Elowen's Pov
His hand tightened around my wrist, then loosened again when he saw the blood.
For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Not panic. Not tenderness. Concern, restrained, and measured, as though he allowed it only because ignoring it would be inefficient.
"You are bleeding," he said.
"I did not notice," I replied honestly. My voice sounded distant, even to me.
He released my wrist and, without warning, tore a narrow strip from the hem of my own nightdress. The sound startled me more than the act itself. He knelt, movements brisk and precise, and wrapped the fabric around the cut with practised care. His fingers were warm. Steady.
"You should be more aware of where you step," he said.
"I will remember that," I said quietly.
He tied the fabric, firm but not cruel, then straightened. The space between us felt different now. Less sharp. It's still dangerous but no longer immediate.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the bench.
I obeyed.
For a while, we simply existed beneath the midnight sky. The garden breathed around us, water murmuring softly, flowers glowing faintly blue and silver as though lit from within.
"What books do you read," he asked suddenly.
The question caught me off guard. "Histories. Old maps. Sometimes poetry, when I wish to be disappointed."
That earned a faint exhale from him. Almost a laugh.
"You dislike poetry."
"I dislike false promises," I corrected.
"Hm." He studied me from the corner of his eye. "What do you fear."
The word lodged in my chest. "Many things."
"Name one."
I hesitated. "Being unheard."
Silence followed. Not hostile this time. Thoughtful.
"And what do you want," he asked.
I met his gaze. "That answer changes too often to be useful."
His mouth curved slightly. "At least you are honest."
We spoke a little longer then. Of small things. My homeland. His gardens. The weather patterns along the coast. Nothing intimate, nothing dangerous. Yet I sensed something shift.
He could tolerate me.
The realization settled oddly in my chest. Not warmth. Not relief. Something quieter.
When he rose, he offered no hand. Only a nod.
"Return to the chamber," he said. "You should rest."
I watched him leave, the garden swallowing his presence whole.
I quietly strode back to my newly cleaned chambers, free from glass and shambles.
I was exhausted from all that happened my first night here.
So I climbed on the bed that seemed to call out to me, and before long, I was asleep
MEANWHILE
Sylvia dismissed her handmaid with a flick of her fingers and turned to the mirror, adjusting the fall of her hair. Candlelight softened her features and turned her calculation into elegance.
"She will not last," she said calmly.
The maid hesitated. "She is his wife, my lady."
Sylvia smiled. "Wives are positions. I am a constant."
She had learned Cassian's silences. His moods. The way his attention could be guided if one knew where to apply pressure. She had been there before duty demanded distance. Before crowns, complicated desire.
The new queen was young. Unsteady. Easily rattled.
"She thinks herself clever," Sylvia continued. "But clever women still bleed."
She waved the maid away and leaned closer to the mirror, eyes gleaming.
There were secrets in this palace. Old ones. Dangerous ones.
And Sylvia held one that would crack a marriage before it ever learned how to stand.