The citadel's great doors groaned open, sunlight slicing across polished black stone. Elena followed two steps behind Soren, her pulse tripping over itself in a frantic rhythm.
She was not chained anymore.She was safe.She was healed—mostly.
And yet she felt more terrified now than she had inside the Kharathi fortress.
Ahead, the throne room stretched vast and glacial, banners hanging like frozen rivers. Guards lined the walls in perfect silence. At the far end, raised on a dais of obsidian stone, sat the High King.
Not Soren's father.
Not anyone's father, she thought.
He was older, sharper, carved from the same unforgiving granite as the northern peaks. His crown gleamed coldly against silver hair, his expression as warm as a closed fist.
Soren did not slow.
He did not look at her.
He did not reach back or check whether she followed.
He walked like a man entering a battlefield he knew too well.
"Elena," he murmured as they approached the dais — without turning, without softening. "Once inside, you do not speak. You do not question. And you do not use my name."
"Understood, Your Highness," she whispered.
He gave no sign he heard her.
He simply kept walking.
Cold. Controlled.Nothing of the man who had carried her through snow remained.
They reached the foot of the dais.
Soren bowed — a perfect warrior's bow, precise and razor-edged, the kind that acknowledged rank but not respect.
"Your Majesty."
The High King's gaze moved to Soren.
"You return late."
His tone carried quiet contempt — yet Soren remained unmoved.
"There were complications," he said.
The king's eyes shifted to Elena.
"And this is the complication?"
Her throat went dry.
Soren did not even look at her.
"She is the woman seized by Kharath," he said. "The one marked by the rift."
"A danger," the king said.
"A target," Soren corrected, cutting the air cleanly. "She is not capable of danger."
The words hit Elena like a slap.
Not capable.
Not dangerous.
Not strong.
She lowered her gaze, heat prickling behind her eyes.
The king descended the steps slowly, like he was circling prey.
He turned Elena's chin upward with two fingers — not gentle, not cruel, just inspecting.
"She looks fragile," he said.
Soren's voice was a blade dipped in ice."She is recovering."
The king hummed. "Still weak."
Soren's jaw flexed. "Weakness is temporary. Some men forget that."
Elena felt the backhanded insult land in the room like a dropped sword.
The High King's gaze snapped to Soren.
But Soren did not yield.
The king looked back at Elena."You came through the rift?"
Elena opened her mouth—
Soren's voice sliced through the air.
"She does not answer questions, Your Majesty. She lacks the clarity and knowledge to speak accurately."
Elena stiffened.
It was true, maybe — but the way he said it…He might as well have called her useless.
"She will defer to me," Soren finished.
"And why," the king asked, circling back to him, "should I trust your judgment on this creature?"
Creature.
Elena swallowed hard.
Soren did not react.
"She is under my protection," he said. "And harming her would be… unwise."
The king's eyes narrowed."A threat?"
"A promise," Soren said.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Elena looked at him — really looked — but he did not glance her way.He was a wall of ice and iron, unshakeable and wholly unreachable.
"And what of your borders?" the king asked. "Your territory suffers incursions."
"They hold," Soren answered curtly.
"And you believe this"—the king flicked a dismissive hand toward Elena—"is worth worsening tensions with Kharath?"
Soren finally turned, just enough to look at her.
But there was no warmth in his gaze.
Only assessment.Calculation.As if she were merely a strategic asset.
"She is mine to guard," he said. "Nothing more."
Nothing more.
Her stomach twisted.
The king studied him.
Studied them.
Finally, he nodded once. "Very well. She stays. Under strict containment."
Elena bristled.Soren spoke first.
"She resides in chambers opposite mine. Under guard."
"Convenient," the king said dryly.
"Efficient," Soren corrected.
The king stepped back. "Then go."
Soren bowed again — shallow, perfunctory — and turned sharply.
Elena tried to bow.
Pain speared through her ribs — sharp, white-hot.
She staggered.
A hand snapped to her waist instantly.
But this time—
Soren didn't catch her gently.
He caught her like securing a liability, steadying her with a grip that was firm, impersonal, almost indifferent.
"You are not to strain yourself," he said under his breath — the words scolding, not soft.
"I—I wasn't—" she began.
"Do not argue in front of the King," he said sharply, eyes still forward.
Her chest tightened.
He guided her out of the hall, hand still at her waist, but not tenderly — more like he was making sure she didn't embarrass him.
The second the doors closed behind them, the tension in Soren's shoulders eased by a fraction.
He exhaled.
Then he finally looked at her.