Elowen's POV:
Warm air greets me the moment I step inside.
The glass house holds the day's heat like a secret. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers lingers in the air, heavier than the cool evening outside.
For a moment, I think I might be alone.
Then I see him.
The Crown Prince is standing near the center aisle between two rows of tall palms and flowering vines. One hand rests loosely behind his back while the other turns a small silver ring on his finger as if it were something to occupy his thoughts.
The lantern light catches on his dark hair, leaving strands of silver at the edges. His shoulders are broad beneath a dark court coat, the fabric fitted sharply enough to make him look even taller than he already is.
He is not looking at me.
He is looking at the glass ceiling.
As though the plants interest him more than the person he summoned here.
The door closes softly behind me.
The sound draws his attention.
Slowly, he turns.
Those eyes find me immediately.
Grey.
I noticed the color the first night he cornered me in the garden, but here, beneath the warm lantern light and surrounded by glass reflections, they seem almost different. Not cold exactly. Not warm either.
Grey like storm clouds waiting to decide whether to rain.
His gaze studies me in a way that feels far too direct.
As though he is measuring something.
I step forward, stopping a polite distance away.
"Your Highness."
He inclines his head slightly.
"Lady Elowen."
Silence settles between us for a moment.
The glass walls reflect faint images of us both—two figures standing across from one another in a room full of flowers that feel entirely too peaceful for the tension sitting between us.
"You expected the parlor," he says.
It is not a question.
"Yes."
"And yet you came."
"I was summoned."
His mouth curves faintly.
Not quite a smile.
"You could have refused."
I meet his gaze steadily.
"No one refuses the Crown Prince."
Something flickers in his eyes at that.
Annoyance.
Or amusement.
Perhaps both.
He steps a little closer.
Not enough to break propriety.
Just enough that the space between us feels… deliberate.
"I have been observing the candidates," he says. "Individually."
"Yes," I reply calmly. "Selene mentioned her meeting with you."
Something sharp moves behind those grey eyes.
"Did she."
"She seemed quite pleased by the experience."
His gaze does not leave my face.
"And you?"
I fold my hands loosely before me.
"I am here because it was required."
His brow lifts slightly.
"Not because you wished to speak with me?"
"No."
The word leaves my mouth easily.
Too easily, perhaps.
A quiet breath escapes him.
"You are the only candidate who answers me so bluntly."
"Then perhaps I should apologize for the lack of courtly politeness."
"You sound as though you mean the opposite."
"I do."
For a moment he simply watches me.
Not offended.
Just… watching.
That same evaluating look again.
It makes my shoulders tighten.
"I read your report on food shortages," he says suddenly.
I blink.
"I did not realize the council documents reached you as well."
"I requested them."
His voice lowers slightly.
"It was… thorough."
The compliment catches me off guard.
But I do not let it linger.
"Practical problems require practical thinking."
"And yet," he says slowly, "you showed very little interest in presenting that thinking to the throne. I don't think you remember our conversation from the library."
I tilt my head.
"Should I have?"
"You are competing to become queen."
"I am participating because my family required it."
The words come out more sharply than intended.
His eyes narrow slightly.
"And if you were chosen?"
"I would not wish to be."
The silence that follows is heavier this time.
I force myself to continue.
"I am not suited for palace life, Your Highness."
"Why."
Not why aren't you suited.
Just—
Why.
I look away briefly, toward the climbing roses curling up the iron beams.
Because the answer feels far too personal.
But if I want distance between us, honesty might be the only path.
"I prefer quiet things," I say.
"My family's estate. The orchards. The library. Even the fields during harvest."
I glance back at him.
"Palaces are full of eyes. Expectations. Politics."
His voice is quieter now.
"That is the nature of ruling."
"Yes."
I meet his gaze again.
"And that is precisely why I would not enjoy it."
His grey eyes search mine as though trying to uncover something hidden behind the words.
"You would turn away from a crown."
"Yes."
"From power."
"Yes."
"From influence over the kingdom."
"Yes."
The last answer leaves my lips before I even think about softening it.
He studies me for a long moment.
Then he asks quietly,
"And what would you choose instead?"
I exhale slowly.
"A simple life."
His brow lifts faintly.
"With what? A farmer?"
The dry edge in his voice makes me stiffen.
"With peace," I reply evenly.
His gaze sharpens again.
"You speak as though peace and power cannot exist together."
"In a palace?"
I allow myself a small, humorless smile.
"I doubt it."
For a brief second, something like irritation crosses his expression.
"Lady Elowen."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"You seem determined to place distance between us."
"I believe that would be wise."
"And why is that?"
Because when you look at me like that, I forget why I dislike you.
Instead, I straighten slightly.
"Because I do not intend to remain here long enough for anything else to matter."
Those grey eyes hold mine again.
Searching.
As though my answer has only made him more curious.
And that, somehow, feels far more dangerous than anger ever could.