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“I do not hate her,” Kaera says quickly, almost as though she fears he might misunderstand. “She has been kind to me. She has done nothing wrong. That is what makes this worse.” Her voice begins to shake again. “I love you. But I do not know where I am supposed to stand anymore when everyone seems to need a different part of you.” She swallows hard. “Father needs his heir. The court needs its prince. Elara needs the man who promised to protect her.”
Before Cael can reply, Kaera interrupts once again. “Do you like Elara because of that girl you painted?”
His body jolts backward, his back leaning against the stone wall for support.
“I have wondered about it for days,” Kaera admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I kept telling myself it was impossible. That she only reminded me of her, and that there was no reason for you to feel anything because of a girl you have not seen in years.”
Cael’s fingers curl against his palms.
“But then I saw the way you looked at Elara.” She swallows. “And I remembered those paintings.” Her eyes become glassy again. “You never told me who she was. You never told me why you painted her so many times. You never told me whether you ever found her again.” She takes a small step toward him.
“So, tell me, Cael.” Her voice trembles. “Is that why you cannot look away from Elara?”
Cael’s hands lift, but they stop before the first sign can form. His thoughts have become tangled, each one colliding with the next. He had spent years believing the girl in those paintings belonged to a distant part of his life, a memory he had never been able to recover. Elara had been different. She was Elara. He had told himself that every time the resemblance unsettled him, refusing to let an old memory determine what he felt for the woman standing before him now. Kaera’s question forces the possibility into the open.
What if that was never a coincidence?
Kaera watches him while they continue down the hall. “You never have to answer me if you are not ready,” she says. “I only wanted to know if you ever thought about it too.”
Cael finally looks at her. He lowers his hands, staring at his palms for a moment before forcing himself to meet her eyes. His fingers move, the gestures heavy with his internal conflict. I have wondered. He hesitates, his hands lingering in the space between them. I do not know if she is the girl I remember from those childhood canvases. His chest tightens with the uncertainty, though there is one thing he holds absolute. I do not want to look at Elara and see a ghost.
Kaera watches him closely, but she remains silent, allowing his revelation to settle over the corridor.
Cael swallows past the dryness in his throat before lifting his arms to add one final statement. She is Elara.
“I have wondered as well,” Kaera admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than once.” Her fingers loosen at her sides, her posture relaxing as she draws a slow breath. “Perhaps I should not have asked you now. You have enough to carry.” She pauses. “We shall meet Father.”
He makes no move to stop her, nor does he allow a single question to linger in his mind. Knowing he must move ahead, he does. They walk the remaining distance to the royal chambers in complete silence. Before they knock on the door, Kaera exhales a quiet breath. “You are limping.”
Cael’s eyebrows raise, surprised by her sudden observation. Did you notice? Is it that obvious?
“Of course,” Kaera shakes her head. “You are obvious, Cael. You never told anyone that you are injured.”
It is merely a scratch.
Kaera hums, her eyebrow raising to indicate that she does not believe his words. Cael almost smiles before he knocks on the door. Hartwell pulls open the double doors. The space behind him reveals the dim, soft warmth of his parents’ bedchamber, the familiar scent of burnt lavender and medicinal tonics filling his nostrils.
“You both are here,” Hartwell says, a relieved smile gracing his face before he bows and steps aside to grant them passage.
Cael and Kaera share a glance before stepping inside. King Raelith rests against a mountain of plush velvet pillows at the center of the bed, his frame weak, yet his face relaxes into a soft smile the moment his children cross the threshold. The severe distance he maintains before the court vipers disappears in their presence.
His hair grows more silver. Thinning up top and in his beard. Both the prince and princess still, avoiding Queen Maereth beside him.
“My children,” Raelith says, his voice raspy and thin. He reaches a trembling hand toward them, his gaze sweeping over Kaera’s tired face before his eyes settle on Cael. He pauses, his eyebrows drawing together. “Where is Elara? I had hoped she would accompany you so I might ensure she is recovering well from the disaster.”
Lifting his bare hands into the space, Cael steps toward the side of the bed, his signs slow and clear. Elara is ill, Father. I have left her to rest until the fever breaks.
“I am sure Nurse Elsher can care for her,” King Raelith assures them, his hands guiding Cael closer to the edge of his bed while Kaera remains by the side, standing. “How are you feeling, son?”
Cael swallows, feeling the chamber shift as a wave of heat builds beneath his skin. Beside him, Kaera’s sharp intake of breath is unnoticed by anyone but him. He recognizes what she is feeling after her earlier confession in the corridor, so he steps away from the mattress to stand by her side, keeping his composure intact. Well.
“Is his health improving?” Kaera asks Hartwell, choosing to address him rather than asking her father directly. “Internally, at least.”
“No, Your Highness,” Hartwell admits, bowing his head deeply. “I apologize, but we are still searching for the root of His Majesty’s illness. Let us all hope for the best, and expect a positive turn.”
Queen Maereth slips off the far side of the bed and stands to her full height, her hands adjusting the heavy folds of her thick black velvet robe. “That is not the purpose for which Raelith summoned you. Silence yourselves and listen to him.”
Neither Cael nor Kaera lashes back, their focus locked onto their father’s worsening health and the fragile state of his recovery. King Raelith clears his throat, his body shuddering from the force. “Do not bring trouble, dear Maereth.” He raises a weak, reassuring hand to silence his wife, his focus returning to his children. He rests his hand over the documents scattered across his lap, taking a slow breath before he speaks.
