Chapter 79 Preparation
Preparation
The forest grows quiet again. Arven steps from shadow, his expression changed. I draw the cloak tighter around my shoulders.
“You are watched,” he says.
“I know.”
“They station guards at your window now.”
“Yes.”
“And servants vanish for speaking out.”
I adjust the cloak at my collar. “It is temporary.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone,” I reply. “The ports reopen tomorrow.”
His expression shifts. “Yes,” he says carefully. “They do.”
“That means the King feels safer,” I continue. “If he opens them, he must believe the Threns are no longer a threat.”
Arven makes a noise, I cannot tell if it is a scoff or a laugh. “And you think that eases him?”
“It should.”
He watches me as though weighing the thought.
“And maybe Jun—” I begin.
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Colsar,” I correct smoothly. “Colsar had arranged for Junis to stay at the palace with me as my protector. They are cousins.”
Arven does not look surprised. “And?”
“The King closed the ports,” I say. “Junis works one of the Vaelor ships. He could not come.”
“And the other safe places,” I add quietly, “the ones safe from the King… he threw the list away that day.”
“What day?”
“The day I fell ill. In that room.”
He does not ask which room. He understands enough.
“The ports opening changes nothing,” he says.
“It might,” I insist gently. “If the ships return, if Junis docks, if the King sees that nothing is approaching from the sea…”
He studies me as though the conclusion has already formed in him.
“You are a prisoner in your own home,” he says.
I say nothing.
“You,” he continues, almost incredulous. “The princess of Veynar.”
I look at him, willing my face to stay calm. “This is not prison, Arven.”
“No?”
“Prison,” I say carefully, “is being locked in a linen closet without water. And when you beg for it, being told if you wish to drink, you may lick it from the floor.”
The forest seems to still around us.
His color drains. “Who?” he asks. “Who did that happen to?” His voice lowers further. “Did that happen to you?”
I hold his eyes for a moment longer than I intend. “It was a long time ago,” I say.
His fists clench at his sides. “You were a child?”
“Yes.”
“And you call this not prison.”
“It is not the same.”
He looks toward the palace, then back at me, and something in him shifts from irritation to something colder and more focused.
“You have been kept from sunlight,” he says. “From letters. From friends. From food.”
“I eat.”
“You ask permission to do so.”
I hesitate. “I do not remember when I began to ask.”
The admission hangs between us.
He steps closer, not touching me, but near enough that I feel the warmth of him through the cloak.
“The ports reopening does not mean safety,” he says quietly. “It means movement. And movement can be controlled.”
“I think it means he is less afraid.”
“He is not less afraid,” Arven replies. “He is calculating.”
Silence stretches.
“I will confirm what is happening at the docks,” he says at last.
“You will not interfere.”
“I will gather information.”
“Arven—”
“If Junis was meant to be here and was prevented,” he continues, “that was not convenience. That was design.”
I swallow.
“The safe places,” he says. “The list he destroyed.”
“Yes.”
“That was not fear.”
His eyes move toward the distant glow of the palace.
“That was isolation.”
The word feels heavier than prison.
“You told me you do not care what becomes of me.” The words are meant to sound teasing. They do not.
“I do not,” he says, his voice cold. “I also told you that you may be the only one I will not kill.” He exhales once. “Which means nothing else can kill you either.”
It sounds like something Colsar would say, except the logic does not make sense. He is at war with Veynar. Why help me at all? I have been too distracted by survival to question it. Perhaps eventually I will.
“You will return to your window,” he continues. “You will not come out again like this.”
“I was hungry.”
“I know.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he replies, “I will learn who controls the ports.”
His voice is calm, almost too calm. “And if I do not like the answer,” he adds softly, “ships will move regardless.”
I wonder if this is bravado or if he could truly do such a thing, and whether forcing the ports open is another way of saying war.
He studies me again, as though recalculating something he thought he understood. “You have been coming here every night,” he says slowly. “Training. On how much food?”
“A few bites,” I reply. “Sometimes more.”
Disbelief crosses his face. “You have been sparring on scraps.”
I smile faintly. “You do not know much about me.”
“I know enough.”
“No,” I say gently. “You do not.”
The cloak shifts at my shoulders as I adjust it more securely.
“I was never loved or favored by the Baron,” I continue. “I did not sit down for a proper dinner until the King permitted me to dine at the palace.”
He says nothing.
“That was the first time,” I add. “Before that, I waited for Yvara to finish. I ate what remained.”
The memory arrives without bitterness.
“Like nothing,” I say plainly.
He goes very still.
“Does the prince treat you as the King does?” he asks.
I laugh, soft and genuine. “Colsar is nothing like him,” I say. “Nothing like anyone.” I look toward the trees, toward the dark outline of the mountains beyond sight. “It is as though someone was building creatures for this terrible world and made him just for me. Or made me just for him.”
Arven does not interrupt.
“I would endure any number of dinners with the King,” I continue quietly, “if it meant I could hear that Colsar reached the mountains safely.”
“He would not want that,” Arven says.
“He knows I like to be defiant.”
“And what does he do when you disobey him?”
“He frowns,” I reply, a small smile touching my mouth. “Or makes some dreadful brooding remark meant to intimidate me.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then he attempts to look severe.”
Arven’s expression does not change.
“Unless it is in our bed,” I add thoughtfully. “And I ask to be punished.”
Silence.
The faintest flush rises along Arven’s cheekbones. He looks away briefly.
“So he is good to you,” he says.
“Always.” The answer is immediate. I close my eyes for a moment, recalling that day. “When my father was bargaining me away to the King,” I say, “and the King declared the prince must take me instead…Colsar could have refused.”
Arven watches me carefully.
“The King would not have fought him for it,” I continue. “By then, he was already sleeping with my sister. A marriage to me was not necessary.”
The forest feels closer, listening.
“He never said it,” I add quietly. “But I know that even then, as cold as he seemed, he agreed because he heard how my father spoke of me. How I was described.”
“Expendable,” Arven says.
“Yes.”
“He knew what it was like,” I continue. “To be given away for someone else’s use.”
My voice remains calm, but something more grounded underlies it now. “He has always been worthy of me.”
Arven studies my face as though searching for doubt. There is none.
“I cannot lose him,” I say at last. “Arven.” The name leaves me without calculation, and for a moment he does not respond.
Then, very quietly, “You are not the only one who would lose something.”
I look at him, uncertain. He does not elaborate.
“You care for him,” he adds. “The Prince.”
“Yes.”
“And you think he is worthy of you?”
“Yes.”
He nods once. “Then we ensure he returns to someone still standing when he does.” He sighs. “Tomorrow you must eat. And then we will train.”
I nod.
He adjusts the cloak at my shoulders with careful precision. “I will walk you part of the way,” he says. “After that, your guard may escort you.”
“You trust him?”
“I trust that he fears losing more than he fears obedience.”
We move toward the palace, his attention no longer on me but drawn toward the distant line of the sea. For the first time, his silence does not feel like distance. It feels like preparation.