A soft tug at the edge of the coverlet roused Sophia from shallow slumber.
"Milady," came a gentle whisper. "The morning sun is climbing. It is time."
Her lids fluttered open, heavy with the weight of dreams that had been no more than muddled shadows. The canopy above greeted her, its velvet folds lit by slivers of pale gold filtering through the parted curtains.
Her handmaiden, Elise, bowed low beside the bed, dark braids swinging forward. "Shall I fetch warm water, my lady?"
Sophia exhaled, steadying her breath. "Yes. Prepare it."
As Elise curtsied and padded softly toward the adjoining chamber, Sophia pressed her fingers against her temples. The faint ringing from last night still lingered, like distant echoes bouncing through her skull.
The voices.
She closed her eyes, willing her mind to stillness. At once, it came with the low hum, faint yet unmistakable, like whispers carried on a breeze.
Is she truly stronger now, or shall she faint again before noon? Elise's thought brushed against her ears, clear as if spoken aloud. If she falters, the Prince will not forgive failure in care…
Sophia drew a sharp breath. The power had not vanished with rest. It remained, pulsing within her, demanding mastery.
If I cannot control this, it will consume me.
The maid returned with a steaming basin and soft linens. "Here, my lady. The water is fresh drawn."
Sophia rose, movements slow, steady. Her long black hair spilled down her shoulders like ink. As Elise wrung a cloth and pressed it into her hands, another thought slipped free.
Her hair is like a raven's wing. No wonder the Prince stares when he thinks no one sees.
Sophia nearly choked on her own breath. Her gaze snapped to Elise, who lowered her eyes quickly, unaware her mistress had heard more than words.
Filter them, Sophia urged herself. Tune them down.
She steadied her breathing, as though adjusting a lens. The voices dimmed, muffled to a low murmur. When she turned her focus, Elise's voice sharpened again, like drawing one thread from a tangled skein.
Strange… she does not look fragile this morning. She looks… radiant.
Sophia pressed the cool cloth against her cheek, hiding her faint smile. Yes, she realized. I can choose. I can listen—or I can silence. That is the key.
But the effort taxed her. By the time her hair was combed, pinned with silver, and her pale gown fastened at the shoulders, sweat pricked lightly at her brow. The pounding in her head was bearable—but only just.
Mastery would not come at once. She needed practice. Precision. Control.
Or this gift would devour her alive.
The dining hall of their wing was quiet, the air scented with warm bread and herbs. A long table stretched beneath high windows, yet only two seats were occupied.
Sophia took her place, her gaze lowered, hands folded neatly in her lap until the first course was set before them. Porridge, honey, boiled eggs, roasted pears. Simple, unadorned.
Across from her, Alexander sat in his chair, posture perfectly upright despite the faint shadows beneath his eyes. His face was carved in its usual stoicism, but his silence was not empty.
She looks better this morning.
Sophia's spoon paused mid-air.
Her color has returned. She holds herself with strength again.
She forced her hand to remain steady, eyes upon her bowl. She dared not look up, though the corners of her mouth longed to curve.
Why should this ease me? Alexander's thoughts pressed harder, sharper. She is nothing but duty. Yet all night, I thought of nothing but the sound of her breathing, fearing it might cease…
Sophia's throat tightened. She smoothed her expression, feigning calm, but her pulse thundered in her chest.
To hear him—so cold in voice, yet so unguarded within—was both an intimacy and a torment.
Last night… His voice in her mind faltered, tangled. I wished—foolish thought—that she might come to me again. That her steps might cross the corridor, that she would stand at my door. Madness. Utter madness.
Sophia pressed her lips together, hiding the smile that threatened to betray her. She lowered her gaze, breaking the pear delicately with her fork.
If he looked up now, he would see only composure. Not the amusement sparking in her eyes, not the heat that flushed her cheeks at his unspoken confessions.
But she felt it. Every unguarded flicker of thought.
And she could not help but savor it.
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to focus—not just on him, but on the sea of voices around them. The clink of dishes, the shuffle of servants' steps. Each sound accompanied by the faint brush of thoughts.
Will His Highness finish the porridge today? Or will it remain untouched again?The Princess Consort seems sturdier—perhaps she is not as weak as the rumors claimed.They are quiet. Too quiet. Do they ever speak? Or is this marriage as hollow as it looks?
Sophia winced inwardly. Too many voices, too many tones.
She closed her eyes briefly, tuning them down, silencing the crowd until only one remained.
Her hand trembles faintly when she lifts the spoon. Alexander again. She hides it well, but I see it. Did the healer misjudge her strength? Should I summon him again—
Sophia's heart swelled, though her expression remained perfectly still.
The world's noise dulled. Only his voice remained.
She lifted her cup of honeyed water, sipping slowly. When she glanced up, just once, her eyes caught his across the table. Gray storm met midnight black.
His expression did not waver, but within his silence, the thought unfurled, raw and unguarded.
Why can I not look away?
Sophia dropped her gaze swiftly, her pulse racing.
The meal ended without a word spoken aloud between them, yet the silence had been filled—filled with truths he would never confess and secrets she dared not reveal.
As Alexander wheeled himself away toward his study, Sophia rose, her maids trailing behind her. Her mind hummed, but not with chaos as before.