate. It is impossible for this princess to be the girl he spent fifteen years writing about, painting as if she were the definition of art, and silently loving.

It all started on his seventh birthday, the day Queen Maereth nearly struck him simply for wishing to celebrate with his family. The ensuing chaos drove little Cael to run blindly from the palace, utilizing the hiding techniques he learned from Elias, the young librarian who always played with him. He managed to evade the guards, running for hours through the dense trees until exhaustion and thirst nearly claimed him, taking him far across the borders.

Cael closes his eyes, picturing that day as clearly as if it was yesterday. He had run from home and stumbled into a secluded courtyard, weeping silently on the edge of a stone fountain. The isolation of his muteness had felt absolute. Until she stepped out of the shadows. She was just a little girl, her skirt dipping around her knees like an upside down lily, her eyes the most vibrant green he had ever seen. She did not look at him in mockery.

She just blinked at him, then sat beside him on the damp stone and offered her white sleeve to dry his face. And she asked him a question. One he had never expected to hear.

“Do you want to be friends?”

That single act of unconditional kindness became his secret sanctuary. Over the years, as his stepmother’s physical cruelty grew, he turned that nameless girl into his muse, capturing her features on hidden canvases and pouring his soul into poetry dedicated to the child who saved him from his own silence.

A girl. All of it was for a girl he met when he was a child.

“Prince Cael?” King Eric’s patronizing voice interrupts his thoughts.

His grip on his utensils tightens. He looks up at King Eric, a man he remembers from the few encounters between the sovereigns over the years. He looks up at King Eric, a man he remembers from the long negotiations between the sovereigns over the years. It is difficult to forget a monarch who has spent years bargaining for structural wealth and military security within the terms of their proposed treaty. It has often pressured the council of Riverath to balance their own resources while answering these strategic demands, though King Raelith operates with grace, choosing to settle the final terms of the alliance out of respect for their shared borders.

Cael rarely interacts with King Eric, save for a lingering memory from his fifth year. When his father explained that the young prince could not speak, King Eric gave him a look of unvarnished disgust. That single glance is enough for Cael to despise him. Cael nods curtly in response to King Eric’s call.

King Eric raises his cup of wine, nodding with a shallow smile as he addresses the table. “Cheers to the wealth of Riverath, and their wonderful King and silent son.” presses his lips together, eye glinting, like he is holding back a greedy chuckle. “Without you, and Elara and Prince Cael’s marriage, such an alliance would never happen.”

Elara’s head turns to him, her eyes wide and sad. It strikes something in Cael’s heart at such callous, greedy words, but with no other option but to comply, he raises his cup, mimicking his father and stepmother. They all drink.

Cael regards his future bride over the rim of his cup. She looks so nervous, casting her eyes around the chamber as though searching for something that should be there but is missing. Her mother. The archives in Riverath hold few mentions of the late Queen Aline, only noting her striking kindness and extensive charity work. Based on those brief descriptions, her daughter could be her double.

Beside him, Raelith speaks. “Cheers, Eric. I am thrilled we have settled the alliance at last.” Turning, he offers Elara a kind smile. “Though the marriage is not merely to secure the relationship between our kingdoms. I truly believe it will be best for both Elara and my dear son.”

Cael chokes on his wine at his father’s words.

King Eric’s smiling expression falters. “I could not have said it better, Raelith,” his voice lowers.

His father turns his head to glance at Cael. Returning his knowing look, he nods to mirror his understanding of King Eric’s arrogant behavior and total lack of respect. His father's hand grasps the cup of wine, sipping it with careful precision to weigh the strength of its bitterness and sweetness. It is far more bitter than the vintages they enjoy in Riverath, making it evident that there are many clashing ingredients. The tyrant places his utensils down on his now empty plate, letting them clatter against the surface.

Straightening his posture and clearing his throat once more, he turns to his daughter with a wide uneasy smile. “Elara, how about you fill Cael’s cup with more wine?” A pause of silence before adding. “You have been silent. Perhaps you should practice serving the man who will be your husband?”