The corridors of the royal wing darkened as the last of the evening lamps were lit. The day had dragged itself into stillness, yet in the consort's chambers, the stillness did not settle.
Alexander's orders had been swift, spoken with a sharpness that brooked no debate.
"Head maid," he had said, his voice low, clipped. "The Princess Consort will not be left unattended this night. Ensure her supper is brought to her chamber. You will confirm with your own eyes that she eats. Afterward, a maid is to remain—inside the chamber, or just beyond the door—so she may call upon her at once, should she require anything. She will not rise from her bed again this night. Is that understood?"
The woman had bowed deeply, trembling with the weight of his tone. "Yes, Your Highness. At once."
And that had been that.
Alexander wheeled himself away, his motions precise, purposeful, but beneath them was a current that betrayed his tightly held calm. A current Sophia had heard not with her ears, but with the unbidden clarity of his thoughts earlier.
She must not collapse again. Not under my watch.
Dinner came swiftly, carried on silver trays by the head maid herself, who oversaw the setting with nervous hands. A steaming broth, soft bread, fruit already sliced into careful pieces, roasted fowl with herbs...simple, nourishing fare, chosen with deliberation.
Sophia, though still pale, was startled.
"Your Highness insists you eat," the head maid murmured, bowing her head. "I am to remain until I see it done."
Her cheeks warmed despite herself. Alexander had thought of this. Alexander, who had sat so still, so cold at her bedside, had cared enough to ensure she would not neglect herself.
She lifted her spoon, the scent of broth curling into her lungs. The first sip steadied her, but it was not the food that stirred the flush across her skin.
It was the thought of him—alone now, perhaps—thinking of her enough to command her care.
She ate dutifully under the maid's watchful gaze, each bite turning to something heavier than mere food. By the time the tray was removed, Sophia found herself staring at the door, her mind a tangle.
Would he eat? Would he think of himself at all?
In the Prince's chamber, the question had already been answered.
A tray sat untouched at his side table, its steam long since vanished.
Alexander sat propped against the carved headboard of his bed, a heavy book in his hands. Candlelight brushed against the pages, gilding the words, but his eyes drifted unfocused over the lines, unable to hold to the story.
He read a sentence. He turned the page. He read it again. Nothing lingered. He closed the book with a snap.
The silence pressed against him. He shifted, restless, the linen of his nightshirt tugging against his shoulders. His hand moved instinctively toward the tray of food, then curled into a fist.
No. His stomach churned at the thought. He could not eat.
He pressed the book against his thigh, staring at the patterns carved into the ceiling beams. The flame flickered, catching the silver of his hair, the shadow of his lashes.
And in his mind, the voice he did not speak aloud raged against him.
Why does her weakness linger in me? Why does the image of her pallor refuse to leave? She is nothing but duty, nothing but arrangement. She should not matter. And yet…
His chest rose with a sharp breath. His fingers loosened, and the book slipped to the coverlet. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm.
But calm did not come.
The bed felt too vast. The sheets too cool. He turned his head upon the pillow, as though to seek sleep, but instead found the weight of unease pressing heavier.
When slumber finally claimed him, it was fractured, unpeaceful. His body tossed lightly, the tension of his mind refusing to release. Behind his closed eyes, flashes of her face flickered—her eyes closed, her lips pale, her chest unmoving until her breath stirred again.
Why does it matter? Why should it matter?
And in the darkness of sleep, no answer came.
In the consort's chamber, Sophia's meal sat heavily in her stomach, but sleep remained elusive.
The head maid had ensured all was settled before leaving a young attendant just beyond the chamber doors, ready to answer at her call. The gesture, too, had been by Alexander's order.
It was small. It was practical.
And it left Sophia flushed, unable to quiet the thunder in her chest.
He had thought of her. Again.
She sat upon the edge of her bed, fingers tracing the embroidered hem of her nightgown. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, unbound by her maid's careful hands. She had dismissed the girl at last, needing solitude. But solitude brought no rest.
Her mind circled endlessly, chasing itself into knots.
Should she keep her secret?
The voices, the thoughts....still lingered faintly, echoes that brushed her ears when she focused too hard. They frightened her as much as they fascinated her. The power of it… the danger of it.
Could she tell him?
Her lips parted in the dark as though to whisper the question aloud. Would Alexander, stoic, impenetrable Alexander, listen? Would he understand? Would he call her cursed? Mad?
Her chest squeezed tight at the thought. His was the one voice she had heard most clearly, and it had undone her more than the rest combined.
She stirs… thank the gods.
The memory of it made her cheeks burn anew. He had cared. Somewhere beneath the armor of his coldness, he had cared.
But if she revealed her gift, if he knew she could slip past his walls, hear the things he never voiced, would that care shatter into hatred?
Sophia lay back, pulling the coverlet to her chin. Her pulse drummed against her throat. She stared at the canopy above, dark velvet folding into deeper shadows.
Her thoughts spun like tangled threads, binding her too tight for sleep to come.
She considered every possibility: keeping silent, forever guarding her secret. Or daring to speak, risking his scorn, his anger, his dismissal.
In one imagining, he turned from her, declaring her unfit, dangerous, untrustworthy.
In another, rarer imagining, he listened, advised and perhaps even… supported.
Her chest ached at the thought. To share her burden. To be less alone.
But the fear was greater still.
So she remained undecided, caught between terror and yearning, until the hours stretched thin and the candles guttered.
Her eyes closed at last, but her heart did not still. Sleep came shallow, restless, as though the weight of her new gift pressed upon her even in dreams.
The palace slept.
And in separate chambers, two figures lay awake in silence that was anything but peaceful.
One with the torment of secrets.The other with the torment of concern he refused to name.
Unseen, unheard, their hearts reached across the distance, bound by a thread neither yet dared acknowledge.