"To the Crown Prince of the North? Perhaps," Vane said softly. "But to Alistair? I don't think so. I've seen him look at assets. He doesn't look at maps with the same... intensity... that he uses to make sure your cloak is pinned correctly."
"He's terrified of you," Kestrel added, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand.
Elissa blinked. "Terrified? Of me? I'm a hostage with no power. He's a pure-blooded vampire who could break me with one hand."
"Physical power isn't what scares Alistair," Kestrel countered. "He's a man of absolute control. He controls his hunger, his soldiers, his kingdom, and his heart. You are an unpredictable variable, Elissa. You make him feel things that aren't on his duty roster. That scares a man like him more than a thousand Southern swords."
"He's also just incredibly awkward," Dante rumbled from the corner, causing everyone to jump. It was the most he'd said in an hour. "He thinks feelings are like a winter siege. Something to be survived, not enjoyed."
The tension broke as Vane threw a grape at Dante. "Spoken like a true poet, brother! Who knew our resident mountain had a romantic soul?"
"Shut up, Vane," Dante muttered, though a ghost of a smile touched his lips.
As lunch was brought in—steaming bowls of thick venison stew, crusty bread, and spiced ale—the conversation turned to lighter things. They talked about the pup, who was now fast asleep on Dante's boot. They argued over which Southern fruit was the most overrated (Vane insisted it was the pomegranate because it was 'too much work for too little reward').
Elissa found herself laughing—truly laughing—for the first time. She told them about the festivals in Aethelgard, where the witches would light the trees with spirits of gold and purple, and how she once accidentally turned her tutor's hair green during a botched levitation spell.
"I wish Alistair could see this," Kestrel said, her voice warm. "He hasn't heard a laugh like yours in these halls since we were children."
Meanwhile, several floors below, the Great Dining Hall was a cavern of cold silence.
Alistair sat at the head of the long obsidian table, the empty chairs around him feeling like a personal insult. He picked at his roasted meats, his luminous blue eyes fixed on the far wall. The servants moved with hushed steps, sensing the storm brewing behind his calm expression.
He had told himself that the reprieve was for her health. He had told himself that he didn't want to be interrupted by her "inexperience" today. But as the minutes ticked by, the irritation in his chest grew.
"Where is the Princess?" he finally asked, his voice low, dangerous rumble that made the serving girl jump.
"She is in the South Parlour, Your Highness," the steward replied, bowing low. "The Lady Kestrel and the Princes are with her. They... they requested their lunch be served there."
Alistair's grip tightened on his fork until the silver began to groan under the pressure. A private lunch. Without him. While he sat here in the drafty hall, doing the "practical" work of the kingdom, they were tucked away in the warmest room of the castle, undoubtedly laughing at his expense.
He could see it in his mind: Vane telling some ridiculous story, Kestrel egging him on, and Elissa... Elissa looking at them with the warmth she never quite offered him.
"Clear the table," Alistair commanded, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the stone like a dying animal.
He strode out of the hall, his boots echoing with a rhythmic, furious click. He told himself he was going to the library to review the border patrols. He told himself he had no interest in what they were discussing.
But as he passed the corridor leading to the South Parlour, he stopped.
Through the heavy wood, he heard it. A peal of laughter—bright, silver, and melodic. It was her. He had heard her scream, he had heard her plead, and he had heard her speak with cautious respect. But he had never heard her laugh like that.
It was a sound that didn't belong in the Bastion. It was too warm, too full of life. It was a sound that belonged to a girl who wasn't a vessel, or a hostage, or a Starwind.
Alistair reached for the door handle, his heart doing a strange, uncomfortable lurch against his ribs. He wanted to walk in. He wanted to see her face when it was lit by that joy. He wanted to know what Vane had said to make her sound so... free.
But he caught his reflection in a polished suit of armor standing by the door. He saw the Crown Prince. He saw the ice. He saw the man who had ordered her to rest because he was too afraid to tell her he was..... worried.