Chapter Thirty-Three
Wynessa
The next afternoon, I’d reached the landing near the servant stairwell when the page found me.
He bowed too deeply, eyes cast to the floor. “His Highness requests your presence. In the solar. Alone.”
A frantic rhythm started in my chest, and a single, stunned word escaped my lips. “Now?” I questioned.
The boy only nodded, then scurried away down the corridor like a mouse retreating from fire.
Gideon looked up from where he leaned against a marble arch, folding a piece of dried fruit into his mouth. He must’ve heard the exchange because his posture sharpened.
“You’re not going up there by yourself,” he said casually, but his tone was tight.
“I don’t want to cause a scene,” I said, my hands clenched at my sides.
“You wouldn’t be. You’d be accompanied.” He smiled thinly. “That’s allowed.”
So, I let him walk with me.
The castle had grown quieter since the banquet. A stillness. The kind that comes before a storm breaks. Each sconce we passed hissed softly with candlelight. Long corridors stretched like ribs through the stonework, ribcages of a palace that swallowed its guests and digested them slowly.
When we reached the blackwood door of Kaelen’s solar, Gideon offered a look that wasn’t quite a smile.
“You’ve survived Vorrhounds, collapsing cliffs, Mimics, and a sentient maze. Whatever this is, you’ve got it.”
My hand hovered over the iron handle. “Thanks, but I’m not afraid.”
“I didn’t say you were. But I know the look of someone about to hold their breath.”
The door opened before I could knock.
Kaelen stood within, silhouetted by the golden flicker of lamps and the pale shine of the glass windows behind him. He looked his usual pristine self, not a single hair or thread out of place.
His mouth smiled, but the rest of his face remained still.
“Come,” he said smoothly. “Just you.”
Gideon shifted beside me. “I’m her guard.”
Kaelen’s gaze flicked to him. “Not here, you aren’t. I asked for the lady.”
I exhaled slowly and glanced at Gideon. He gave me a tiny nod, his brow furrowed, and muttered, “Knock if you want me to knock him out.”
I tried to smile, but it faltered.
The door closed, and the slam of the wood against the frame felt like teeth biting down on my courage.
The solar was spacious but sterile. Pale gray walls. Silver-threaded tapestries depicting Caerthaine’s naval triumphs. The shelves were lined with pristine books that looked untouched. A decanter of dark wine sat on a crystal tray, with two goblets set beside it, but they poured wine into only one.
Kaelen circled to the writing table and gestured to a curved-back chair.
“Please. Let’s talk like civilized people.”
I didn’t want to sit, but I did. Reluctantly, I settled into the chair, my body's protest a silent argument with my will.
He sat closely across from me, crossing his legs in a leisurely manner. His collar was open enough to seem effortless, not casual. A man performing elegance.
“I’ve had the seamstresses begin your fittings,” he said, pouring more wine.
“We’ll need at least two gowns for the ceremony.
Possibly more if we want portraits to circulate.
I’m also completing the guest list for the ceremony,” he said, unrolling a new sheet.
“Of course, your god would expect a mention. Perhaps we should also include a display for the coastal temples. Fire draws unease here, best to reframe it as symbolic rather than literal.”
“I haven’t signed the contract,” I mumbled.
He smiled as though I’d said something charming.
“You’ll sign it. We both know you will.”
My mouth opened, but his voice cut me off, a command sheathed in charm.
“We’ll want three heirs ideally. One to bind the alliance, two for contingency. I assume your line breeds true. Elyrien’s royal blood hasn’t shown signs of dilution, has it?”
“I’m not—” I stopped. My throat felt like it had closed around the words. Kaelen leaned forward.
“Your kingdom needs this. My kingdom needs this. And we’re both attractive enough that it won’t be unbearable.”
His gaze flicked over me then, slow and appraising in a way that made my skin crawl. It wasn’t the admiration I sometimes caught in Erindor’s eyes. There was no awe, no reverence. Only assessment.
“Are you still a virgin?” he asked, like he was inquiring about a horse he intended to buy.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
His hand slid forward, fingers brushing lightly against my thigh. Not lewd. Just enough to imply ownership.
The room closed in around me.
“I—that’s none of—”
“It matters,” he interrupted. “To the perception of the union. The purity of our future heirs.” His voice was low now, close. “I intend to be king of more than Caerthaine one day, Wynessa. And I need a wife who understands the necessity of appearances.”
I jerked my leg back. My breath had gone shallow, fast.
But he only smiled, leaning back as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t touched me. As if his words weren’t stripping the flesh from who I thought I was.
“Don’t look so pale,” he smirked. “This is what you were raised for, isn’t it? To be useful.”
I rose to my feet as quickly as I could, scraping my chair across the floor.
“I think we’re finished.”
“Not yet.” His voice followed me to the door, lazy and cruel.
“Shame the wilds didn’t take you when they had the chance.”
I didn’t turn. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Something kindled within, not with fear or shame, but with the steady, growing heat of a new resolve. It was the deliberate ignition of a fire that had lain dormant, sharper and older than mere obedience.
Gideon was waiting beyond the arch.
His smile vanished the instant he saw my face.
“You’ve got a terrible card-play face,” he murmured. “Want to tell me what he said?”
“Later.” I cleared my throat. “I…I need some air.”
He studied me with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “You have ten minutes before I come storming through the halls.”
I gave him a ghost of a smile and turned away.
I didn’t know where I was going yet.
Only that I couldn’t stay still.
I didn’t realize I’d taken a wrong turn until the sconce light thinned and the walls turned into unfamiliar older stone, the plaster here veined with hairline cracks.
No silk hangings, no polished tile. Bare corridors and the smell of old wax and older secrets.
I paused at the hall’s bend, breathing in shallow gulps.
The air felt heavier here, like the castle’s bones were thicker in this part of the world.
Behind me, soft footsteps approached.
I spun around in a daze, my pulse spiking, hand darting to the edge of my skirt where a dagger should be but wasn’t.
“Easy,” came the voice, calm and warm. “It’s just me, Princess.”
Dorian stepped into view, the glint of his many rings catching the low torchlight. His tunic shimmered faintly beneath his long coat, its embroidered cuffs undone, his hair pulled back as always.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, lifting both hands as if to show he meant no harm. “But you looked like a ghost chasing its own shadow. I was afraid you’d walk straight into a wall.”
I tried to give a polite smile, but it felt wrong on my face.
“I needed air,” I breathed.
“You chose the one hallway without it,” he replied with a soft snort. “The archive wing. No one comes down here unless they’re hiding something or hoping to be forgotten.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, unsettled. “Are you following me?”
“No,” he said easily. “But I’ve learned to pay attention when someone looks like they’re about to splinter.”
He paused, glancing both ways down the hall before lowering his voice.
“And you, Princess, are terrible at pretending.”
I swallowed, a dry, deliberate act that seemed only to tighten the raw, aching muscles of my throat. The memory of Kaelen’s hand still lingered, phantom-heavy on my leg. His voice had followed me like a rot.
Dorian stepped closer. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re in danger.”
My breath hitched. “Why are you telling me this?”
He reached into his coat, fingers slipping between layers of silk and gold chain, and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
“No seal. No proof,” he said. “But something that shouldn’t exist anymore. I found it filed among export records in the new tower. Misplaced or poorly hidden. It didn’t belong there.”
I took the page with trembling fingers.
Dorian met my gaze. “If you really want answers, there’s a room near the end of this hall. Smells like candle flame and secrets. The older archivists used to call it the Deep Shelf.”
“What’s in it?”
“Things no one wanted remembered,” he said. “Letters. Logs. Drafts that never made it into the official record. Things meant to be burned.”
I stared down at the paper in my hands, unable to open it. My fingers were shaking too hard.
“Why are you helping me?” I whispered.
Dorian tilted his head. “Because not everyone who smiles at Kaelen means it. And because you deserve to see the shape of the knife before it’s at your throat.”
He offered a bow, more profound than expected, and then turned without waiting for a response.
I stood there until his footsteps vanished.
Then I walked.
The hallway led to a thick wooden door, slightly swollen from age.
The rusted hinge resisted before giving way with a soft groan.
Inside, the air turned to a mixture of moth dust and mildew.
The room wasn’t large, but its shelves were deep, packed to the back with scrolls and ledgers, many of which had remained untouched for decades.
It smelled of damp paper and things long buried.
I moved slowly, guided only by a single flickering candle wedged into a wall sconce.
Shadows stretched across the floor like spilled ink.
I followed a narrow path between shelves until I found a low cabinet behind a warped screen.
Something about it felt out of place. Its wood looked newer than the others. Someone had broken the lock recently.
A knot tightened in my gut.