Chapter 17
Seventeen
The Balcony
Sabine sat wrapped in blankets near the fire, still cold hours after the Blackwater.
The chill had settled into her bones. Her hair was nearly dry now, but her throat felt raw from coughing river water and her fingers ached from how hard she had clutched the circlet and the music while the current tried to drown her.
The mark on her palm pulsed hot against all the cold.
Lysa crossed the chamber with a fresh shift and a heavy robe. “You need to dress. The palace will want you presentable when the summons comes.”
“What summons.”
“The one that always comes after a prince breaks witness protocol to save a bride from sacred water.” Lysa’s voice was dry. “The court has been talking for hours. You are either divinely favored or doomed, depending on who one asks.”
Sabine stood carefully. Her ribs ached where Lucien’s arm had locked around her, hauling her back from drowning. She could still feel the memory of his body against hers, solid and burning hot compared to the freezing river.
“What are they saying.”
Lysa helped her into the shift. “That the prince entered the Blackwater for you. That he touched you after the river claimed you. That the bond must be real because no man risks himself publicly for political strategy.” She began fastening the robe.
“Some say you have brought him back to himself. Others say you are leading him into the same pattern that destroyed his first bride.”
“And what do the servants say.”
“That the palace prefers women to nearly die neatly, without making princes reveal what they would risk to keep them alive.” Lysa met her eyes. “You passed the trial. That is the problem. You passed and made him show the court exactly what you mean to him.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Lysa opened it. A palace attendant stood in the corridor, holding a sealed card on a silver tray.
The seal was royal. Not Lucien’s personal mark. The dowager crest.
Queen Mother Ilyra requested Sabine’s presence immediately.
The conservatory was full of white moths.
They moved through the glass chamber in slow spirals, their wings catching lamplight. The air smelled of humid earth and the particular sweetness of flowers bred to bloom at night.
Queen Mother Ilyra stood near the center fountain, dressed in pale silk that made her look like one of her own moths. Beautiful, delicate, and capable of surviving winter while lesser creatures died.
“Lady Sabine,” she said warmly. “Come sit with me. You must still be chilled.”
Sabine crossed to the carved bench Ilyra indicated. The stone was cold despite the humid air.
Ilyra poured tea with elegant hands. “I wanted to see for myself that you recovered from the trial. The Blackwater can be quite unforgiving.”
“I survived.”
“You did more than survive. You retrieved an object the river did not wish to release, and you returned with evidence of my son’s… investment in your wellbeing.” Ilyra’s smile did not reach her eyes. “The court found the display moving. The temple found it irregular. I find it expensive.”
Sabine accepted the tea but did not drink. “Expensive how.”
“A prince may want a woman privately. The court punishes him only when wanting becomes visible.” Ilyra set her own cup down with precision.
“Lucien entered sacred water for you in front of witnesses. He defied temple protocol to keep an object in your possession. He touched you with the river still dripping from your hair. Every noble, priest, and servant present saw a man who would break ceremony to save one particular bride.”
“He saved my life.”
“Yes. And now everyone knows he would.” Ilyra’s voice remained gentle.
“Do you understand what that knowledge costs, Sabine? It makes you powerful, because you can clearly provoke him into action. It also makes you easy to attack, because hurting you is now the most efficient way to destabilize him.”
The conservatory door opened.
Lucien entered, his face controlled but his eyes hard when they found Sabine.
“Mother,” he said. “I was told this meeting was urgent.”
“It is. Sit.” Ilyra gestured to the bench beside Sabine. “We are discussing the political consequences of rescuing drowning brides during public trials.”
Lucien remained standing. “Sabine was underwater. The attendants did nothing. I acted.”
“You intervened. Again.” Ilyra rose and crossed to the nearest glass case, where moths rested on white branches.
“First in the corridor when she was mishandled. Then on the causeway during the Trial of Bearing. Now in the Blackwater shrine. Each time, you make your protection of her more visible. Each time, the court watches and draws conclusions.”
“Let them.”
“Lucien.” Ilyra’s voice sharpened fractionally.
“You are not a private man anymore. You are the crown’s only viable heir.
Every feeling you display becomes evidence your enemies can use.
If the temple argues that Sabine destabilizes you, that the bond makes you reckless, they can challenge the validity of your selection. They did it before.”
The room went very still.
Isolde’s name hung in the air without anyone speaking it.
Sabine set her tea down carefully. “The temple challenged Prince Lucien’s first selection?”
“Not officially. But there were questions.” Ilyra turned back to face them.
“Questions about whether excessive attachment compromised the sacred judgment of the rite. Questions about whether emotional dependence made the bond unsound. Those questions became louder after Isolde’s death, and they contributed to Lucien’s exile. ”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I was exiled because the court needed someone to blame.”
“You were exiled because visible grief made you politically expensive.” Ilyra’s gaze moved between them. “And now you are making the same mistake. Protection and possession look identical from the outside, and the palace will use whichever version damages you most.”
Sabine stood. “With respect, I did not ask to be rescued. But I will not apologize for surviving.”
“I am not asking you to apologize.” Ilyra’s voice softened into something almost kind. “I am asking you to understand that kingdoms survive by teaching women to endure beautifully and men to want quietly. When either of you refuses those lessons, the cost becomes visible.”
She crossed to the door and paused. “The temple will summon you soon, Sabine. Serast saw what Lucien pressed back into your hand. He knows you retrieved something beyond the trial object. When he asks you to surrender it, remember that honesty and survival are not always compatible.”
She left.
Sabine and Lucien stood alone in the moth-filled glass.
“She is right,” Lucien said quietly.
“I know.”
“And she is also trying to protect the throne more than either of us.”
“I know that too.”
Lucien crossed to her. He stopped close enough that Sabine could feel the heat coming off him, but he did not touch her.
“Are you hurt,” he asked.
“Bruised. Cold. Angry that you risked yourself.”
“You were drowning.”
“And now Serast knows I found something.” Sabine met his eyes. “You should have let the river take me before you gave the temple more ammunition.”
His hand shot out and caught her wrist. “Do not say that again.”
The mark flared where he touched her.
Heat rushed up Sabine’s arm, chasing away the lingering cold.
“We need to talk,” Lucien said roughly. “Not here. Follow me.”
The balcony jutted out over the Blackwater like a stone blade.
Narrow, cold, exposed enough to feel dangerous but private enough for words the palace should not hear. Wind came off the river, carrying the mineral smell of deep water and old stone.
Sabine gripped the railing and looked down at the black current moving below.
Hours ago, she had been under that water. Drowning. Fighting to keep hold of forbidden evidence while the river tried to pull her down into the same darkness that had claimed the veiled bride.
Then Lucien’s arm had locked around her waist and hauled her back.
“You reached for the music,” Lucien said behind her. “You felt the safe object and chose the dangerous one anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You nearly died for a strip of waterlogged notation.”
Sabine turned to face him. “That strip proves Isolde was not the first bride consumed by this rite. It proves the temple has been hiding deaths for longer than your lifetime. So yes, I reached for it. And I would do it again.”
“Even if it kills you.”
“Even then.”
Lucien moved closer, his face hard. “Do not make recklessness sound like courage.”
“Do not make my survival sound like obedience.”
They were too close now.
Close enough that Sabine could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing had gone uneven.
“When you went under,” Lucien said quietly, “the bond hit me like cold water in my own lungs. I felt you drowning. Not politically. Not strategically. I felt the river pulling you down and I could not breathe until I had you back.”
Sabine went still.
“The bond is not just attraction,” he continued. “It carries danger across distance. When you are hurt, I feel it. When you panic, it moves through me. I did not choose to enter the water as strategy. I felt you dying and my body moved before I could think past it.”
“That is terrifying.”
“I know.”
“If the bond can override your judgment like that, we are both more vulnerable than I thought.”
“I know that too.” His hand came up and touched the wet strand of hair near her throat. “But I would rather be vulnerable than watch you drown.”
Sabine’s breath caught.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw, then lower, brushing across her collarbone where bruises were beginning to show. Places where the current had slammed her against stone. Places his arm had locked around her ribs to drag her back to air.
“You are not breakable,” he said. “That is part of the problem.”
Sabine stepped into him instead of away.
His control fractured.