Morning entered her chamber without permission.
Light slipped through the tall arched windows of Dravenhold, filtered by silken drapes the color of pale dawn. It spilled across marble floors veined like fractured ice and climbed the carved pillars that guarded her bed. The palace always looked gentler in the morning , as if daylight tried to soften what darkness made cruel.
Steam lingered faintly in the air as Elara stepped from her bath. Warmth clung to her skin, but it could not chase away the lingering chill buried somewhere beneath her ribs.
She wrapped herself in a robe of pale blue satin, the fabric whispering against her legs. Her golden-brown hair, still damp, was twisted loosely in a towel, though several strands had escaped to curl against her collarbone.
For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to stand still.
No suitors. No council whispers. No calculating gaze from her aunt. No hollow laughter drifting from banquet halls.
Just quiet.
A knock broke it.
Not hesitant. Not aggressive. Measured.
"Enter," Elara called, smoothing her features into practiced composure.
The door opened, and Maera stepped inside with her usual quiet grace. Her maid's gown was simple but immaculate, a dark scarf binding her hair neatly away from her face. In her hands she carried a polished silver tray large enough to suggest ceremony rather than sustenance.
The scent reached Elara before the sight did.
Fresh bread scented with rosemary. Buttered pastries. Honeyed pears. Roasted pheasant brushed with herbs. And beneath it all, the gentle curl of spiced tea.
The silver glinted unnaturally bright in the sunlight.
Elara's brows furrowed.
"Maera," she said slowly, stepping closer. "Since when do I dine like a queen?"
Maera set the tray near the balcony doors where the light struck it full, illuminating every unnecessary luxury.
"Since this morning, it seems," she replied carefully.
Elara folded her arms loosely.
"When I entered the kitchens," Maera continued, "they were already preparing it. The head cook himself oversaw the pheasant. They even prepared your hangover draught."
Elara's gaze sharpened.
"They remembered I drink?"
Maera's lips twitched. "The entire lower hall remembered, Your Highness."
A faint flush warmed Elara's cheeks.
Still , something about this felt wrong.
"I cannot remember the last time I was given more than bread and watered tea," Elara murmured. "Has my father suddenly discovered affection?"
The air cooled slightly at the mention of him.
They both knew how life within Dravenhold truly functioned.
The King ruled the kingdom. But within the palace walls, another woman ruled his attention.
Neglect was quieter than cruelty , but just as effective.
"Perhaps it is because you were absent from the royal feast last night," Maera offered gently.
Elara let out a soft, humorless breath. "Absent," she repeated. "As though I were missed."
She walked toward the tray and studied it as though it might dissolve.
"Sit," Elara said at last. "If I must endure generosity, I will not endure it alone."
Maera remained standing.
"I must test it first."
Elara sighed, lowering herself into the chair.
"Is it truly necessary?"
"It always is."
Before Maera could stop her, Elara reached for a slice of bread and bit into it deliberately. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then lifted her chin.
"Still breathing."
"Your Highness,"
"What?" Elara lifted a brow. "If someone wished me dead, they would not begin with pastries."
Maera's expression darkened.
"Even if you grow weary of this world," she said quietly, "you cannot surrender to it. You must live. For your mother. For yourself. For me."
The words struck deeper than Elara expected.
"And if it had been poisoned?" Elara asked softly. "You would have tasted it first."
Maera's smile was faint but unwavering. "It would be an honor."
Elara looked away.
The court called her cold. Difficult. Detached.
But Maera had always seen the girl beneath the crown.
"Enough," Elara murmured. "If someone intends to kill me, they will choose something less merciful."
Maera finally sat, though her eyes remained watchful.
For a moment, the only sound was porcelain touching silver.
Then,
A memory surfaced.
Wind. Marble beneath her feet. The void yawning below.
Strong arms around her waist.
Her fingers tightened around her teacup.
"Maera," she said slowly, "did you see the knight last night?"
Maera's eyes brightened with unmistakable mischief.
"Ah. Your new personal knight."
Elara stiffened.
"He is not mine."
Maera ignored that. "I returned just as he was carrying you inside."
Elara's spine went rigid.
"He was not carrying me."
Maera raised a brow. "You were hardly walking."
Heat crept up Elara's neck.
"I was not unconscious."
"You were draped across him like ivy," Maera replied lightly. "He caught you below your balcony."
Elara's pulse faltered.
"I nearly fell?"
"Yes."
Silence followed.
"I have never seen a man move like that," Maera added thoughtfully. "Silent. Controlled. As though the night answered to him."
Elara hated that her thoughts agreed.
"That is ridiculous."
"Is it?" Maera tilted her head. "You seemed rather taken with him."
"I was drunk."
"Yes."
Elara narrowed her eyes. "What did I say?"
Maera took a deliberate sip of tea before answering.
"You told him he smelled divine."
Elara covered her face instantly.
"Like smoke and storms," Maera continued mercilessly. "And then you asked, 'How can death be this breathtaking?'"
"Maera!"
Laughter filled the room , warm, unrestrained.
Elara groaned into her hands. "He must think me unhinged."
"I doubt that," Maera said once her amusement softened. "He seemed more concerned than entertained."
Concerned.
Elara's hands lowered slowly.
She remembered fragments now.
The way his voice had lowered when he spoke to her.
Not harsh. Not mocking.
Measured.
Controlled.
The way he had held her , not like a reckless girl making foolish choices, but as though she were something fragile. Something worth saving.
That unsettled her far more than his sharp features or quiet confidence.
"He claims he was sent by the King," Maera added gently. "Assigned to protect you."
Elara's expression cooled instantly.
"Protect me?" she repeated.
"Yes."
"No," Elara said after a pause. "He is here to watch me."
Maera frowned. "You assume the worst."
"I assume reality," Elara replied. "My father has never acted without purpose. And kindness has never been his habit."
She moved toward the balcony and pushed the doors open. Cool air swept in, carrying distant sounds from the waking courtyard below.
Guards rotated posts. Servants hurried. Life continued.
Somewhere beyond these walls, politics tightened like a noose.
And now a knight stood between her and whatever invisible threat warranted sudden protection.
"I do not trust sudden concern," Elara murmured.
Maera joined her at the balcony rail.
"Well," she said lightly, "if he is to guard you, at least he is pleasing to look upon."
Elara shot her a look that lacked conviction.
"He is intolerable."
"Intolerably handsome."
Elara threw her napkin at her.
Laughter softened the morning again.
But beneath it, something restless lingered.
The scent of steel and rain. The steadiness in his arms. The quiet intensity in his gaze.
She told herself it meant nothing.
Wine. Embarrassment. An unfortunate memory wrapped in moonlight.
And yet,
When she glanced toward the closed chamber door, half-expecting him to be standing there again, silent and immovable,
Her pulse betrayed her.
Not because she trusted him.
Not because she feared him.
But because for the first time in years…
Someone had stopped her from falling.
And she did not know whether to resent him for it,
Or to wonder why he had cared at all.
Outside her chamber, the corridor remained quiet.
But something had shifted within the palace walls.
And though Princess Elara did not yet understand it,
The shadows had begun to move.