The sun was still high when Sophia returned from the market, her gown carrying the faint trace of dust and the fragrance of lavender sachets she had purchased. Two maids trailed behind her with carefully wrapped parcels; their cheeks flushed from the brisk walk. Knights resumed their posts outside the East Wing with quiet efficiency, as though nothing remarkable had happened.
But Sophia did not allow herself to collapse into fatigue. Instead, she went straight to the kitchens.
Her dark eyes moved over the tables laid with vegetables, bread, and cuts of meat. The head cook looked up, startled, then bowed hurriedly. "Your Highness, forgive us, we did not expect—"
"I am not here to scold," Sophia said calmly. "Only to see what will be prepared for His Highness tonight."
There was a tension in the room as her slender fingers brushed along the basket of carrots, inspecting their firmness, or the stack of herbs tied with twine. She asked quiet, precise questions: Where were the oils stored? How often was the salt rationed? Who prepared the tonics?
To the kitchen staff, it seemed she had developed a sudden and unusual interest in domestic details. They whispered among themselves after she left.
"Does she mean to control the household already?"
"She notices everything, down to the spice jars!"
"Perhaps she only wishes to impress the prince."
None guessed her true intent. Only Damien, standing silently by the doorway, understood the sharp intelligence behind her scrutiny.
That evening, the dinner tray brought to Alexander was different. The portions were smaller, the stews less heavy, the wine diluted with herbs that Sophia had specifically instructed.
She sat beside him at the table, hands folded neatly in her lap. She did not touch his plate, but her gaze lingered on each bite he took.
Alexander raised a brow, his storm-gray eyes cool. "You watch me as though expecting me to falter with every swallow."
Sophia's lips curved faintly, though her tone remained serene. "I watch because I care that you finish what is good for you, and avoid what is not."
Her words were simple, but they struck deeper than she intended. Alexander's chest tightened, though outwardly he only cut another piece of bread.
She says she cares as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But why? Why burden herself with me?
He ate more of the greens than usual, though he did not admit to himself why.
After dinner, Damien wheeled him to the private courtyard. The night air was cool, the moonlight pale against the stone. Sophia knelt on the paving, her skirts pooling around her, as she instructed Damien how to guide Alexander's legs.
"Slowly," she murmured, pressing her hand lightly to the prince's knee. "Only until the muscle resists. His Highness will tell you when to stop."
Alexander's jaw tightened at the discomfort, but Sophia's calm steadiness softened the sharp edge of the moment. Her touch was professional, but her pulse betrayed her, racing beneath her skin, her face carefully schooled.
Damien, ever watchful, followed her instructions with growing curiosity. He had heard of her in the marketplace that afternoon, enduring the stares of nobles and commoners alike with grace. Now he saw her here, tending to the prince with a healer's focus.
This is no act of vanity, he thought quietly. She works as though his life matters to her. Perhaps… it truly does.
Alexander, meanwhile, kept his expression unreadable. Yet his thoughts burned hot.
Her hands… steady, certain. Not the hands of a pampered princess. These are healer's hands. She hides much from me, but this at least rings true.
When the exercise was done, Sophia rose gracefully, smoothing her gown. "Enough for tonight. Rest is as important as movement. Overexertion will undo the progress."
Alexander only inclined his head, but his mind whispered words he would never speak aloud. You command me with such ease, Sophia. And I.....listen.
The next morning dawned golden. The East Wing hummed with activity as breakfast trays were prepared.
Sophia entered quietly, her eyes sweeping the table before Alexander touched it. She noted the cuts of fruit, the warmth of the porridge, the balance of herbs in the tea. A single frown from her was enough to make the serving maid blanch and replace the overly salted bread.
To the staff, it seemed she was merely demanding, perhaps overly meticulous. But none dared speak it aloud when they saw Alexander accept her presence without rebuke.
He ate in silence, every so often feeling the weight of her gaze upon him. When he finally set down his spoon, her lips curved in quiet satisfaction.
She looks at me as though I am more than I am, he thought, almost bitterly. As though I might recover. As though I deserve to.
By midday, the pattern continued. Sophia arrived to oversee his medicine, her brow furrowing slightly as she measured the herbs. She did not trust the apothecary's hand, though she said nothing of her deeper suspicions.
Damien caught her expression and asked softly, when Alexander had wheeled himself toward the window, "Is something wrong, my lady?"
She shook her head gently, answering in a voice low enough only for him. "Not yet. But I must be certain."
Damien studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. He did not press further, but a seed of trust had rooted itself firmly in his mind.
At lunch, Alexander found his table laid with care once more. The food was light, balanced, and fragrant. Sophia sat opposite him, sipping her tea with calm composure.
The prince ate without remark, but in his mind, the storm raged.
Day by day, she weaves herself deeper into my existence. Every breath, every bite, every motion I make, she oversees it. And though I tell myself I should resent it, I… do not.
Across the table, Sophia lifted her eyes, meeting his gaze. For a heartbeat, the world hushed.
He eats what I place before him. He allows me to guide his healing. He may not say it aloud, but he accepts me, piece by piece.
Neither spoke the thought aloud, but both felt the same truth pressing at the edges of silence. Something had shifted.
And though the East Wing whispered and wondered, they could not name what it was. Only Damien, standing guard by the door, began to see the shape of it forming.
A quiet transformation.