Page 74

Instead, I remain stranded in a kingdom of deceit,

A palace of heavy drapes hiding the bleeding truth.

I hold my hands back from the light, locking my desperation away,

Lest the only beauty I possess be ruined by the monster they claim I am.

The poem continues to the very next page, though when Elara’s vision finally clears, she realizes wet teardrops have splattered onto the paper. She brings the back of her hand to wipe the moisture away, turning to the next page to read the continuation, her mouth parting to let out a trembling breath.

Her eyes remain on the final words for several seconds. She reads them again, more slowly this time, following each line until the meaning settles into something she cannot dismiss. The girl he had written about had not been a stranger to him. He had watched her, remembered her, and carried the weight of her presence long before Elara understood what any of it meant.

Elara’s fingers move over the edge of the parchment without touching the ink. Yesterday, when he had drawn his sword, the raw speed of his action had blurred her vision. Now she wonders what had been passing through his mind before the weapon ever left its sheath.

And then, the northern winds brought a princess from Veyrenn.

I watch her move through these corridors, clad in grief.

I wish to know the thoughts behind her downcast eyes,

To perceive the wounds from a father who left her hollow.

Still, she turns from my shadow as though I am a threat,

Her posture locking in distrust whenever I bridge the space.

I see her find an easy comfort among the common servants,

Sharing her gentle words with those who carry no crown.

It brings a bitter ache to see her warmth granted so freely,

While I wonder if she will ever seek a sanctuary in my silence.

I crave to be the anchor that stays her trembling frame,

But she looks upon my mute existence and finds only a cage.

Her fingers tremble over his neat script. The paper rustles under her touch, the sound filling the space between her quickening breaths as she stares at the text.

The memory of his sword strike yesterday shifts. He had drawn it to silence the venom thrown at her name, placing himself between her and the men who had dared to speak of her that way. She rests her bare palms flat against the wooden surface of the vanity. Reaching for the booklet again, she hesitates, and leaves it inside the drawer. She straightens and turns toward the door.

Kaera stands outside, her eyes mirroring Elara’s surprise. “Are you well?” She asks, her voice soft.

Elara blinks at the question, but she replies anyway. “Yes.” She swallows, feeling guilty for her dishonesty.

“Yes, alright,” Kaera mumbles, avoiding Elara’s eyes before she clears her throat. “I only came here because I need company. Father and mother are both angry and probably still recovering. Cael…” her voice trails off, “is nowhere to be found again.” She lowers her gaze to the floor, rubbing her thumb against the side of her hand. “I do not want to sit alone with all of it.”

Elara studies her face. The usually composed princess looks tired, her hair falling around her shoulders and her posture lacking the careful elegance she normally carries through the palace.

“Then you do not have to,” Elara says. “I would be glad to keep you company.”

“Really?” Kaera’s entire demeanor brightens. “I would love for you to come to my bedchamber. I wish to show you the drawings and paintings I have been doing.”

“Drawings and paintings?” Elara asks, following Kaera a short distance down the hall. She realizes she has never seen Kaera’s bedchamber. The only private sanctuary she has visited besides her own is the chamber Cael tried so desperately to hide from her.

Entering the bedchamber as the door shuts softly behind them, Elara’s eyes widen at the sudden colors and history of art across Kaera’s walls, greenery climbing over the gray stone surfaces. Her ceiling holds a detailed painting of angels. One of them looks like her in the middle, wearing a black dress with matching dark hair, except the painted hand extends toward one angel with pale skin and golden blonde hair, whose face remains unrecognizable. Paintings of different sizes with intricate frames hang on the walls. Her bed in the center of the room is draped in silver. A large crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling.

Elara slows near the center of the chamber, turning gradually as she takes in the walls around her. Nothing resembles the cold symmetry of the palace corridors. Even the unfinished paintings seem to belong here, scattered among the flowers and candles as though Kaera has allowed every unfinished thought to remain visible rather than hiding it away.