Elowen's POV:
I woke before the bells.
Not gracefully. Not peacefully.
Flustered.
The memory of the corridor returned with cruel precision — the dim light, the echo of my slippers against marble, the low timbre of his voice. Your Highness. His nearness. The way his gaze had lingered just long enough to unsettle me.
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
I stared up at the canopy above my bed, wishing — foolishly — that I might suddenly fall ill, sprain an ankle, vanish entirely. But Elowen Evermere did not hide. Even if she very much wished to.
A soft knock sounded at my door.
"Lady Elowen? It is nearly time," Liora called gently.
"Yes," I replied, forcing steadiness into my voice. "I am awake."
I rose and crossed to the wardrobe.
If he expected green or silver again, he would be disappointed.
My fingers brushed over fabrics before settling on a gown of deep sapphire blue — rich and bold, the color of a twilight sky just before night swallows it whole. The bodice was structured but elegant, adorned with delicate beadwork that shimmered subtly when it caught the light. The sleeves were sheer and long, tapering to fitted cuffs at my wrists, and the skirt fell in soft layers that moved like water when I walked.
Not soft. Not timid.
Controlled.
Liora styled my hair differently this morning — not loose curls, but partially pinned back with intricate braids woven across the crown of my head, leaving the rest to fall in polished waves down my back. A few delicate sapphire pins were placed between the braids, catching the light without overwhelming the look.
"You look formidable," Liora murmured.
"I do not wish to look formidable," I replied quietly. "Only composed."
She smiled knowingly but said nothing more.
Selene entered my chamber without knocking, already dressed in a warm rose-gold gown that complemented her complexion beautifully. She looked radiant — hopeful — alive with anticipation.
"You look nervous," she observed, studying me carefully.
"I am not," I lied.
She smirked. "He will be there today."
I sighed. "So I have heard."
Selene moved to the window, sunlight illuminating her like something out of a painting. "This is an opportunity. Breakfast is informal — less guarded. If he attends personally, it means he wishes to observe us closely."
"Or intimidate us," I muttered.
"Then let him," she said brightly. "I intend to speak about trade reform if given the chance. Yesterday's proceedings made it clear that he values decisiveness. I can show him I understand that."
There it was — her strategy.
She thrived in this.
"I miss home," I said quietly, surprising even myself. "The orchard in late summer. Father reading in the study after dinner. The quiet."
Selene's expression softened.
"You cannot mean to leave."
"I mean," I corrected gently, "that I plan to write Father today. He should know we are safe."
Selene studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Write him. But do not retreat into memories, Elowen. We are here now."
You are here now, I thought. Not me.
But I smiled anyway. "Of course."
The breakfast hall doors opened before us with ceremonial precision.
Conversation hummed inside — silks rustling, porcelain clinking, soft laughter drifting through the air.
And then the room shifted.
Because he was already there.
Crown Prince Kael sat at the head of the long table, posture relaxed but unmistakably commanding. Morning light poured through the tall windows behind him, outlining him in gold and shadow.
He wore charcoal-black attire this morning — not the heavy ceremonial garments of court, but something sharper, more deliberate. A tailored jacket fitted closely to his broad shoulders, silver embroidery tracing subtle patterns along the cuffs and collar. Beneath it, a high-collared shirt of stark white contrasted against his dark complexion. No cloak. No crown. But the sword remained at his side.
Always the sword.
His dark hair was slightly less rigid than usual, as though he had run a hand through it moments before entering. It softened nothing. If anything, it made him look more dangerous — less distant prince, more lethal man.
Beside him stood Lord Alaric Davenwood, impeccable as ever. Today, he wore blue court attire trimmed in silver, posture perfectly straight, hands clasped behind his back. His gray eyes moved across the room constantly, observing every reaction, every hesitation.
Kael did not rise when we entered.
He merely looked up.
His gaze swept the line of candidates — cunning, evaluating.
It paused on Selene first.
Lingering.
Assessing.
"Lady Selene," he said smoothly, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her. "You seem well this morning."
Selene curtsied gracefully. "Your Highness."
He gestured toward a seat closer to him. "Join me."
A flicker of triumph passed through Selene's eyes before she masked it.
Then his gaze shifted again — to another candidate, Lady Marisella Valecrest, whose beauty was sharp and striking. He offered her a faint nod as well. "Lady Marisella."
Attention. Calculated. Intentional.
And then —
His eyes landed on me.
They lingered for a heartbeat too long.
Something unreadable passed through them — irritation? amusement? challenge?
"Lady Elowen," he said coolly. "You appear… rested."
The faintest emphasis on the word.
A subtle reminder of the corridor.
I inclined my head. "Your Highness."
He leaned back slightly in his chair. "I trust the halls were quiet enough for sleep."
The insult was delicate, wrapped in civility — but unmistakable.
A few of the girls exchanged glances.
Selene's fingers tightened on her napkin.
"They were sufficiently peaceful," I replied evenly. "The palace is most secure."
Lord Alaric's gaze flickered between us, sharp with interest.
Kael's jaw tightened — just slightly — as though my composure annoyed him.
Or disappointed him.
He shifted his attention back to Selene with deliberate ease, asking her opinion on trade regulation along the northern routes. She answered beautifully — confident, articulate, strategic.
He listened.
He nodded.
He even smiled — faintly.
But I noticed something.
Even while he praised her insight, even while Lady Marisella laughed softly at one of his remarks.
His eyes returned to me.
Again.
And again.
Cold.
Assessing.
As though waiting for something.
As though irritated that I refused to give it to him.
I kept my posture straight. My hands steady. My expression neutral.
Let him look.
Let him test.
I would not flinch.
And yet — beneath the table, my pulse would not slow.
The game had shifted.
Yesterday, he ruled the court with blood.
Today, he ruled the breakfast table with precision.
And I had the distinct feeling that his cruelty toward me was not dismissal.
It was provocation.