A rare day without court felt almost illicit.
Alara woke without the tolling bell and lay still, listening to the softened hush of the castle. No summons. No parchment awaiting classification. No petitions pressing against the morning. Even the corridors beyond her door seemed slower, as though governance itself had paused for breath.
The markets would be full.
She rose without haste. The Keeper's mantle remained folded across the back of her chair. Instead, she selected a deep-green cloak trimmed in restrained gold—fine enough to suggest education, plain enough to discourage scrutiny. Her braid hung loose down her back, less deliberate than in court.
Without the sigil displayed, she passed not as the kingdom's memory—but as a woman permitted to walk unremarked.
The markets thrummed with life by midmorning.
Permanent shops lined the cobbled streets—bakers turning out honeyed loaves, tailors measuring velvet against lamplight, metalworkers striking sparks from glowing iron. In the open square, traveling merchants displayed goods from distant coasts and neighboring territories. Spices perfumed the air—cinnamon, clove, dried citrus. Fabric awnings snapped overhead in brisk currents of wind. Voices overlapped in bargaining cadence.
Alara moved through it with measured ease.
She gravitated, as always, toward the booksellers.
Two permanent shops faced one another along a narrower street. She entered the first; a small brass bell chimed above the door. Paper and binding glue replaced spice and smoke. Dust motes turned lazily in filtered light.
"Keeper," the shop owner murmured, bowing his head.
She inclined hers.
A prepared stack awaited her—regional histories, a newly copied agricultural almanac from the southern provinces, a merchant's account claiming sight of twin rivers beyond the eastern mountains.
She examined each with efficient precision, flipping to binding seams, testing ink saturation, scanning marginal notation.
"This for the archives," she said, tapping the almanac. "This for court reference."
"And the travel account?" the bookseller asked carefully.
A faint curve touched her mouth. "I will determine."
He smiled at that. He always did.
She paid from the purse bearing the royal seal—funds allotted for acquisition. The books were wrapped in oiled cloth and marked for delivery to the castle by dusk.
In the square she visited the temporary stalls, where foreign traders spread rarer texts across weathered tables. Some were embellished myths dressed as history.
Others were careful translations of distant philosophies.
She spent freely—but not carelessly.
Coastal star charts etched in unfamiliar notation. A fragmented military treatise written in a dialect not native to Rowan. A slim volume of poetry she purchased with her own coin, its margins wide and inviting.
By late afternoon her satchel was heavy with selections intended for her private shelves.
The weight pleased her.
Knowledge carried physically had a different satisfaction than knowledge stored in stone.
The sun slipped behind the western towers sooner than she intended. Market noise thinned; torches flared along the street. A chill crept in with the dark, curling beneath cloaks and along collarbones.
The moon was absent.
Cloud cover swallowed the stars.
She adjusted the satchel at her hip and chose the narrow stone path between outer storehouses—a route she had taken countless times. Efficient. Unremarkable.
Footsteps shifted behind her.
She did not turn.
Another step.
Measured.
Closer.
Her pulse did not quicken—but her awareness sharpened. The hand nearest her belt drifted toward the concealed knife.
The blow came from the side.
Sharp.
Precise.
Stone. Sound. Fracture.
Darkness folded inward.
Cold returned first.
Then ache.
Her wrists burned. Her shoulders throbbed against restraint. Damp air filled her lungs—earth and iron and something faintly metallic.
She kept her eyes closed.
Voices murmured nearby, their speech close enough to Rowan's Common to follow—though the cadence was wrong. Edges rounded differently. Consonants pressed too hard.
"She will speak."
"She has not."
A boot struck her side—not enough to break bone, enough to confirm awareness.
Her eyes opened.
Low ceiling. Rough stone walls. A single lantern swinging from a hook, casting unsteady light.
Three men stood nearby. Cloaked. Armed. Faces partially obscured.
"Royal Keeper," one said in careful Common. "You will answer."
Copper coated her tongue.
"What would you like catalogued?" she asked evenly.
The nearest man crouched before her. His gloves were foreign make—stitched differently at the seams.
"The ancient histories. Weaknesses in Rowan's defenses. Records of internal fracture."
She regarded him without visible fear.
"You assume weaknesses are recorded plainly?"
He struck her.
Not rage.
Correction.
Her head snapped aside. She tasted blood. She did not cry out.
"We know of the restricted archives," another voice said. "We know you possess knowledge withheld from court."
She let silence stretch.
Tilted her head slightly.
Studied them as one might assess an ill-prepared student.
"The first king built walls on soil too soft for winter," she said calmly. "The fortifications collapsed within three years."
The crouching man's eyes narrowed. "That is not current."
"You did not specify era."
Another blow.
Harder.
Pain flared bright and electric—but she held his gaze.
Hours blurred.
Questions repeated.
She answered with obsolete patrol routes. Outdated tax codes. Border maps redrawn generations ago. She cited treaties that had long since expired, trade disputes resolved before their grandfathers were born.
At times her tone carried such dry precision that truth and mockery blurred together.
By the second day bruises darkened along her arms. Her throat rasped from thirst. Her thoughts required greater effort to marshal.
"Where are the weaknesses?" they demanded again.
"Every kingdom has them," she said faintly. "Yours included."
The strike that followed stole her breath entirely.
Still—she did not beg.
She did not plead.
She did not fracture.
By the third night exhaustion hollowed her vision. Her body trembled beyond her command. The lanternlight fractured into doubled halos.
But beneath the pain lay a singular clarity:
Rowan's memory would not break through her.
Darkness closed again.
A crash.
Wood splintering.
Shouts.
Steel ringing against steel.
Her eyes fluttered open to chaos—shadows colliding, sparks bursting in violent arcs. The door hung shattered from its hinges.
One cloaked man fell, blood spreading dark against stone.
Another staggered backward as a blade drove cleanly through his defense.
Through blurred vision she recognized the movement first.
Controlled.
Precise.
Prince Caspian.
He stood at the threshold, sword drawn, breath hard but measured. Two royal guards flanked him, finishing what he had begun.
Silence followed—abrupt and ringing.
His gaze found her.
And something inside it broke.
Concern, yes.
But deeper than concern.
He crossed the room in three strides and knelt before her, cutting the bindings at her wrists with swift, careful precision.
"Alara."
Not Keeper.
Her name.
His hands hovered, uncertain where to touch without worsening the damage.
"I'm here."
Anger threaded the words.
And guilt.
She tried to answer—but the room tilted sharply.
The last thing she saw before darkness reclaimed her was his face—closer than ever before—eyes storm-dark and unguarded.
She woke to linen and quiet.
The infirmary ceiling arched above her, pale and clean. The scent of herbs replaced damp stone. Light filtered softly through gauze curtains.
Her body ached in measured waves, wrapped carefully in bandages.
A window stood to her right.
Prince Caspian stood beside it.
He faced outward, hands braced lightly against the stone frame. Morning light traced his shoulders, softened—but did not erase—the tension held there.
He had not heard her wake.
For a moment she studied him.
He seemed uncertain.
As though remaining had not been planned.
As though leaving had not been possible.
"You should be in court," she said, voice thin but steady.
He turned sharply.
Relief crossed his face before discipline reclaimed it.
"Court can wait."
Silence settled between them.
She shifted slightly, wincing despite herself. His jaw tightened.
"I should not have let you walk alone," he said quietly.
"That was not your responsibility."
His gaze did not retreat.
The charged awareness from the gardens had changed.
Deepened.
Tempered by fear.
"I thought—" He stopped.
She watched him carefully. "What did you think?"
He exhaled slowly.
"That I was too late."
The room felt smaller.
She did not know what instinct had driven him beyond protocol. What impulse had sent him personally into shadow.
But she remembered the look in his eyes in that cellar.
That had not been duty alone.
He stepped back slightly, as though aware of proximity.
"You should rest," he said.
"And you should return to your obligations."
Yet neither moved.
Outside the window, the sky was pale and clear. The constellations had retreated beyond sight—but not beyond memory.
And something between them—unspoken, undeniable—had shifted beyond return.