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Maewyn had already seen to it that Cera was appropriately dressed for the evening, yet she couldn't help but feel that her outfit was underwhelming. After changing out of the dress she'd worn in the gardens, she'd briefly washed up and then put on a dress that was almost identical to the last, the same simple cut and Ateran colors of bronze and cerulean.
Her mind kept going back to the encounter with the elven woman Fioris who had clucked distastefully over Cera's clothes. Her outfits had never much mattered to her in the past, nor had she ever felt particularly insecure for her lack of fine clothing. Most frustrating of all was that the dress she wore was of elven silk and easily one of the finest she'd ever owned, yet she felt uncomfortable and drab in it.
Part of her discomfort was most certainly the cut, which like the other dress was much too tight. She'd spent the better part of the morning loosening the ties of her last dress, and now she was wondering how she do the same while dining with the high lord. Her chest was so tightly constricted that she was unable to breathe deeply, and she worried she might actually faint if she got overly excited. Already her pulse was quickening with anticipation, making her near to panting as she stood outside the door.
They didn't have to wait long. As Maewyn drew back her hand, Isael's voice came to them, somehow carrying clearly through the heavy, wooden door.
"Etalsah," he said, bidding them to enter in elven.
Curiously, Maewyn paused to take a breath and compose herself before reaching for the handles and pulling open the doors.
The first thing Cera noticed was the air that brushed over her. It was cooler than the air in the hall, despite the fire blazing in the large hearth. It also carried a scent, one which she was beginning to associate with Isael. She had no precise way to describe it, she only knew that it made her skin heat and tingle.
The high lord's room was around twice the size of Cera's own, with a large, domed ceiling that was divided into four panels, each containing a mural. At the center of the dome was an oculus that must have been covered in fine glass, but to Cera's eyes, it looked as though she were glancing right up into the open sky.
It was the third time she'd been in his room, but the first time she'd really taken it in. What surprised her most was how understated it was. While the architecture of the room was exquisite, there were few furnishings or accents apart from the murals. The bed, while finely wrought, was outfitted in plain, pine-colored linens. There were a few other pieces of furniture, such as in the sitting area with its circular table and chairs. Oddest of all was the space adjacent to the sitting area, which had the look of a miniature study, with a carved desk set in front of two tall shelves, each tightly packed with books and scrolls.
Isael was seated at the desk, his eyes already on Cera. He was sitting in a position similar to how he'd sat when they'd gone to dinner, with one elbow resting on the desk, the back of his hand propping up his chin. It was a languorous pose, at odds with the stiff propriety she still associated with the elves.
Maewyn greeted him with a hasty bow. "Good evening, mir aesolin. I've done as you bade me, but there was a complication."
The high lord lifted his chin, his blue gaze shifting to Maewyn. "Oh? Elaborate."
Maewyn cleared her throat before continuing in Ateran. "It would seem that Cera has more than just the look of your people. I don't believe I'll be able to teach her."
He seemed to consider them both for a moment, his face giving nothing away. Then, he inclined his head slightly.
"Understood," he said. "You may take your leave for the night."
Maewyn's lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but then she nodded and headed for the door. Cera watched her go, for the first time wondering if it wasn't difficult for Maewyn to have such a formal relationship with Isael. She clearly held him in high regard, perhaps even idolized him, and had once hoped to give him a child. Cera had only known Isael for a few days, but already she knew she'd feel rather wretched if Isael regarded her with such dispassion.
He was rising as she turned back, gathering the scrolls he'd been working on and sealing his ink bottles. It was another thing her father would have never done. The Ateran king had scribes to do his writing for him, and a study with a dedicated servant. She wondered if the many differences between the two monarchs were purely cultural, or if Isael was uniquely independent.
"Take a seat," he said, gesturing toward the sitting area.
Cera did as she was told, though she continued to watch him from the corners of her eyes. His hair was no longer bound back in a severe knot, instead it flowed down his back and shoulders in a silver cascade. There was no crown atop his head, and the robes he wore were simple when compared to what he typically wore. Both his inner and outer robes were pure white, though the outer layer was fringed with knotted embroidery of silver and purple.
"You look lovely," he said, as he shelved the scrolls.
Caught off guard, Cera said, "As do you."
Wincing, she averted her gaze, taking a keen interest in the engravings that rimmed the table.
She could feel as he made his way toward her. It wasn't just the movement at the edge of her vision or the sound of his soft footfalls, it was a physical sensation within her, intensifying as he drew near. It was like when she'd felt him in the gardens, yet stronger. Why was it stronger? Was it growing more intense by the hour, or was it something he was doing? Cera wanted to ask, but to do so would mean admitting just how drawn to him she felt.
"Food will be here shortly," he said as he took a seat across from her. "Tell me what happened during your lesson with Maewyn."
Cera straightened her back. "I lit a candle."
She sucked in a breath as a candle drifted from Isael's desk to their table. The high lord said no incantations, nor did he make any gestures. He didn't even look in the direction of the candle, only kept his gaze fixed on Cera.
"Show me."
Swallowing, she looked down at the candle before her. It was well-used, looking to be about half-spent, with hardened rivulets of wax spilling down over the silver holder and pooling into the saucer beneath. She stared at the wick, her stomach flipping as she tried to remember how she'd done it before.
What if I could light the candle?
As the question formed in her mind, it was flanked by other thoughts, mostly worries about failure and disappointing Isael.
