Chapter 12: The Thread That Pulls
The seamstress watched Alaida leave, her finger still wrapped in the cloth the girl had tied. It was a simple gesture, but it lingered—like warmth in winter.
Word spread.
Not through proclamations or gossip, but through glances. A servant who dropped a tray found it lifted before he could kneel. A stable boy with a limp was given balm from Alaida's satchel, made from forest herbs she'd gathered herself. She didn't speak much. She didn't command. She simply… saw.
And the palace, long ruled by silence and strength, began to soften.
Thalion noticed.
He stood in the upper corridor, watching the way people moved around her. Not with fear. Not with suspicion. With something older. Something like hope.
He didn't understand it.
She was not trained. Not royal. Not powerful in the way kings were taught to measure. But she was changing things. Quietly. Like water reshaping stone.
That evening, he summoned her again.
She entered the throne hall, her steps light, her gaze steady.
"You've made yourself known," he said.
"I didn't mean to," she replied.
"You didn't need to."
He descended the steps, stopping just before her. "They listen to you."
"They see me."
Thalion's voice dropped. "I don't know what that means."
Alaida looked up at him, her white lashes catching the firelight. "It means they remember what gentleness feels like."
Thalion's breath caught.
He reached for her hand—not as a king. Not as a hunter. As a man who had been silent too long.
And Alaida, without hesitation, held it.