Page 60

HANDS THAT BUILD

C

Cael sits by his father’s bed in the dim light.

The distant, chaotic chatter of worry, confusion, and understandable frustration rises from the council chambers below, yet there is no one left to handle the court. Not him, not King Raelith, and certainly not Kaera, whom he had witnessed fleeing into the isolation of the women’s wing the moment they arrived with Elara. Queen Maereth, however, paces the stone floor with an untamed fury, casting her bitter blame upon nobody else but him.

“How did a rumor of that magnitude form, Cael? Where was your ignorant self while the outer districts were being poisoned, and why is the scandal not handled already?” Her voice fractures the lashing out at him like a whip.

Hartwell, standing by the dark corner near King Raelith, adjusts his stance, his muscles tightening as he prepares to navigate another heated encounter.

Cael does not sign an answer. He remains unmoving near the edge of the mattress, his heavy crown resting aside on the plush carpet. He glances up at his father, whose eyes are open, his pale lips parting to draw a shallow breath through his mouth. The King’s features are hollow, his eyes filled with an agonizing worry for his son. He is unable to speak at length, a horrible, choking ache tightening his throat in accordance with what the physician had warned. His cup of hot tea rests on the bedside table, finished and stained with dark residue.

“Do not ignore me!” Queen Maereth yells, stepping toward him with quick, thudding steps, her jaw contorted with absolute venom.

Cael flinches, his broad shoulders tightening as he begins to rise to his feet, but Hartwell moves first. In a direct violation of court protocol, Hartwell steps into her path, placing his armored frame as a physical barrier between the furious queen and the crown prince. A knight possesses no legal right to obstruct a monarch and still, Hartwell commits the defiance anyway, keeping his posture professional while physically shielding Cael from her advance.

“Your Majesty, please,” Hartwell stammers, though he forces his tone to remain steady as he bows half his body down in an attempt to soften the insubordination. “His Majesty is gravely ill, and allowing a conflict to grow beneath this roof will only exhaust everyone else. Please, accept my advice as a matter of general concern for the throne. I apologize.”

“Hartwell, move,” her voice drops, laced with a held-back threat that promises immediate ruin for his rank. “This is a matter between me and the hideous prince. Ever since that Veyrenn princess joined this palace, problems have only plagued our house.” A sharp, patronizing scoff escapes her mouth as she glares over Hartwell’s shoulder. “It is evident that Cael is distracted by her presence. The fool loves her, and his domestic attachment is bleeding our borders dry!”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” King Raelith suddenly speaks, his voice much clearer now from the hot tea, though it still cracks beneath the strain. “She is his wife, and their bond is their personal commitment. As for the rumors,” a ragged breath leaves his mouth, “the timing is too deliberate. I assume it is an act of revenge from Amir, a calculated retaliation for our refusal to grant Omar Zahraani our military reinforcements.”

“And how exactly would you know?” Queen Maereth snaps, turning her fury back toward the bed, her eyebrows furrowing deeper. “You made a catastrophic, short-sighted decision to deny his demands, despite his threatening behavior, and now you expect all of us to stand back while the citizens revolt. You are desperate for peace and kindness, Raelith. It is pathetic. Your passivity is a disease that will destroy this kingdom before the winter ends.”

“No, it is not,” King Raelith says, closing his eyes momentarily against the blinding headache. “My father, Raedwald, was a man who ruled with strict, unbending laws, some of which were unbearable to live under. I witnessed how he would consistently insist on fighting back, launching campaigns where no neighboring kingdom wanted a truce with him, and his aggression only bought permanent harm to his health, his land, and to me, his family.” His eyes open, fixed on his wife. “I do not want to bring that same destruction to you, and certainly not to Cael either. I cannot sit by and watch him endure such hatred. Hartwell, fetch the vanguards. I wish to make a public speech to the outer districts.”

Hartwell turns entirely, his eyes wide with surprise as his professional mask slips. “Your Majesty, you have already overwhelmed yourself by attending the summit with Omar and announcing your decision early this sunrise. It is highly recommended you rest before you attempt another move.”

Before King Raelith can protest, Cael raises his hands. Hartwell is correct. Your position weakens the more you neglect your health, and a speech will not resolve the unrest. Let me handle Raeverband. My eyes remain on your identical ones. I will handle everything on my own. You taught me this long ago.

His father shakes his head against the pillows, a tear slipping through the deep creases of his worn face. “No, I was wrong, Cael. You should not think you are alone. It is already suffocating me to think of how much I have forced you to endure in the dark. I cannot believe my own people, the very subjects we shield, treat my son as though he is a beast.” His voice trembles. “I cannot let you carry it alone anymore.”

Cael’s hands drop to his sides, his fingers uncurling, unable to sign and unable to think. Through all his years of silent suffering and grueling labor, he had believed he was enduring the misery alone, with no eyes in the court to care for his pain. But his father had witnessed the cruelty all along, keeping the realization locked away.

Inclining his head to his father, Cael acknowledges his kindness and wordlessly thanks him. King Raelith catches his breath and chuckles, only to break into a sudden cough. Standing instantly, Cael holds his father’s shoulders, stabilizing him against the mattress.

“I forgot I could not laugh as I wish.” King Raelith shakes his head in displeasure as his coughing subsides. “Do not thank me. You are my son before you are a prince with a title. Kaera is my daughter before her own title.” A weak smile meets his pale lips. “You two are my children whom I adore.”

Queen Maereth’s fingers crack as she curls them with mounting anger. She watches the quiet interaction and King Raelith’s kind words with bitter resentment. “Utterly pathetic. It is no wonder he remains plagued by accusations and hatred,” she says, shaking her head. “You shield him like he is a helpless child.”

“The rumors and hatred are not either of our faults. People lack humanity sometimes,” King Raelith states firmly. “Cael is many things, but spoiled is not one of them.”

A soft knock at the door silences the growing heat in the chamber. Hartwell steps toward it and pulls the heavy wood open, revealing Elara standing on the threshold in her white gown, her mother’s golden pendant resting against her collarbone, her eyes pink from her tears. She is wearing the same black coat Cael had given her. Wearing it without shame.

“Good afternoon,” Elara whispers, inclining her head before stepping inside when Hartwell welcomes her past the guard line.

“Elara, dear,” King Raelith smiles, greeting her almost as if she is his own daughter, the warmth in his voice breaking the tension. “Come sit by Cael and me.”

Hesitating for a brief second, she walks over and sits near Cael on the edge of the mattress, leaving little distance between them. All Cael can take in is the scent of a blooming garden surrounding her, the subtle hint of red roses soothing his racing thoughts. He keeps his composure rigid, his eyes drifting toward Queen Maereth, who remains standing across from them.

Queen Maereth fixes a venomous stare on Elara, her gaze narrowing as she takes in the proximity between the young royals. She takes a deliberate step closer to the edge of the mattress, her skirts sweeping against the carpet.

“How touching,” the Queen sneers, her voice dropping into a cold, transactional register. “The princess returns to her keeper right on cue, unbothered by the fact that her name is being dragged through the mud at our very gates. Tell me, Veyrenn, does it comfort you to know you are being bartered away like an ornament to secure a border retreat?”

The accusation strikes Elara’s. Her gaze drops to the floorboards as her breath hitches. Her posture locks, her shoulders drawing inward as she remains frozen in her seat.

Cael shifts his weight, his shoulders moving to block his stepmother’s line of sight and shield Elara from the assault. He does not sign a response, but the protective finality of his stance places a barrier between them.