"I will," Elissa promised, though it felt like a lie.
Inside, the room was bathed in the bruised purple light of a Northern dusk. Elissa didn't light the candles. She crossed to the window, watching the snow spiral down like falling ash. She kept seeing the Prince's hand locked in Mira's—that absolute, terrifying bond.
Two halves of the same promise, she thought, her breath fogging the glass. The blade and the anchor.
She threw herself onto the bed, the heavy furs swallowing her small frame. The white pup scrambled up beside her, letting out a soft huff as it curled into the crook of her arm.
She brush her fingers behind it's ears and in return it makes a soft purr.
"Atleast you are with me" she murmured.
Elissa closed her eyes, but the darkness behind her lids was filled with sparkling, blue. It wasn't the Prince from the book anymore. It was Alistair. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching—that mixture of clinical observation and something much deeper, something that looked like a man starving in front of a feast.
An hour or two drifted by in a haze of half-sleep until the sound of rhythmic thumping at her door startled her awake.
The knock on Elissa's door came just as the evening light started to soften, painting the stone walls in pale gold and shadow.
"Room service! Or, well, the closest thing the Bastion has to it!" Vane's voice rang out, followed by Kestrel's muffled laughter.
Elissa sat up, smoothing her hair as the door swung open. Before she could even call out, the door pushed open and Kestrel slipped in first, her boots scuffing the stone floor with practiced ease.
Behind her, Vane leaned in with his usual half‑smile, one hand propped against the doorframe like he owned the hall. "We come bearing tea," he announced, as if declaring war on someone's bad mood instead of a simple evening visit. "And possibly gossip. Depends on how much you're willing to pay in the currency of 'not kicking us out immediately.'"
Kestrel rolled her eyes and stepped farther into the room, making space as a servant followed them in, balancing a low wooden tray. The delicate clink of porcelain and the soft rattle of the teapot signaled the arrival like quiet music. The tray held a small silver pot, thin cups with tiny painted flowers, a dish of sugar, and a plate of buttered bread triangles that smelled faintly of honey and herbs.
The servant set the tray carefully on the small table near the hearth, bowed her head politely, and backed out without a word, leaving the room to fill with the warm, comforting scent of tea and the low crackle of the fire.
Kestrel dropped into a chair with the same energy she used to drop into trouble, plucking a cup off the tray before it had even settled. "You're lucky," she said, pouring the tea with a surprisingly steady hand. "Vane once tried to carry tea himself and managed to spill it on a duke's robes. We were banned from his court for three years."
"Three months," Vane corrected, flopping onto the edge of the bed like he'd been invited to live there. "Which is basically the same thing, when you're twelve and dramatic."
Elissa watched them, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, the echo of the library and the illustration of Mira and the pureblood prince still fresh in her mind. But the simple act of tea, the casual intrusion of Kestrel and Vane.
"Tea and treason," Vane announced, kicking a chair toward the hearth and dropping into it. "Or at least, tea and very expensive gossip."
"The meeting broke," Kestrel said, her eyes dancing as she poured a dark, fragrant brew into a cup and handed it to Elissa. "The King has spoken. The ministers have stopped trembling long enough to sign the decrees. It's official."
Elissa lifted the delicate cup to her lips, the steam curling up warm against her skin. The first sip hit her like an anchor—rich, earthy, with just a hint of honey that spread through her chest and quieted the storm in her head for a moment. She needed that. After the library, after the illustration of Mira and that pureblood prince standing hand‑in‑hand against the end of the world, her mind felt like it was spinning too fast, too far out of control.
"What's official?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
"The Winter Solstice Ball," Kestrel said, jumping onto the end of Elissa's bed and crossing her legs. "The ravens are already flying. In two weeks, this drafty old tomb is going to be crawling with every noble, merchant-lord, and distant cousin from the borderlands."
Elissa felt a cold spark of anxiety. "A ball? Now? With the... with everything that's happening?"
"Especially now," Vane said, his eyes sharpening. "The king wants the world to see the Bastion standing firm, banners flying, as if the Hollow were nothing but a bad dream."
"We're all so excited," Kestrel added."
Elissa looked down at her tea. Attending a Ball in this castle? It was a strange thought.
"I don't know if I'm ready for that," Elissa murmured. "In Aethelgard, I spent balls tucked in the corners. I stayed in the shadows so people wouldn't comment on my magic—or the lack of it."
"The North is different," Vane said, reaching for a honey cake. "We all are with you."
Vane shrugged, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "The Princes and nobles of the other houses are coming to play their games. It's a ball. You'll be attending as one of us—which means -- you don't have to worry."
She have to face them, she thought. The gazes of foreign princes or the sharp tongues of the high-born ladies.
"You'll need a dress," Kestrel said, her voice full of sudden, infectious energy. "Something that doesn't say 'victim' and doesn't say 'ghost.' Tomorrow morning, after training, we're going to the markets. I'm tired of seeing you in these grey woollens."
"The markets?" Elissa blinked. "I haven't been outside the walls since..."
"Since you almost died?" Vane finished with a wink. "All the more reason to go. Consider it a scouting mission. Besides, the tailors in the city are much better than the ones Alistair uses for his boring black doublets."