The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickers of gold across the study walls. A half-filled goblet of wine sits beside me, long forgotten, as I lean over the desk with my quill poised above yet another piece of parchment. The page is almost full—and completely useless.
> Dear Saelow,
I am safe.
They treat me well enough.
Kaelen Thorne is—
I scratch it out before I finish the sentence. Again.
Another page joins the crumpled mess near the inkpot, tossed aside in frustration. I've been at this for over an hour, but the words won't come. How do I write to my brother from the home of our father's killer? How do I admit that I'm being paraded like a queen through halls where my ancestors once ruled, while the people who cheered for our downfall now bow before me?
And worse—how do I explain that Kaelen Thorne, the man who captured me, hasn't been cruel?
I close my eyes. Steady my hand. Try again.
> Saelow,
I'm writing to you under terms I set myself. I need you to know that much hasn't changed—our name, our cause, our love for Mother and Father. But I've made choices. I've signed things. I am trying not to drown here.
I stop. My eyes sting. The fire shifts with a soft pop, and for a second, it feels like even the room is holding its breath.
> Please don't hate me.
No. Too raw. I scratch the line out and fold the letter anyway. I'll rewrite it tomorrow.
The door creaks behind me, and I whirl around, startled. Kaelen stands just inside, holding a familiar scrap of parchment in his hand—one of the failed drafts I thought I'd destroyed.
He lifts a brow. "You left a trail of them. I figured this one might still matter."
I stiffen halfway out of my seat. "Did you read it?"
"I didn't." His voice is even. "I said I wouldn't. And I meant it."
He places the page on the edge of my desk, careful not to touch anything else.
I watch him, searching his face for that usual smirk, some flicker of mockery—but there's nothing. Just calm restraint.
"…Thank you," I murmur, the words foreign and awkward on my tongue. I look down at the page. "I thought writing to him would be easier."
"It never is," he replies, a bit too quickly. "Writing to people you miss."
There's something behind his voice—something unguarded. But it vanishes before I can put a name to it.
He turns to leave, then hesitates at the doorway.
"You've got ink on your cheek," he says.
I blink. "What?"
He gestures vaguely. "Right there."
I wipe at my cheek, scowling. "Did I get it?"
"No." His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "But don't worry. It suits you. Makes you look less like a royal hostage and more like a person."
I scoff, but I can feel the heat rising in my face. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"
He shrugs. "Take it how you will."
Then he's gone, footsteps fading into the corridor.
I stare after him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Then I look down at the draft he returned. My fingers smooth out the creases.
Maybe… maybe I'll keep this one after all
Kaelen POV
The training grounds were nearly empty at this hour. Only a few soldiers lingered at the far end, sparring in silence beneath torchlight. I ignored them, pulling the wraps tight around my knuckles. The leather felt too soft. Everything felt off tonight.
I struck the practice sack once. Then again—harder. The chain groaned.
Why had I brought her the letter?
She was a hostage. A political pawn. Nothing more.
Another punch. My jaw clenched.
I should've burned the damn page. Let her stew in her pride. But instead, I'd brought it back like some simpering court boy trying to win favor. And her eyes—, her eyes when she looked at me with something that wasn't hatred—it was unraveling something buried deep inside me.
Weakness.
I struck again, fury building behind my ribs. Again. Again.
Craven's voice rose in my mind, sharp and bitter like cold iron. "Love made me foolish. I stayed quiet as we all suffered—for them, my wife and kids. I lived like a coward while the nobles stomped all over us common folk. Don't be that person, Kaelen. Don't fall in love."
The words had burned themselves into my bones. I was ten when he said them.
"Don't love," he always warned. "Not if you want to win."
I drove my fist into the sack until the skin beneath the wraps stung.
Then why, damn it, did one look from her make me pause?
I remembered her ink-smudged cheek. The way her voice had wavered when she said Saelow's name. She didn't cry. Didn't plead. But something in her silence rattled me more than any scream could.
I slammed my fist into the sack again, this time splitting the wrap.
I couldn't afford this.
Not now.
Not with the coronation looming and half the council watching for any sign that I was going soft.
She's Starwyn, I reminded myself. She's the enemy. A cage in a crown.
And yet… she wasn't what I expected. And that—more than anything—terrified me.
I stood there, chest heaving, blood seeping through cracked knuckles, staring at the sack as if it might answer the question I couldn't ask aloud.
What am I doing?