The morning light was softer now , no longer golden, but steady and revealing.
Elara stood before her mirror, spine straight, chin lifted. The sapphire gown she wore was deliberate. It clung at the waist before cascading like liquid silk to the marble floor. When she moved, it shimmered , not brightly, but enough to command attention without begging for it.
She adjusted one of the loose curls framing her face.
Regal.
Untouchable.
Controlled.
That was what the mirror reflected.
Not the girl who had stood on a balcony the night before.
Maera entered quietly, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"You look as beautiful as ever, Your Highness," she said warmly.
Elara's lips curved slightly. "At least someone in this palace has functioning eyesight."
Maera's brow lifted. "Ah. We are thinking about the knight again."
"I am not," Elara said too quickly.
Maera said nothing , which was infinitely worse.
Elara turned from the mirror. "I refuse to spend another day confined to this chamber like an ornamental vase. We are going somewhere."
Maera's shoulders stiffened. "We cannot leave the palace walls."
"I said within the palace," Elara replied dryly. "Must you assume I intend treason before breakfast?"
Maera exhaled slowly. "Where, then?"
A flicker of mischief lit Elara's eyes.
"The practice ballroom."
Maera narrowed her gaze. "That is not distraction. That is strategy."
"Perhaps."
"And whom are we strategizing against?"
Elara smiled , slow, dangerous.
"You'll see."
The corridor outside her chamber was quiet.
And he was there.
Standing exactly where he had promised he would remain.
Kael.
His posture was straight, hands loosely clasped behind his back. Not ornamental armor , but dark, fitted leathers reinforced with steel at the shoulders. Practical. Efficient. Unadorned.
He bowed.
Elara did not acknowledge it.
She walked past him, the scent of her perfume , something faintly floral and cold , brushing the air between them.
He followed.
Silent.
Measured.
Close enough that she felt his presence without turning.
Maera leaned closer to whisper, "You cannot dismiss him so easily."
"Watch me," Elara murmured.
She stopped abruptly.
Kael halted instantly behind her, precise as a blade finding its sheath.
She turned.
"Ser Knight," she said coolly, "this is the royal palace. I am not scaling battlements or fleeing into forests. You may cease stalking me as though I am a fugitive."
His expression did not shift.
"My duty binds me to your proximity, Princess."
"Proximity," she repeated lightly. "You speak as though I am a battlefield objective."
"If you attempt another fall," he said evenly, "I must be near enough to prevent it."
Maera wisely pretended fascination with a nearby tapestry.
Elara stepped closer.
"So you admit," she said softly, "you expect me to try again?"
His jaw tightened , almost imperceptibly.
"I expect danger," he replied. "From any direction."
Including her.
She almost laughed.
"Then try to keep up," she said lightly, turning again.
He did.
The practice ballroom was smaller than the grand hall but no less elegant.
Tall windows spilled daylight across polished floors. Crystal chandeliers hung above like suspended stars. Velvet curtains framed the walls, and in the far corner, a grand piano gleamed in quiet anticipation.
Elara entered first.
"Close the door," she commanded without looking back.
It shut with a controlled click.
Maera raised an eyebrow. "Should we not at least know the name of the man tasked with preserving your life?"
Elara walked slowly toward the center of the room before turning.
"Very well," she said lightly. "Ser Knight. Your name."
His gaze met hers fully for the first time.
"Kael Draven."
The name settled in the room like something heavier than sound.
"Kael," she repeated, tasting it. "It suits you. Sharp."
He inclined his head slightly. "Your Highness."
Maera moved to the piano.
"What shall I play?" she asked carefully.
"Something slow," Elara said. "Something… dangerous."
Maera's fingers hesitated before pressing into the keys.
The melody began softly , low, lingering notes that carried more tension than romance.
Elara stepped toward him.
"Tell me, Ser Kael," she said lightly, "do knights know how to dance? Or are you trained only in violence?"
"I know the steps," he replied.
"Good."
She extended her hand.
"Then dance with me."
He did not move immediately.
"It would be improper."
"I am future queen," she said smoothly. "If I choose impropriety, it becomes law."
Silence.
Then, slowly, he removed one glove.
The gesture was small.
Intimate.
His hand was warm when it closed around hers , roughened by training, steady with restraint.
He stepped closer.
One hand at her waist.
Not low.
Not inappropriate.
But firm enough to remind her he could control the space between them if he wished.
The music swelled.
They moved.
He led.
Not forcefully , but undeniably.
Elara adjusted quickly, matching his rhythm.
Her gown whispered across the floor as he turned her. Her pulse betrayed her composure.
He was precise.
Controlled.
Every step deliberate.
"You are staring," she said softly.
"I am ensuring you do not stumble."
"I do not stumble."
"You did last night."
Her breath caught.
He did not apologize.
He did not soften it.
The truth hung between them.
She lifted her chin.
"And you caught me."
"Yes."
The word was simple.
Unadorned.
And far more intimate than it should have been.
The music slowed.
He drew her closer for the next turn.
Close enough that she felt the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Close enough that the scent of steel and rain returned.
Outside the tall windows, servants had slowed. Watching.
Whispering.
Good.
Let them whisper.
"Tell me, Ser Kael," she murmured, her voice barely above the melody, "do you still find me… unimpressive?"
His eyes darkened slightly.
"You are radiant," he said.
The word struck harder than expected.
"But beauty does not sway me."
There it was again.
That wall.
That refusal.
She searched his face for mockery.
Found none.
Only discipline.
"You speak as though you are immune to the world," she said.
"No," he replied quietly.
"Only to distraction."
The implication lingered.
She was distraction.
Not temptation.
Not weakness.
Distraction.
Her pride bristled.
The music ended in a soft final note.
She stepped back first.
"Perhaps," she said coolly, "even stone can fracture."
She turned before he could answer.
Maera rose immediately.
Elara reached the door, her composure perfectly restored.
But just before she exited,
She glanced back.
He still stood in the center of the ballroom.
Watching her.
Not with desire.
Not with softness.
With calculation.
And something else.
Something restrained.
Something that looked dangerously close to conflict.
Her pulse quickened again.
She hated that.
She opened the door.
"Come, Maera."
Kael followed.
Two steps behind.
Close.
As promised.
And though Princess Elara would never admit it,
The space between them no longer felt like protection.
It felt like tension waiting for a spark.