“How do you feel?” she asks.
I press my fingers lightly against my side, testing, but the only thing I feel is the lingering warmth of her magic, like heat still trapped beneath my skin. I smile at her. “So much better.” I breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Of course, my Queen,” she says warmly. “If you need anything else, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be by to check on you again in the morning.”
When she leaves, I decide to take a bath.
The cleansing room is carved entirely from the mountain. The pale stone is smooth and warm beneath my bare feet as I step inside. It smells of mineral-rich water and something clean, almost sweet.
At the center of the chamber, a wide, sunken pool is set into the floor, its edges curved and seamless as though the stone simply dipped away rather than having been shaped by hand. The water within it moves constantly, circling in slow, endless motion.
It spills in from a narrow opening in the rock wall, then disappears again along the opposite edge, feeding back into the mountain.
Along one side of the room, a shallow basin has been carved into the stone, fed by a thinner stream of water that trickles steadily into it. Beyond that, set discreetly toward the back, is a tucked alcove with a toilet.
My father’s palace was designed to feel luxurious, with gold and excess on display. But everything here feels natural and intentional. As though every part of it was shaped with purpose, meant to serve rather than impress.
When I lower myself into the water, heat closes around me, seeping into muscles I didn’t realize were still tight, and my entire body begins to relax.
When I’m finished, I use one of the soft plush towels to dry my body and my hair. There’s a silken sleep gown laid out for me. One of the servants must have left it here. After I change into the nightshift, I pull on the heavier robe beside it, tying it closed at my waist.
A second set of doors along the far wall leads into the bedroom, and I step inside.
A large bed is carved directly into the stone along the far wall. It’s layered with a deep blue comforter and plush furs. A fire burns low beside it, in a wide hearth carved into the mountain, the flames casting a steady glow that dances across the stone, warming the entire space. A thick fur rug lies before it, and a pair of chairs sit angled toward the fire.
As I take another step into the room, an unbidden thought enters my mind.I shouldn’t be here. Not because I’m unwelcome. But because this is where Auren sleeps. Where he comes when the weight of the crown is set aside, if only for a few hours.
Every detail of this room is shaped for his comfort, his rest, and the quiet moments when no one is watching. And now I’m standing in the center of it.
My gaze drifts over the bed again, over the furs and the faint imprint of use in the pillows, and a warmth creeps up the back of my neck before I can stop it as I imagine him here. Not as a king, but as the man who slept on the floor rather than take the bed from me.
The one who helped soothe my wounds with careful hands, who held me through pain as though I was something fragile and not the sharp-tongued person I have always presented to the world.
The thought makes my breath catch, because it reminds me, with quiet certainty, that both versions of him have always been the same person.
My gaze drifts past the bed, drawn toward the open archway at the far end of the room. A balcony stretches out beyond it, overlooking the vast cavern of the city. I step closer without thinking. It’s cooler here, touched by the faint currents that move through the mountain.
Elyrith spreads out below me. The great mushrooms rise like towering lanterns, their caps casting soft hues of color across the structures below, while the embedded crystals in the cavern walls shimmer like brilliant stars. The river winds through it all, reflecting the beautiful light.
As I gaze out at the city, I remember Tarin’s words about the Goblin King. This is Auren’s kingdom… the one he protects. And all of it could be in danger because of me.
I walk back into the main room, take a seat on the sofa, and stare at the room around me. This is Auren’s study. The desk is covered with scrolls and maps and documents weighted at their corners with stones.
Bookshelves line the walls. Near the window, a candle has burned nearly to its base, as though someone sat here working long into the night not so many days ago.
I think of the man I believed I married—a common soldier with a soldier's wage and a soldier's life—and I understand now that he never existed.
A book lies open on the desk. Curiosity pulls me toward it before I can stop myself. Crossing the room, I pick up the book and gaze down at the page. It's a history. Old, by the look of the binding.
There are notes crowding the margins in Auren’s handwriting. Some are brief observations, others argue with the text. One long annotation near the bottom of the page reads:This account omits the famine entirely. The people suffered for three winters before the court acknowledged it. History that serves only the powerful is not history. It is flattery.
I read it twice, then set the book down carefully, exactly as I found it.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. “Enter!” I call out.
One of the servants walks in with a tray. "Forgive the interruption, my Queen." He sets the tray on the low table before the fire. "His Majesty asked that food be brought to you."
He pours tea into a cup and carefully arranges a platter of food. "He said you had not eaten since this morning." He gestures to the food. "Cook has sent her best soup. She said to tell you she will make lemon cakes for you tomorrow, once she's had time to gather the proper ingredients."
