You hadn't slept well.
The candlelight from the Tower of Tears still burned behind your eyelids—a thousand melted prayers pooling in your thoughts. Somewhere beyond the city walls, in the mist-laced fields, the King waited. His presence was a constant, pulsing ember in your chest. Quiet, but never still.
So when a soft knock echoed at the solar doors, you hoped for solitude.
But it was Elair.
He stepped inside without fanfare, carrying a small bundle in his gloved hands. "I thought you might appreciate something warm," he said, placing it on the table. "Honeyed rice cakes. Still soft."
You raised a brow. "From the temple kitchens?"
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Stolen, technically. But only in service of your mood."
You offered a muted laugh—a thread of amusement wrapped in exhaustion. "Thank you."
He sat across from you without waiting for permission. As he always had. Just like when you were children and your lives had yet to be measured by crown or duty.
"You didn't sleep well," he observed.
You didn't answer immediately.
Instead, you tore off a piece of rice cake and let the honey settle on your tongue. It was warm. Familiar. A momentary sweetness that tasted like childhood.
"Nerves, I guess," you said finally. "It's quieter here. And when it's quiet… you hear more of yourself."
Elair nodded. "You keep too much to yourself, My Lady."
You glanced at him. "Words can be twisted. It's hard to know who to trust nowadays."
"You can trust me."
Your smile was soft but practiced. "Of course."
Silence settled between you—not heavy, not hostile. Just known.
Then Elair cleared his throat, something flickering behind his composure. "More men gathered near the broken bridge this morning."
You looked up. "Soldiers?"
He shook his head. "Masons. Builders. They've begun laying foundation stones. The King intends to rebuild the bridge."
You stilled.
Your throat caught around the lingering warmth of honey. "Is that so?"
He hesitated. "There's talk."
You didn't look at him. But you didn't stop him either.
"They say he's injured—a rib, perhaps. Took a fall on his journey here. Still, he's refused treatment. Began the rites despite it. He even labors with the builders. Three days from now, if he endures it… he'll be permitted entry."
Your fingers tightened around the porcelain cup.
You had told yourself you would not waver. That you would not be moved by stone or fire or effort. That patience was not penance, and suffering could not repair silence.
But to fast. To cleanse. To suffer—while wounded?
You set the parchment in your lap aside with care. "Then let them say he's a fool."
"But a devoted one," Elair said. His tone was unreadable.
Your gaze met his, unflinching. The weight of unspoken years balanced between you.
"They're surprised," he said. "That you remain so composed."
"They forget," you murmured, "that I am the daughter of the South."
Something crossed his face then—something too fleeting to name.
"You don't owe him anything," he said carefully.
You kept your voice even. "He is my husband."
"You left him."
"I left the court."
He nodded slowly. "I think… his actions are not for me to understand. Only for you to weigh."
You turned your face toward the window. The horizon was still hazed with smoke. Somewhere beyond it, the old bridge stirred back to life—stone by stone, under the hands of men led by the one who had once neglected it.
Elair's voice was softer now. "Will you receive him when the rites are done?"
You paused.
Measured your breath. Smoothed the silence.
"There is nothing wrong between us," you said. "We are King and Queen. That is enough."
But even as the words left your lips, they felt hollow. Like names carved into an empty tomb.
Elair inclined his head. "As you say, Your Majesty."
But his eyes said otherwise.
When he left, the quiet returned.
You remained seated, the uneaten rice cake growing cold beside your hand, the dawn light catching faintly on its honeyed glaze. From the window, the hills still smoldered with the evidence of his presence—a man who had once watched you from a distance, now working to bridge it with stone.
You wanted to see him. You wanted to go to him, press your hands against his side and scold him for his recklessness. You wanted to ask why now. Why rebuild what was already ruined?
But you had made a promise to yourself.
No more reaching for what did not reach for you. No more silent loyalty in the shadow of distance.
Three days.
That was all it would take. And then he could enter.
Your eyes flicked toward the balcony again, where the faint clang of stone echoed from across the valley.
Three days — and the fate of your kingdom, your marriage, and your resolve hung delicately in the balance.