The gown is a dusky blue that mirrors the sky before a storm, threaded with light that catches like mist. My hair, pinned but not tamed, leaves wisps that brush my collarbone like memory. For a heartbeat, I look like someone I want to become.
When I meet Vale in the corridor, gratitude fills me as surely as air; his hand finds mine and keeps me tethered to the ground.
Soria’s words whisper through me, “Don’t let it take away from what’s right in front of you.”
And right in front of me is a man who sees me. Who makes me feel both fierce and free.
In his dark tunic beside my pale gown, we look like dusk and twilight—two halves of the same horizon.
The banquet that night is smaller, the air warmer. Candles burn low, lighting every face in amber. The laughter of nobles ripples like a current, rising and fading with each new toast.
I catch eyes and smiles, though some falter the moment they meet my gaze. It isn’t cruelty, not yet—just curiosity sharpened by gossip.
“Is there something wrong with how I look?” I ask Ace, because if anyone will tell me the truth, it is him.
“My dear, you are a vision.” His grin is all charm until he sees my furrowed brow. “Ah. You mean them.”
I follow his glance toward the room—too many watching eyes pretending not to stare.
“They’re wondering why you’re still here,” he says softly. “Not as a guest. At his side.”
His hand covers mine, the gesture more tender than his tone. “They’ll get used to it. Or they won’t. Either way—shine brighter.”
Before I can reply, Vale appears beside me; the shift in the room is immediate—every whisper stills.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, his hand brushing the small of my back.
“Yes.” And for once, I mean it.
The rest of the evening passes in a soft blur of sweet wine and laughter. I join in as Ace all but begs Soria to dance, her protests falling to laughter as he spins her into the lamplight.
For the first time since arriving at Caerhollan, I feel not like an outsider looking in but part of something warm and alive.
The kingdom might question me tomorrow, but tonight, joy finds me.
And I let it.
Chapter Nineteen
The freedom I feel when I surrender to his touch—to his kiss—is almost enough to make me forget it all. That night after the banquet, I let go. I let the music and mead wash over me until all that remains is him. His hands. His breath. The pulse that steadies mine.
I wake less restless than the nights before. Vale still sleeps beside me, his face turned toward the faint light slipping through the curtains. The sight of him—peaceful, unguarded—should ease me, yet the stillness presses heavy on my chest. The air is thick with shadows, the kind that whisper of things unspoken.
I lie there listening to the rhythm of his breath, waiting for it to calm me. It doesn’t. When he shifts, his hand finds the curve of my hip, a touch that should anchor me, but instead it sets my pulse thrumming.
Careful not to wake him, I slip from beneath the sheets, from his warmth, from everything that should be my refuge. The unease inside me isn’t the old tug-of-war between duty and devotion. No, this is something deeper. The pull. The voiceless call that always seems to hover just beyond my reach.
I pull on a shift and wrap myself in a robe, the silk whispering against my skin, and tie the sash tight as though it might keep the achecontained. The door creaks softly as I step into the corridor. A guard stirs, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword.
“I just need a walk,” I murmur, lifting a hand in reassurance, half a smile tugging at my lips. “No monsters to chase tonight.”
He nods, though uncertainty lingers in his gaze.
I don’t take a lantern. The stained glass lies dark and lifeless in the absence of sun, save for a pale thread of light where the waning moon presses through. The halls are cloaked in quiet; even my footsteps feel like an intrusion. Here, the darkness doesn’t threaten—it holds.
I wander those corridors where color and daylight once poured in, letting the shadows fold around me like a shroud. My mind paces faster than my steps, circling the question I try not to name: Am I drawn to the Sanctum, or is it calling to me?
The answer comes in motion. Down the stairwell. Past the silent hearth. Toward the weight of that iron door.
