The next morning, Soren did not come find her.
Nor the morning after.
Nor the one after that.
Three days passed in a wash of quiet corridors and flickering torchlight, each more echoing and hollow than the last. Elena asked Claire once—casually, or as casually as she could fake it.
Claire had only said softly: "He had matters in the North."
Which explained nothing.
So Elena went to the library.
She drowned herself in books.Ancient histories.Genealogies.Old maps.Records of northern customs and superstitions.
But the truth was simpler:
She went to the library because the silence of the citadel without Soren felt… wrong.
She hated that she noticed. She hated even more that she cared.
The North's Enemies
The more she read, the more the pieces unsettled her.
The Northern Empire—a brutal land beyond the mountain ridge—had been expanding for decades. Conquering weaker realms. Enslaving entire villages. Crushing resistance with machines and magic Elena didn't understand.
The North—the realm Soren belonged to—was one of the few territories they had not managed to break.
Why? Because the North didn't have kings.
It had princes.
Princes raised not to rule, but to fight. To defend ancient borders. To guard the old forces buried beneath the frost.
One passage chilled her:
Should the North fall, all realms fall with it.
Another:
The Empire seeks what sleeps beneath the mountain roots—and the rift that binds shadow to stone.
Elena shut the book, pulse quickening.
Because the next page described forest markings used by ancient guardians to hide rift entrances.
Markings…
Just like the ones she'd seen the night she arrived.
Just like the ones Soren wouldn't talk about.
And then she heard it—two guards whispering as she passed a stairwell:
"The prisoner was caught near the marked clearing—"
"Quiet! Not here!"
Marked clearing.
Her clearing.
Elena's breath stilled.
A spy… from the Empire… near the place she fell into this world.
The timing wasn't coincidence. And Soren had gone because of it.
Restlessness
By the end of the week, Elena's nerves felt like frayed wires. Her dreams were filled with forests and rifts and Soren stepping into shadow.
She missed him. Which was ridiculous. And humiliating. And deeply annoying.
But the truth sat stubbornly in her chest:The citadel felt less stable when he was gone.Like the walls leaned differently.
Claire noticed her fidgeting on the third afternoon.
"You're worried," she said gently.
"I'm not," Elena lied.
"You are."
Elena pressed her palms to her eyes. "I just… it would have been nice if he'd told me he was leaving."
Claire's expression softened. "He doesn't tell anyone."
"That doesn't mean he shouldn't."
"No," Claire agreed quietly. "But it does mean he never learned how."
The answer hurt more than it should.
That evening, Elena wandered the east courtyard to clear her head. The sky was a dim wash of violet, torches burning low, the cold northern wind whispering against the stones.
She rubbed her arms, trying to think of anything except prophecies, spies, and princes who disappeared without saying goodbye—
Footsteps echoed.
Eight pairs.
Heavy. Coordinated. Dangerous.
Elena turned toward the corridor—and her stomach dropped.
Men emerged from the shadows in formation, armor blackened steel reinforced with dark leather. Each bore an emblem: a split moon over crossed blades.
They moved with a lethal stillness that reminded her of wolves on a ridge.
And at their center—
Soren.
Oh.
Oh hell.
He walked like a storm carved into a man—tall, cold, devastatingly composed. His armor was darker than usual, molded to broad shoulders and a hard chest, every line of him built for war. Frost clung to his cloak. A fresh tear marked one sleeve. His jaw was set with an exhaustion that made him look even more dangerous.
He looked nothing like the prince who teased her in corridors. He looked like the North's weapon.
Her knees weakened instantly. And worse—heat curled low in her belly, sharp and unwelcome, the kind she tried to blame on the cold air or stress or iron deficiency or literally anything except the truth.
Because for one humiliating heartbeat, her mind betrayed her completely. She pictured those black leather gloves on her skin. On her hips. Pinning her wrists above her head. Holding her still. Holding her open. Holding her by the throat—firm, controlled, a command without words.
The image struck so hard her breath actually caught.
Oh.
OH GOD.
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
She inhaled sharply, like she could force the fantasy out of her bloodstream.
Since when—her brain shrieked—was she into THAT?!
She had a PhD.She lectured medical students.She was a modern, autonomous, deeply competent woman who—
…apparently had a highly alarming, newly discovered weakness for being physically overpowered by a six-foot-something war prince with murder in his aura.
Fantastic. Truly fantastic.
Her feminism was filing a complaint. Her rational mind had fainted. And her remaining dignity was packing its bags.