Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
The guard looked away first and opened the gates without another word.
We passed under the portcullis without fanfare. No cheering, bowing, or warm welcome.
Inside the walls, I nudged my way up beside Erindor. “You didn’t have to glare at him like that.”
“He was wrong,” he said, eyes fixed ahead.
I raised a brow. “You think I need defending?”
“No,” he hissed. “I think you don’t realize what you are.”
I frowned. “And what am I?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Not just pretty enough to keep peace. You’re…distracting enough to get a man killed.”
“That’s not really an improvement,” I murmured, cheeks burning.
He looked at me then, and for the first time all day, something in his eyes softened.
“That was not intended as a compliment.”
I huffed. “What was it, then?”
“A warning. To myself.”
I turned away before I said something foolish as my pulse roared in my ears, deafening and insistent.
The road to the castle bridge rose like a spine, cutting through the heart of Caerthaine’s capital. Everything here gleamed with precision. Someone swept the streets clean. The windows shone without smudges. Silver lanterns hung on iron posts, each one identical in size and distance.
Beyond the hill, the sea whispered faintly, but even that seemed dulled here, like the sound had to ask permission to be heard.
The castle came into view gradually, through gaps in the layered buildings. Not towering like Elyrien’s, nor draped in ivy like the temples of Wildervale. It was all angles and order. Sharp turrets of white stone. Slate roofs with no moss. No birds perched on the spires.
Everything was symmetrical. Controlled. Cold.
Even the bridge to the gates was strange. Long, flat, and polished so smooth it almost shimmered like glass. No banners. No flowers. Only the muted echo of our horses’ hooves as we crossed.
Inside the gates, rows of guards stood in perfect silence. Not a single cheer or trumpet greeted us. No citizens lined the path. Just watchful eyes behind visored helms and the hush of something too careful.
The courtyard was pristine. White stones inlaid with blue-gray veins formed a pattern like ripples in water, and the palace beyond appeared pale and vast, its marble and silver surfaces bathed in a soft light that flickered like candlelight trapped beneath a lake.
A steward awaited us at the foot of the grand steps, where the stone staircase swept upward toward the castle’s towering front doors.
“The reception is prepared for tomorrow,” the steward announced, his tone smoothly devoid of deference, his head remaining at its arrogant level.
“His Highness awaits you in the throne room.”
My legs ached from the climb, but I kept my back straight as we mounted the last steps. The front gates groaned open, and cool air swept out to meet us.
Inside, the castle was a cathedral of shadow and gold.
Shafts of late-afternoon light cut down through high, arched windows, turning the dust motes to drifting stars.
The walls were carved with scenes of kings and conquerors, their eyes seeming to follow us as we passed.
Gilded sconces held flames that barely wavered, as if even the fire here obeyed the rules.
Our footsteps echoed across the polished stone in a slow, steady rhythm. The air smelled faintly of salt and iron, threaded with incense that clung to the back of my throat.
The steward led us down a long corridor lined with towering columns, their bases wrapped in coils of engraved bronze. At the end stood a pair of immense blackwood doors banded with gold. They opened without a sound, revealing a cavernous hall that swallowed us whole.
The throne sat atop a wide dais, framed by banners the color of midnight.
And there he was.
Prince Kaelen sat on the throne as though carved there—tall, immaculate, with one hand draped lazily over the armrest like the weight of the kingdom meant nothing to him.
His hair, the color of midnight, lay smoothly combed, not a single strand deviating from its place.
The high-collared navy tunic shimmered with silver thread woven into intricate, curling waves, while his boots gleamed like newly polished obsidian, ready for a formal inspection. When he smiled, it was a precise, practiced movement, lacking any genuine warmth.
“So,” he remarked, a slow ascent and descent of the steps mirroring his unhurried grace, “this is the bride they’ve promised me.”
He reached for my hand. I gave it slowly as I drew in a breath. His lips brushed the back of my bare skin in a gesture that felt more like possession than courtesy.
As his mouth touched my hand, I flicked my gaze toward the others. Alaric stood at ease, though I caught the faint crease between his brows. But it was Erindor’s face that caught me, his eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like a man restraining himself from stepping forward.
“Though I expected someone taller,” Kaelen asserted, his gaze scanning the surroundings, settling back on me with a critical flicker in the depth of his eyes.
Before I could reply, Alaric stepped forward, sharp enough to break the moment. “Prince Alaric of Elyrien,” he said, his voice deliberately light but edged in steel. “The princess’s escort. And yours truly.”
Kaelen’s gaze slid to him, cool and amused. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
He released my hand. “Your rooms are ready. Rest. The welcoming banquet is tomorrow. And”—his smile curved in a way that made my skin prickle—“try to look presentable, won’t you.”
He turned, flicking two fingers to summon a servant. A man stepped forward immediately and bowed, gesturing for us to follow.
The halls were hushed as we walked, our footsteps echoing across pale tiles.
Jasira leaned toward me and whispered, “Feels like the walls are watching.”
I gave her a slight nod. The weight of the air pressed down like I’d stepped into a cage dressed in glass and marble.
My chamber was beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist—lilac-carved canopy bed with white lace curtains, a silver comb set beside a basin of rosewater so cold it misted in the air. The windows framed the sea, but the glass was too clean, as if it had never been touched.
It smelled faintly perfumed. Unfamiliar. The bed looked like it belonged to someone else entirely. Someone softer.
The servant bowed again before leaving us. The door shut, and Jasira and I stood in the thick, perfumed quiet he left behind.
…
Later, a knock at the door.
A servant stepped in, eyes downcast. In her gloved hands was a box of glass and silver. She placed it on the edge of the writing desk, bowed, and left without a word.
Jasira leaned forward to open it.
I peeked over at it.
Inside sat a single flower pressed in mid-bloom, its petals silver-white, ideally encased in crystal. A small parchment note lay folded beside it.
Jasira picked it up and read aloud.
“Beauty only lasts if it’s encased. Like peace.”
The flower looked real. Too real. Preserved at the edge of life, caught in an amber glass like something hunted and mounted.
A band of tension tightened around the neck, constricting my throat.
Jasira’s eyes narrowed.
I reached out and touched the crystal.
It was cold.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not with the image of that glass flower burned behind my eyes. Not with the quiet weight of Caerthaine pressing in around us.
So, I lit a small candle, took my journal from beneath my cloak, and opened it with shaking fingers. Ink bled more than I meant it to, but I didn’t stop writing:
I keep thinking about the way the petals curled like it had been alive one breath ago. Like someone had stopped it.
I’ve seen pressed flowers. I’ve made them myself. But this was something else. This was invasive. A message or a warning. Or both.
It reminded me of that moment when someone brushes your hair back too gently, not out of love, but to see how it shines before they cut it.
I’m trying not to jump to fear. I’m trying to be rational. But something about this place is beautiful in all the wrong ways.
And I don’t think the flower was meant for anyone else.
-W