Chapter 12:
A Line Drawn
The royal solar was bathed in morning light, its stained-glass windows casting jeweled patterns across the floor. Princess Lysandra stood by a table strewn with letters from Valoria, her posture rigid, her green eyes blazing as she faced Alaric. The air between them crackled, not with the polite restraint of their earlier days, but with a raw, unspoken betrayal that had been simmering since the festival.
"You're making a fool of us both," Lysandra said, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through the room's warmth. "The court's buzzing with talk of your 'meetings' in the servants' quarters. Lord Cassian claims you gave a maid a gift—a book, of all things. Tell me it's not true, Alaric."
Alaric's heart thudded, the memory of Elara clutching the poetry book flashing in his mind. He'd known the risk, but the thought of her reading it, of connecting with her through its words, had been worth it—until now. "Cassian twists everything," he said, his tone steady despite the guilt gnawing at him. "I was ensuring the staff was prepared. The book was… a gesture of appreciation. Nothing more."
Lysandra's laugh was brittle, devoid of humor. "Appreciation? For a maid? Don't insult my intelligence, Alaric. I've seen how you look at her—the auburn-haired one, the one you danced with at the festival. The court sees it too, and they're questioning your fitness to rule."
Her words stung, echoing his father's warnings, but it was the hurt in her eyes—buried beneath her anger—that caught him off guard. She wasn't just a political ally; she was a woman trapped in this marriage as much as he was. "Lysandra," he said, softening his voice, "I'm committed to our alliance. To you. I won't let rumors undo what we're building."
"Then prove it," she snapped, stepping closer. "Distance yourself from her. No more visits to the servants' quarters, no more gifts, no more whispers. You're the crown prince, Alaric. Act like it, or I'll have to act for you."
The threat hung heavy, a reminder of her power as Valoria's princess. Alaric nodded, his jaw tight. "I'll do what's needed," he said, the words tasting like ash. "For Eldoria. For us."
Satisfied, Lysandra turned back to her letters, but her shoulders remained tense, as if she didn't fully trust his promise. Alaric left the solar, his mind racing. He couldn't abandon Elara, not when Cassian's schemes threatened her, not when her words—They want to matter—had awakened something in him. But Lysandra's ultimatum meant every step toward Elara was a step toward ruin.
That evening, under the guise of inspecting the palace stables, Alaric slipped to a secluded corner of the gardens, where moonlight silvered the roses. He'd sent a message through Mira, Elara's friend, asking her to meet him—a reckless move, but he needed to see her, to warn her of the tightening noose.
Elara appeared, her gray cloak blending with the shadows, her hazel eyes wary but bright in the moonlight. "You shouldn't have called me here," she whispered, glancing at the dark windows of the palace. "Lysandra's watching, and Cassian—"
"I know," Alaric interrupted, his voice low, urgent. "Lysandra demanded I stay away from you. Cassian's spreading lies to discredit me, and he's targeting you to do it. I can't let that happen."
Elara's hands twisted in her cloak, the poetry book tucked inside, its weight a reminder of his gift. "You can't protect me, Alaric," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "Not without risking everything. Your marriage, your crown, the peace with Valoria—it's all bigger than me."
"It's not bigger than you," he said, stepping closer, his eyes locked on hers. "You warned me about Cassian. You showed me a world I'd ignored. I can't pretend that doesn't matter, Elara. I can't pretend you don't matter."
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she looked at him not as a maid to a prince, but as a woman to a man, her guard slipping. "You don't know what you're saying," she whispered. "I'm not who you think I am. If you knew the truth, you'd—"
"Then tell me," he urged, his voice soft but insistent. "Who are you, Elara? Why do you hide?"
She shook her head, stepping back, her eyes glistening. "I can't. Not yet. Just… stay away, please. For your sake, not mine." She turned, slipping into the darkness before he could stop her, leaving him with the scent of roses and the ache of her absence.
Unseen in the shadows, a figure watched—Lord Cassian, his smile cold as the moonlight. The prince's defiance was a gift, one he'd use to unravel Alaric's future and tighten his own grip on Eldoria's throne.