CHAPTER FORTY THREE
He looked out the window again. “We shouldn’t be talking in the first place.” His voice came low, even. “Not anymore.”
My chest tightened. “Why not?”
“I swore an oath to the king,” he said, still watching the world beyond the glass. “My loyalty is to him.”
I searched his face, desperate for something that wasn’t duty. “And before that oath?” I asked.
He didn’t look at me. His next words came steady but hollow. “You’re to be married.”
That broke something inside me. “To a man I don’t even love!” The words came out sharper than I meant.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” I said, my voice trembling. “You can lie all you want, but I know you still care about me. Even if I’m not Elara, the sweet healer you met, everything between us was real. Every moment, every word. Only my name wasn’t.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. The only sound was
the rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the faint creak of the wheels. He sat still, staring straight ahead, but I could see the tension in his hands, the way his fingers curled slightly where they rested on his knee.
When he still didn’t speak I felt my throat tighten. I pulled the book from my lap and held it toward him. “I’m sure you want this back, then.”
He looked at the book, then at me. For a moment, something in his eyes softened, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
“Keep it,” he said quietly. “It’s yours now.”
I blinked, lowering my hand slightly. “I don’t want to keep something that reminds you of me,” I whispered.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. “It’s not the book that reminds me.”
The words struck deeper than I expected. I couldn’t tell if they were meant to wound or to confess. My breath caught, and before I could find an answer, he turned back toward the window. His profile was calm, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the muscle in his jaw still tight.
I pressed the book to my chest, feeling the worn leather against my fingers. The small weight steadied me, even as the ache inside grew heavier.
Silence stretched between us. It wasn’t the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of two people holding everything they wanted to say and not daring to say it. The sound of the carriage filled the space instead, the rhythmic creak of the wheels, the muffled thunder of hooves against the dirt road.
Outside, the forest blurred past, turning from gold to grey. The last traces of sunlight slipped through the trees, painting the glass in faint streaks before fading completely.
I stared down at the book again. My fingers traced the edges of the cover, the familiar cracks along its spine. It felt like holding a memory I was no longer allowed to keep.
Every now and then, I could feel his gaze flicker toward me, almost unintentional, but he never let it linger. Each time, he turned back to the window as if the world outside mattered more than what saw right in front of him. Maybe it did.
The air inside the carriage grew colder. I shifted slightly, tucking my hands beneath the folds of my dress. I wanted to speak, to say something that could soften what had hardened between us, but every word that came to mind felt useless. Nothing could undo what I had done.
Time slipped by in fragments. The rhythm of the wheels. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The faint creak of leather when he moved his arm.
Then, at last, the carriage began to slow. The steady rocking faded to a crawl, and the sharp scent of salt and smoke reached my nose. Outside, voices shouted orders, the low crash of waves
rising behind them.
With a soft jolt, the carriage stopped.
The door swung open, letting in a wash of cold night air. A guard stood outside, torchlight flickering against his armor. “Your Highness,” he said. “We’ve reached the port. Get ready. We set sail now.”
I nodded, though my chest felt hollow. The world beyond the carriage was all shadow and sea, distant docks against the docks and waves churning beneath them. The reality of it settled like a stone in my stomach.
We were leaving.
I glanced once toward William. He didn’t look back. His face was turned toward the window, still and unreadable. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw something in his eyes, but it was gone before I could be sure.
So I said nothing. I held the book tighter to my chest, gathered my skirts, and stepped out into the night.
The wind off the water hit sharp, catching my hair. Behind me, the carriage door closed with a final, quiet thud.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
WILLIAM
The ship loomed ahead, its sails tall and heavy against the night sky. Torches lined the dock, their flames bending with the wind. The air smelled of salt and iron, and the creak of ropes filled the silence.
The king boarded first, flanked by his guards. I followed behind, keeping a careful distance until it was my turn to help her.
I reached out my hand. She hesitated for a moment before placing hers in mine. Her skin was soft, cold from the night air. I helped her up, steadying her as she climbed the narrow plank, and then stepped back as quickly as I could.
I didn’t enjoy it. And I made sure she could tell. Whatever we had, whatever it was, it had to end here. The secret meetings. The laughter by the river. The quiet moments that felt like more than they should have been. All of it.
Still, it hurt.
But what choice did I have? She was the princess. The king’s daughter. And I was a knight, sworn to serve her, not care for her. She belonged to a world far above mine, a world of crowns and alliances, not promises whispered beneath trees.
The ship rocked as it began to move, cutting through the dark water. The stars reflected faintly on the waves. By sunrise, we
would reach Valebran.
I led her below deck to her chamber. The room was small but warm, lit by a single lantern that swayed with the movement of the ship. A narrow bed was fixed to the wall, draped with plain sheets. A wooden barrel stood beside it, serving as a table, and the
the floorboards groaned beneath our steps.
She placed the book on the barrel and lay down without a word. The faint light touched her face, soft and tired.
I stayed by the doorway, sword at my side, the sound of the waves steady in my ears.
I told myself I was watching the room. But the truth was, my eyes never left hers.
—
Light began to spill through the small cracks in the wood, thin and pale at first, then warmer as the sun climbed higher. The steady sound of waves against the hull softened into a calm rhythm.
She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, slow and soft, like she was caught between dreams and waking. I straightened at once, though I hadn’t closed my eyes all night.
For hours, I’d been sitting there, watching, waiting, telling myself to look away. To rest. To forget. But I couldn’t.
She looked peaceful like that. Too peaceful. Her hair had fallen loose across the pillow, the faint rise and fall of her chest steady
and even. The kind of calm that doesn’t last.
It hurt to watch her.
It shouldn’t have. I told myself that more than once. She had lied. She had broken trust that shouldn’t have been given in the first place. And yet, none of that mattered when I looked at her now. The sight of her breathing softly in that narrow bed hurt more than any wound I’d ever taken.
Because I knew the moment she woke, that peace would vanish. She would remember where we were going. What waited for her on the other side of the sea. She would remember that she wasn’t the girl I met by the river anymore, but a princess promised to another man.
Her eyes opened slowly, catching the first thin touch of light. She blinked once, twice, the confusion fading as she turned her head toward me.
For a heartbeat, our gazes met. Then I looked away, too quickly. I fixed my eyes on the window, on the pale horizon stretching over the waves. The sea was calm now, smooth and endless, but inside me the storm hadn’t quieted. It hadn’t even begun to fade.
The door opened suddenly, letting in a rush of light and movement. Servants stepped inside, their arms full of fabric and silver. One of them bowed quickly.
“His Majesty sent us,” she said. “He wishes for her to look her best when meeting the prince.”
I stepped back to give them room. They moved efficiently, speaking in soft tones as they held up a gown of pale pink and white. The silk shimmered faintly in the lantern light, delicate and fine.
The princess. No, Iris rose without a word. She slipped out of
her nightgown and into the new dress, letting the servants fasten the lace at her back. They brushed her hair until it fell smooth over her shoulders and clasped silver around her wrists and throat.
I tried not to look. I failed.
When she turned, the breath caught in my chest. She looked unreal, like something carved from light itself. Every movement seemed careful, graceful, though her eyes carried the same quiet sadness I’d seen before.
She had always been beautiful. Since the first time I saw her in that dim theatre, since the healer’s wing, since the river. But now she looked like the girl she was born to be; royalty. Untouchable.
She didn’t meet my eyes as she walked past me and out of the chamber. I followed at a distance, my boots echoing softly against the boards.
When we stepped onto the deck, the air hit us fresh and cold. The sea stretched wide, the morning light bright across the waves. Ahead, the shore was close enough to see.
Valebran rose from the cliffs, its castle towering high against the sky. Trees surrounded its walls, thick and green, and behind it, the mountains stood tall, their peaks brushed with white. Parts of the castle reached into the slope itself, the stone blending with the rock.
It was vast. Beautiful in a way that felt distant.
Iris stood at the railing, her gaze fixed on it. I stayed a few steps
behind, watching the wind move through her hair and wondering how much of her would be lost to that place once we arrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
IRIS