The sound of silk folding. Floral oil’s scent. The way the light pooled on the floor of my chamber like a spill no one dared to mop up. The morning sunlight, usually taken for granted, now felt like a final embrace on my skin, each golden ray a fragile gift soon to be lost.
Jasira was elbow-deep in my traveling wardrobe, muttering curses at a stubborn ribbon. She piled her dark curls on her head with a strip of mint-green silk. Jasira hummed under her breath, folding a pale cream chemise with unnecessary precision. She consistently acted in that manner when she lacked something to state—methodically, quietly, gently. Though only one year older than me, she carried herself with the calmness of someone twice our age.
“If I ever meet the tailor who thought rose-gold satin and floor-length skirts were sensible for a diplomatic journey, I would personally feed him to a goat,” Jasira grumbled.
“I think someone has already fed him to the court fashion council,” I said absently, combing through the tangles in my hair.
The room smelled of orange and lemon oil, the kind Jasiraalways rubbed into the wood of the wardrobe drawers. My lavender cloak lay draped across the end of the bed; its edges embroidered with trailing vines and stars. It was too fine for riding. And too heavy for summer.
“You’ll charm him, I think.” The words came tumbling out of Jasira, her eyes fixed on her task at hand. “Unless he’s allergic to flowers and hates the gardens. In which case, we may have a problem.”
That earned a brief laugh from me. “With my luck, he will be, won’t he?”
She glanced at me, her soulful brown eyes full of mischief. Jasira was sunshine wrapped in sarcasm and strength, and was also the only friend I could speak plainly with.
Jasira paused, then turned to me with arms crossed. “Do you want to bring your journal?”
I blinked. “Do you think I’ll have time to write?”
“You’ll make time.” She glanced out the window. “It’ll remind you who you are.”
I hesitated before walking over to the shelf and running my hand over the worn spine. It was green with gold-pressed leaves on the cover—pages marked with pressed petals, sketched leaves, and half-finished thoughts.
I slipped it into my satchel, nestled amongst my scrolls and herbs.
“I packed your lavender soap,” she added, placing it beside my cloak. “In case Caerthaine has forgotten what civility smells like.”
“Thank you.” I smiled weakly.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My bare feet were tucked beneath my nightgown, while my hair cascaded loosely around my hunched shoulders. My eyes looked far too much like my mother’s when I was quiet, except mine always gave too much away.
“Do you think he’ll like me?” I asked, the silence becoming a little too unbearable for me to withstand.
Jasira looked at me through the mirror. “If he doesn’t, he’s a blind fool. And if he is a blind fool, I’ll happily trip him into the harbor.”
Before I could reply, the door burst open in a theatrical sweep.
“By the heavens, I hate silk,” said Alaric, striding in like he owned not just the castle but the sky above it. His hair was a lighter blonde than mine, sun-swept and always tousled like he’d escaped a duel or a lover’s bed. His tunic was half-buttoned, and his sword belt hung crooked at his hip.
Behind him stood a massive warhound, dark gray and thick-furred, its amber eyes alert but unbothered. It moved with the grace of a wolf and the weight of a storm.
“Is that your new tactic?” Jasira teased. “Seduce the enemy into surrender?”
“I’ll have you understand, this shirt costs more than your entire wardrobe,” he mentioned, turning to me and dropping to one knee with exaggerated solemnity. “Dearest sister. Flower of Elyrien. Don’t marry the snake prince.”
I snorted. “Get up.”
But he pressed his forehead against my stomach, wrapping his arms around my waist like a child clinging to safety.
“Wynnie,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “don’t go.”
I stiffened. He was always the dramatic one, but this felt different. I rested my hands on his shoulders, silent.
“I did try,” he said, his eyes widening with a silent plea. “I presented my argument. I raised my voice. I threw a goblet. Mother said it was unbecoming of a future king.” He leaned back and offered a wry smile. “So, I threw another.”
“Did Father say anything?” I asked softly.
Alaric hesitated. “Only that we do what we must to keep our people safe. He said he trusts you to make the people love Elyrien.”
