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No one ever knocked on her door, not even servants. They came and went as they pleased, as did everyone else. Curiosity bubbled to the surface of her mind, and she wondered what would happen if she ignored the knocking or, even more wickedly, she dismissed the person entirely, citing that she was 'too tired' to have her 'privacy' disturbed.
Privacy.
Such an odd concept.
She was near to laughing at her strange musings, but she didn't dare act on them. She knew that she didn't have any true privacy. Whoever was at the door was only being courteous, but they would surely come in regardless of what she said. Better to present the illusion that she had some control than to show her hand this early in her new home.
"You may enter," she said, channeling her best impression of the queen mother's imperious air.
One moment her door was a barrier between herself and the world beyond. It stood sentinel between Cera and her new life. The life in which she would serve an elven lord by bearing him sons. A life in which she was little more than a slave in pretty clothes. And then, the door was opened, and her new life came crashing into her.
Cera had known that the person at her doorcouldbe the high lord. She had braced herself for that very thing. And yet, there was a difference between knowing something was possible and experiencing what seemed to lurk at the fringes of her expectations.
There he stood, filling her doorway. A decade had passed since she'd last seen him. In many ways, Cera had grown into a completely different person since then. No doubt, part of her growth had been influenced by his utter rejection of her. It had affected how she'd seen herself and had diminished the already middling value her family had placed on her.
But Isael looked unchanged. He was still the same tall, imposing figure, unusually broad-shouldered for an elf. His dark brows had the same stern arch, making him look intimidating even when he wasn't scowling.
There were a few subtle differences. He wore less elaborate robes than before and there was no silver crown atop his voluminous, silver hair. He was also not looking at her as if she were horse dung beneath his boot. His face was neutral, or at least, as neutral as it could be with those slanted brows.
Before he could take one full step into the room, Cera was on her feet, her back bent in a bow.
"High Lord Isael," she said by way of greeting.
Her voice was steady, but she held her bow for an inordinate amount of time, taking the precious seconds to collect herself. She heard the door click shut, and half-expected him to have left in an odd echo of their previous meeting.
But when her back straightened, he was still there, the two of them now trapped in the confines of her room.
"There is no need for formalities, Cera."
She had never heard his voice before, and the sound of it made her throat emit a soft squeak. Her skin flushed and she quickly cleared her throat, hoping he didn't hear the noise.
"Yes," she replied, like the idiot that she was.
Isael began making his way toward her. His gait was unhurried, but his legs were so long that he reached her in only a few strides.
"How was your journey?" He asked, as he took a seat in one of the chairs.
Cera sat down in her own seat at once, not wanting to be positioned above him.
"It was fi—" The word caught in her throat as she remembered the rumors about Isael. It was said that he knew when a person was lying. It was that supposed skill that had enabled him to broker peace between elves, humans, and even the dragons.
She amended, "It was rather daunting, truth be told. I've never traveled for quite so long."
Isael inclined his head. "You must be exhausted."
Had she truly not heard him speak before? In her memory of the day they'd met, as well as all of her nightmares since, he'd always been silent. His heavy gaze on her had spoken volumes. There had been no need for words.
But, there was a certain familiarity to the gentle cadence of his voice. He spoke like no one she knew. Gersla, the governess who had taught her the elven language, had spoken with a humming Eschali Isles dialect. Isael spoke Ateran clearly, but with the same rolling, flowing cadence as the other Esryian elves. She couldn't shake the sense of calm that washed over her with each word from his lips.
Oh.
"Are you enchanting me?" She blurted.
"Yes," he said. "Would you prefer I stop?"
Cera didn't know what was more surprising, that she'd recognized the enchantment or that he'd admitted to it without a hint of shame.
"Please."
