The ride back to the palace had been silent, save for the dull clatter of wheels over stone and the rhythmic beat of the horses' hooves. Neither Sophia nor Alexander broke the quiet, though each was acutely aware of the other's presence. Their eyes met only once—an accidental brush of gazes that left the air charged, then carefully avoided.
When they finally reached the secluded wing of the royal castle that was theirs alone, the servants descended upon them with trained efficiency. Torches flared along the archways, bathing the polished floors in amber glow as the royal couple disembarked.
Sophia bowed her head faintly toward Alexander before turning to her chambers. The parting was wordless, formal. But within that quiet exchange lay a weight neither could deny.
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The princess consort's rooms were warm and inviting, with draperies of pale gold and ivory and a faint fragrance of lavender from the sachets tucked in corners. Her handmaidens moved quickly, unfastening her travel gown, undoing the layers of stiff bodice and petticoats with practiced fingers.
Sophia stood still at first, allowing them to work, but her mind was a storm.
Her father's disdain.
Her mother's carefully concealed mockery.
Her brothers' sharpened stares.
And through it all, Alexander's steady presence and silence, his subtle barbs that struck truer than a sword, and the moment his gaze had caught her clenched fist.
Did he know?
Could he guess how deeply it had cut her to see her family strip him bare with their eyes?
Could he sense that she had wanted to defend him, not as duty, but as something more?
The gown slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. A maid replaced it with a robe of silk, embroidered with threads of silver. Another brought a basin of steaming water, gently wiping away the dust of the road from her face and arms.
Sophia's hands trembled as she reached for the cup of chamomile tea her maid offered. Her throat was parched, but she could not force herself to drink more than a sip.
Should I tell him?
The thought gnawed at her. The truth of why she had changed, why she had abandoned the tantrums and shallow arrogance of her past. The truth of what she knew about this world, about the threads of fate that had woven her here.
But if she told him, would he believe her?
Or would he dismiss her as mad?
Her head throbbed faintly. She pressed her fingers to her temples, dismissing her maids with a forced smile.
"I'll be fine," she murmured. "Just fatigue. Leave me."
They obeyed, though reluctantly.
The silence of her chamber pressed around her. Her thoughts swirled darker, faster.
No, I cannot reveal it, not yet. He does not trust me. He sees only a girl transformed overnight, suspicious and strange.
Her chest tightened. The throbbing in her head grew sharper, stabbing behind her eyes.
And then....
The voices came.
Whispers, echoes and overlapping words in tones she couldn't place, too many, too fast.
Her hands flew to her ears. She staggered, knocking over the tea cup as it clattered to the floor. The world tilted violently.
"Milady—!" a maid's cry rang as the door burst open. But Sophia never heard the rest.
Darkness swallowed her.
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Elsewhere, the prince was undergoing his own ritual of evening transition. Damien and two younger pages assisted him in undressing from his formal attire. His cloak was hung carefully, his tunic removed with practiced discretion, leaving him in a simple linen shirt.
Alexander endured the motions with his usual composure, though his thoughts were far less still.
She had clenched her fists today. When her family had looked upon him as if he were something broken, unworthy and her hand had curled, as though restraining herself from striking them.
Why?
Pity? Or something else?
His jaw tightened. Pity was intolerable. He could not abide it from anyone, least of all from the woman bound to him by politics and contemptuous expectation.
And yet… the way she had stood beside him, her hand on his chair, her expression barely leashed, it had not felt like pity.
Damien helped him from the chair into the prepared bath. Steam rose, scented faintly with cedar. The water eased the tension from his muscles, though not from his thoughts.
"Her Highness seemed… unsettled today," Damien said carefully, breaking the silence.
Alexander's eyes flicked open, cool. "Did she?"
"I thought so. Forgive me if I overstep."
The prince leaned back against the smooth rim of the tub, his voice flat. "You rarely do."
Unsettled. That was an understatement. But should he question her? Confront her about her behavior, her tightly held silences, her sudden poise that contradicted the reputation she had once worn like a crown?
His instincts screamed caution. But another part of him that is buried deep, reluctant, unwelcome wanted to know.
By the time Damien lifted him from the bath and settled him into fresh nightclothes, Alexander's mind remained unresolved.
And then, the commotion began.
The Chaos
A sharp knock rattled his door, followed by the rushed voice of a servant.
"Your Highness! the Princess Consort....she has collapsed!"
Alexander froze.
For a moment, he thought he had misheard. But the panic in the servant's tone shattered that illusion.
His chair spun sharply as he propelled it forward. Damien, already alert, moved to his side at once. Together they cut across the corridor, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing against stone.
When they reached Sophia's chambers, chaos reigned. Maids huddled near the bed, some wringing their hands, others rushing to fetch towels and basins of water. A healer, summoned in haste, leaned over Sophia's still form, fingers pressed to her wrist, murmuring incantations under his breath.
Alexander's gaze snapped to the bed.
She lay pale against the pillows, her dark hair spread across the linen, lips faintly parted as though caught between breath and silence. Her robe was askew, tea stains marking the fabric.
For the first time in years, Alexander felt his chest tighten with something dangerously close to fear.
"What happened?" His voice cut through the room like a blade.
The head maid, trembling, bowed low. "Y-Your Highness… the princess complained of fatigue. Then suddenly she clutched her head, and—and she fell. We could not rouse her."
The healer looked up, his expression grave but controlled. "It seems to be a sudden affliction of the mind, perhaps a fever of the spirit or perhaps strain. I must examine further."
Alexander wheeled closer, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles whitened. He searched her face, pale and still, as though willing her to stir beneath his gaze.
Why does this trouble me so?
She was still a stranger, still someone he could not fully trust. And yet the thought of her silenced, broken, frightened, it lodged in him like a thorn.
Damien's hand rested lightly on the chair, steadying him as though sensing his turmoil.
"Do what you must," Alexander ordered the healer, his voice low, taut with command. "Spare no effort."
The healer bowed. "At once, Your Highness."
As the murmured spells resumed, the servants scurried to and fro. The chamber smelled of herbs and hot water, the air thick with fear.
Alexander sat in silence, his eyes never leaving Sophia's face, his mind a battlefield of questions he dared not voice.