Elowen's POV:
The dining hall glittered as though nothing in the world could ever exist beyond gold and candlelight.
I entered quietly, my steps measured despite the lingering rush in my pulse. Conversations swirled in polite clusters. Silverware chimed against porcelain. Laughter rose and fell in carefully curated tones.
No one immediately turned towards me.
Good.
I slipped into my assigned seat, offering calm nods to the ladies. Selene gave me a faint smile of relief. Marisella barely spared me a glance.
If anyone noticed my lateness, they were gracious enough not to remark upon it.
Or clever enough to store it away.
I accepted a plate from a passing servant and focused on my meal. Roasted pheasant, buttered roots, fresh bread still warm from the ovens. I forced myself to eat slowly, though my thoughts drifted repeatedly back to the library.
The shadow.
The certainty in that stride.
My fork paused midair.
I lowered my gaze to my plate.
Across the hall, at the elevated table beneath the royal crest, the Crown Prince sat in composed authority. His posture immaculate. His expression carved from cool marble. He spoke sparingly to the duke at his side, listening more than offering.
He did not look at me.
Not once.
Yet awareness prickled along my skin like the faint brush of static.
I finished my supper with deliberate calm and rose when the dismissal bell chimed softly through the hall.
My chambers felt too confined.
After the vastness of the library, the painted walls and embroidered cushions seemed almost suffocating. I dismissed my maid early under the pretense of fatigue.
"I require nothing further tonight," I assured gently.
When the door shut and silence settled, I moved at once.
From my writing desk, I gathered parchment, ink, and a small travel lantern. I hesitated only briefly before adding a folded cloth and a slim flask of water.
The corridor beyond my chambers was quiet at this hour. Most candidates favored gossip in shared parlors or retired early in preparation for the trial.
I preferred neither.
I descended a lesser-used staircase and slipped through a side door into the gardens.
Night embraced the palace grounds in silver.
Moonlight spilled across trimmed hedges and marble statues, casting long elegant shadows. The fountains whispered softly, their steady trickle masking the smallest of sounds.
Here, at least, I could breathe.
I chose a stone bench tucked near a low arch of climbing roses — dormant now in winter, but still fragrant faintly in the cool air. The sky stretched endless above me, stars scattered like distant promises.
I set my lantern low, shielding its glow.
I unfolded the parchment.
For a moment, my pen hovered without moving.
Then I began.
Father,
The palace is precisely as suffocating as you warned — though I suspect you would find amusement in that truth.
My lips curved faintly.
There are politics woven into every courtesy, ambition hidden behind every smile. I have done as you advised: observe more than I speak. Listen more than I reveal.
I paused, tapping the pen lightly against my lip.
The Crown Prince is not what they claim him to be.
The words lingered on the page longer than I intended.
I frowned and scratched it out.
I started writing again on a new parchment.
The trials test more than grace. They test patience. Calculation. Endurance.
A soft breeze lifted a strand of my hair.
I dipped my pen again.
You once told me that knowledge is the only freedom no one can confiscate. I have found the library, Father. It may well be the only place in this palace where I feel—
A sound behind me.
Not loud.
Not careless.
But close.
My breath stilled.
Slowly, I turned.
A shadow detached itself from the darker edge of the hedge and stepped forward into the moonlight.
The Crown Prince.
He wore no ceremonial coat tonight. No heavy embroidery. Only a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open at the throat. Simpler. Sharper.
More dangerous.
He regarded me with an unreadable expression.
"Lady Elowen," he said quietly.
My pulse leapt so abruptly that my hand jerked.
The flask tipped.
Water arced through the air in a glittering silver curve — and landed directly against his chest.
For one suspended, impossible second, neither of us moved.
The dark fabric clung instantly where it had been soaked.
I stared.
Horror arrived a heartbeat later.
"I—" I shot to my feet. "Your Highness, I am so—"
The words dissolved.
Because the water had darkened the thin linen, outlining the unmistakable strength beneath. The clean lines of muscle. The broad plane of his chest rising slowly beneath damp cloth.
Moonlight traced every defined edge.
My gaze betrayed me before I could stop it.
Heat rushed up my neck.
His eyes flicked downward briefly — noticing exactly where mine had lingered — before returning to my face.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
"An unconventional greeting," he observed mildly.
"I did not hear you approach," I replied, forcing my voice into composure.
"That is evident."
I swallowed.
"I apologize."
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that I could feel the warmth of him even in the chilled air.
"The palace gardens are not meant for solitary excursions at this hour," he said.
Silence stretched between us.
The fountain whispered in the distance.
"You have a habit," he said slowly, "of placing yourself where few others think to look."
"And you," I replied, steadying my spine, "have a habit of appearing where you are not expected."
His gaze sharpened.
"Do I?"
I held his eyes.
The memory of boots on marble flickered between us unspoken.
The air changed.
Subtle.
Electric.
He stepped even closer, and this time I had to tilt my chin slightly to maintain eye contact.
"You should be careful, Lady Elowen," he murmured.
"Of gardens?" I asked lightly.
"Of curiosity."
My breath faltered.
For a moment — just a moment — I wondered what would happen if I did not retreat.
Instead, I reached deliberately for the folded cloth at my side and extended it toward him.
"For the water," I said evenly.
His fingers brushed mine as he accepted it.
The contact lasted less than a second.
It felt far longer.
He dabbed once at the damp fabric but made no true effort to dry it.
"You write letters at midnight," he noted.
"To people who know me," I answered.
"And what do they know?"
"That I do not startle easily."
His gaze held mine in challenge.
"You startled tonight."
"You move too quietly."
A pause.
"Would you prefer warning?"
I hesitated.
"No," I said honestly.
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
Then, abruptly, he stepped back.
Distance returned like a curtain falling.
"Do not linger long," he said, his tone returning to princely command. "The night air grows colder."
"And you?" I asked before thinking.
"I am accustomed to it."
He inclined his head once — not formally, not intimately. Something between.
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into shadow as soundlessly as he had arrived.
I remained standing long after he was gone.
My heart refused to settle.
I lowered myself slowly back onto the bench, staring at the half-written letter before me.
The ink had pooled where my pen had paused.
I read the last unfinished line.
—where I feel—