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Reclining upon the chaise, his crown hits the floor with a loud clatter as he pushes his gloves off, tossing them aside. He draws a single breath, allowing the hope of meeting her soon to remain hidden within the silence of his quarters.

XXVII

SEARING GRAY DUSK

E

The dress fits perfectly on Elara’s frame.

The smooth fabric of the long sleeves warms her arms and grants them comfort. The garment is remarkably modest for the winter, with its beautiful, seamless blend of white and pink fabric, decorated with floral designs stitched neatly around the bodice and skirt. Elara holds back a smile, wondering who would grant her such a gift.

Glancing at Annie, who continues to replace the bedding with a clean, crisp set, she watches her lift the folded linens. “It fits perfectly, and it is quite easy to move in,” Elara admits, testing the weight of the sleeves.

“It really is, Your Highness. The pink rose coat is also the perfect material for such breezy weather.” She points toward the corner of the bed, where she had positioned the outerwear earlier to give Elara the chance to open the parcel herself. “The dress looks very splendid on you.”

“Thank you, really,” Elara says with a blush at the warmth of the compliment. Turning to her reflection in the vanity mirror, she moves in a slow rhythm from left to right to test the graceful sway of the skirt. “I wonder who could have left it,” she says, the words falling more to herself than to her companion.

“It is most probably a gift from a courtier, or perhaps it is Olivia,” Annie suggests, smoothing her hands down the simple, dark fabric of her own attire. “She makes most of the clothes for the royal family, and even the guards and knights. In fact, this casual outfit for my role was made by her. She is known to be very kind to help the palace with their garments.”

Elara’s expression softens, the memory of Olivia and her warmth returning to her thoughts, alongside the green silk dress she received with the help of Cael. “Her dresses are lovely. Though, if the palace truly adores her work and designs, how come they do not invite her here to work for them personally?” she asks, recalling how in Veyrenn, no matter the service her father wanted to receive, that specific craftsman was forced to work for him, and only him, bound only to the crown’s command.

“I am not sure, but a guard from the women’s wing mentioned that Olivia wishes to keep her own small shop while helping the people in the palace,” Annie inclines her head, her statement becoming more confident. “His Majesty respected her wishes.”

Elara takes her words in, digesting the rare respect shown to a common trade worker in this realm. “That is kind.”

“Extremely.” Finally setting the new sheets, Annie folds the used ones over her arm. “I will take my leave now, Your Highness.” She bows by the door and exits.

When the door clicks shut, Elara moves toward the corner of the bed to lift the heavy rose coat. As her fingers gather the thick winter fleece, her gaze anchors on the dark parchment wrap resting on the mattress. Along the edge of the crisp paper lies a faint, distinct smudge of black ink mixed with a trace of dark, fresh paint.

Elara freezes, her thumb hovering just above the mark. The click of the hidden chamber door, the ruffled black hair, and the broad frame of the prince blocking her view all rush back into her mind. Most of all, the memory centers on his hands, stained with those exact shades of charcoal ink and wet paint, holding a single red rose.

Could he have left this at my door? She questions quietly, her pulse quickens at the possibility. It makes sense. Olivia knew her precise measurements from the emerald gown, but Cael was the one who had watched her shiver in her bedchamber, noticing how she clutched the uncomfortable fabric of her formal wear. He was the one who always ensured she was shielded from the elements. Knowing he endured the bitter market district during the late hours of the previous night brings worry to her thoughts.

Smoothing the beautiful white and pink folds of her new skirt, she lifts the heavy rose coat and slips it over her shoulders. The thick material embraces her with warmth, making her feel protected. Feeling more ready for the day than she has since arriving in Riverath, Elara steps into the hall. She has only made her way past the first landing of the grand staircase when a hurried rustle of fabric approaches from the intersecting hallway.

Kaera joins her, the customary brightness gone from her face. Her expression holds a tense, heavy weight that signals trouble. Looking down at the white and pink floral dress, a smile touches her lips. “You look beautiful, Elara,” she says, placing a hand on Elara’s arm to guide her down the remaining steps toward the lower levels of the fortress rather than the dining hall. “But we must hurry. Father has ordered the high court doors opened, and he requests your presence at the central table.”

Elara halts. “The high court? Has something happened with the ledger logs? Why is my presence needed?”

“The border rumors have broken past the market gates,” Kaera explains, her grip tightening on Elara’s sleeve as she increases her pace down the stone corridor. “The trade masters and lower nobles are demanding an immediate audience. My father is forcing himself to preside over the assembly to settle the unrest himself, and he believes your physical presence is the only way to silence their accusations.” She swallows her rush of emotions before she continues. “He will explain everything once we are seated.”

They reach the massive, iron-reinforced double doors of the council chamber, where two vanguards stand at attention, their silver armor gleaming under the torches. The guards bow deeply to both princesses, their gauntlets clattering against their shields as they pull the heavy wood open, allowing the chaotic, angry roar of the gathering court to spill out into the hallway.

Elara stills when all eyes land on her frame. Cael stands from his seat, his gaze lighting up at the sight of her garment. He closes the distance between them, extending his hand to guide her toward the table, his touch offering an anchor amidst the frost of the gathering.

“Come closer, my dear child,” King Raelith says, his voice soft and trembling with paternal warmth as he lifts a frail hand to motion her toward the central dais. He leans forward, his thin fingers resting upon the stone armrests to steady his breathing, though a cough catches in his throat before he manages a tender, reassuring smile for her across the assembly.

Queen Maereth sits beside him, her cold gaze tracking the soft floral gown and the rose coat enveloping the Veyrenn bride, her lips drawn into a thin line of disapproval.

Elara steps forward, slipping her hand into Cael’s grip as they walk together toward King Raelith. The demanding whispers resume with each step they take toward the head of the long mahogany table, the weight of the court’s scrutiny pressing on her from all sides.

The High Chancellor steps to the center of the chamber, unrolling a heavy parchment scroll stamped with the seal of the trade districts. “Your Majesty, the outer districts remain in severe friction. The trade masters demand immediate clarification regarding the border reports from Zahraan, and whether our alliance with Veyrenn is being compromised to secure the southern trade lines.”

King Raelith dabs his pale lips with a linen cloth, forcing a steady composure into his frail frame as he addresses the chamber. “The alliance is absolute,” the King states, his voice carrying an unmasked protectiveness that rings through the hall. “Princess Elara stands before you not as a piece of political leverage, but as a daughter of this house. The rumors circulating past our gates are malicious fabrications designed to fracture our unity, and Riverath will not be swayed by the venom of those who spread them.”

A burdensome silence settles over the assembly, but the peace fractures almost immediately.

A prominent, wealthy trade master from the back rows step forward, his fine silk robes sweeping against the floorboards as he dares to challenge the throne. “With respect, Your Majesty,” his tone laced with a dark malice as he points a finger toward the table. “The common people do not see an alliance. They see the marketplace rioting. They see the crown prince hiding the princess away inside these walls while the outer districts face the threat of a Zahraani infiltration! If the princess is truly cherished, why must she be shielded from her own subjects?”