Elena didn't make it through breakfast.
She lasted fifteen minutes at Claire's table—fifteen minutes of pushing fruit around her plate, pretending not to watch Mirenya sparkle beside Soren, and absolutely failing to convince herself she wasn't jealous.
So she slipped out.
No one noticed.
Or so she thought.
The courtyard was quiet, still washed in morning gold. Elena crossed to the old tree that leaned toward the stone wall like it had lived through too many storms. She sat on the low ledge beneath it, hugging her arms around herself.
"Ridiculous," she muttered. "Jealous of a woman who looks like she was carved by vengeful gods? Absolutely not. I'm fine. I'm centered. I am—"
"You are lying."
Elena nearly levitated off the ledge.
Soren stood a few paces away, half-shadow, half-sunlight, watching her with that unnervingly precise focus he saved for battlefield maps and—apparently—her emotional unraveling.
"Your Highness," she said, loading the title with enough sarcasm to constitute a diplomatic incident.
One dark eyebrow lifted.
"A sharp tone so early in the day," he murmured. "Should I assume you missed me?"
"I—what—no. I came out for air."
"You fled."
"I did not flee."
His mouth curved by one imperceptible degree, the closest he ever came to laughing.
"Elena," he said softly, "you ran."
Heat shot up her neck. Wonderful. The murder-prince was observant.
He stepped closer—the slow, deliberate kind of step that always made the air feel thicker.
"I suppose," he said, voice dropping, "that was because of Lady Mirenya."
Elena made a strangled noise. "I—what—no. Why would I—"
"You bristled when she spoke to me."
"I didn't bristle."
"You glared when she bowed."
"I glare at everyone."
"You left the hall," he finished, "right after she touched the table near my hand."
She stared at him, horrified.He was enjoying this.
A small, dangerous smirk ghosted across his mouth.
"You are jealous."
"I AM NOT."
He studied her for a long, excruciating heartbeat—enough to make her toes curl in her boots, enough to make her very aware that they were alone.
Then, quietly:
"You are beautiful when you're jealous."
Elena forgot how to breathe.
"That is—absolutely—not—appropriate," she managed.
"Correct," he murmured, still far too amused. "But hardly untrue."
She hated him.She absolutely did not hate him.
He exhaled, the amusement softening into something more serious.
"I did not come to argue," he said. "I came to direct you."
"Oh, good," she muttered. "Assignments. My favorite."
"You will go to the library," Soren told her.
"The library?"
"You look as though your mind needs occupying," he said. "Books will do that better than wandering the halls thinking about… unnecessary things."
Unnecessary things.Like him.And Mirenya.And the sudden desire to scream into a pillow.
She crossed her arms. "I never said I like books."
"You didn't have to."
His gaze traced her posture—the restless fingers, the tension in her shoulders—the way only someone who paid far too much attention would notice.
"You learn through reading," he said. "And you are calmer when your thoughts have direction."
Heat crawled up her neck.
"You're very presumptuous," she muttered.
"And often correct."
Before she could argue, he stepped a fraction closer—just enough that the space between them hummed.
"The library will help," he said quietly.
"Help what?" she whispered.
He held her gaze.
"Go," he murmured. "Before I am late."
And with that, he turned and left her beneath the old tree—heart racing, pulse unsteady, dignity in tatters.
Elena expected stone. Dust. A depressing medieval reading dungeon.
She was not prepared for this.
Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting pale gold across towering shelves that stretched so high they disappeared into wooden arches. Ladders rolled along the aisles. Hearths crackled quietly. Reading alcoves glowed with warm lamplight. The air smelled like old paper and ink and absolute salvation.
She stopped in the entrance, breath catching.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "If medical school had looked like this, I'd have done three extra degrees."
She wandered in a slow, reverent circle.
As a doctor, she had lived in libraries.She'd survived on textbooks, journals, late-night coffee-fueled study sessions.Books had structure when life didn't.Books made sense when the world didn't.
This place wrapped around her like a familiar coat.
She almost laughed from relief.
She drifted down aisles until her fingers brushed a shelf titled:
Myths of the Northern Realms
Her pulse jumped.
She ran a hand along the spines and stopped when she felt one slightly warm beneath her touch—its leather etched with curling silver lines that looked disturbingly like the markings she'd seen in the forest.
The book opened with a soft groan.
Illustrations filled the first page:Swirling symbols.Twin moons.A figure collapsing in mist—too close to her own experience.
The text beneath read:
"When the rift awakens, the realms will seek balance.One will be brought.One will be bound.One will be changed."
Elena stared.
"Well," she muttered, "that's comforting. Really love a good mystical riddle before lunch."
She turned the page.
More drawings.A figure in unfamiliar clothing—hers?—standing beside a taller shadow with indistinct features.The symbols encircled them like chains.
The caption was half-faded:
"…the arrival shapes the fate of the protector...ties forged by the awakening...a prince marked by shadow…"
Her stomach dropped so fast it might have left her body.
"Oh absolutely not," she whispered. "We are not doing the 'cosmically linked to a brooding prince' storyline today."
She kept reading anyway. Poor life choices were her hobby now.
Another text block:
"Beware the arrival under twin moons.Their presence stirs what sleeps.Their path is entwined with danger…and with the one destined to claim them."
Her heart leapt straight into outrage.
"CLAIM? Claim who?" she hissed. "I refuse to be claimable. I am a modern independent woman. I pay taxes."
A scholar across the room glared.
She glared back. She was busy having an identity crisis.
She spent another hour reading—absorbing every strange, unsettling piece of symbolism—and finally closed the book when her head throbbed.
"Enough," she whispered. "I need… air. And a nap. And therapy."
The hallway outside the library was quieter than usual, shadows stretching along the stone walls. Elena wrapped her arms around herself and walked slowly, mind buzzing with prophecy nonsense.
"Claimed," she muttered. "Ridiculous. Absurd. Absolutely not—"
"Talking to yourself already?"
Elena jerked.
Lady Mirenya leaned casually against the corridor wall, dressed in deep violet, her expression a perfect blend of sweetness and sharpened steel.
Oh fantastic. The castle's resident mean girl.
"Mirenya," Elena said flatly. "Do you… live in hallways?"
A smile that wasn't a smile curved Mirenya's mouth."I was passing by. I heard you muttering."
"I wasn't muttering. I was processing."
"Loudly."
Elena scowled. "Do you need something?"
"Yes," Mirenya said, stepping closer—a predator in silk. "For you to understand what this citadel truly is."
"I'm learning," Elena said cautiously.
"Not quickly enough." Mirenya circled her slowly, voice soft. "You seem very comfortable here. Very… protected."
"That's because Soren brought me here."
"Oh, yes," Mirenya murmured. "Soren brings many things here."
Elena's pulse stumbled. "I don't know what that means."
Mirenya laughed—not kindly. "He has a history of collecting strays. Lost causes. Beautiful, interesting problems to solve."
Elena bristled. "I'm not his… collectible."
"No," Mirenya agreed. "You are more dangerous than that."
Elena blinked hard. "Dangerous?"
"To him," Mirenya said, stepping even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "He does not handle unpredictability well. And you… you are a chaos he did not choose."
Elena swallowed. "He said the forest brought me here."
"Yes. But do not mistake purpose for desire." Her eyes gleamed. "And do not assume you are the first to stand so close to him."
Heat rose to Elena's cheeks—anger, embarrassment, perhaps something else she refused to name.
Mirenya leaned in, breath warm against Elena's ear."My advice? Do not get attached. He grows bored of attachments."
A chill snaked down Elena's spine.
Mirenya straightened, smiled sweetly, and brushed past her with the soft rustle of silk.
"Enjoy your stay, dear. However long it lasts."
She disappeared around the corner, leaving Elena in the silent hall.
Elena stood frozen.
Angry. Confused. Stung.
But beneath all that—beneath the humiliation and uncertainty—
a small voice whispered:
Is any of that true?
She hated that she didn't know.
And she hated more how much she wanted the answer to be no.