Morning light spills through the tall palace windows in long, pale ribbons, turning the polished floor into a quiet mirror of gold and ivory. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, rising and falling with the faint currents from the open garden vents. The room itself is one of the older private chambers, reserved not for court, but for conversations that require trust rather than witnesses. Dark wood panels line the walls, carved with fading patterns of vines and crests from generations past.
A small round table sits between two high backed chairs near the window. A silver tea set rests there, steam curling gently from the spout like a whisper that never quite forms words.
Valerius slowly lowers his cup back onto the saucer. The soft clink of porcelain against porcelain fills the pause between them. His fingers linger on the rim for a second, as if steadying a thought before letting it out. His gaze drifts toward the gardens beyond the glass, where trimmed hedges form careful patterns that only look effortless from a distance.
"Did you ask Kael about what I told you yesterday?" he asks, voice quieter now. "The message I sent through the Bard Courier[1]."
Rowan lifts his teacup but does not drink. A faint curl of steam brushes his face as he looks into the amber surface, eyes thoughtful. The Ravenshade patriarch sits with the natural stillness of someone used to command, yet here his posture is less rigid, more reflective. The morning light catches faint silver strands at his temples.
"No," he says at last.
Valerius studies him, waiting. The king's expression carries none of the sharp authority seen in court. Instead there is only concern, carefully restrained, as though he fears pushing too hard on something delicate.
Rowan finally takes a sip, slow and measured, as if buying time to shape his reasoning. He sets the cup down with care, aligning it precisely with the saucer.
"I think they should meet on their own and decide for themselves whether they are happy together or not."
The words settle gently, but their meaning carries weight. They are not the refusal of a political ally. They are the caution of a father who has seen how easily young lives bend under expectations.
Valerius leans back in his chair, fingers interlocked over his knee. The fabric of his sleeve shifts, the royal insignia stitched at the cuff catching a stripe of sunlight. His eyes lower briefly, considering not strategy, but memory.
"Otherwise," Rowan continues, voice steady, "it will look like we are forcing them."
Silence follows, though it is not uncomfortable. The quiet here is the quiet of two men who have known each other longer than their titles. Outside the tall windows, a breeze stirs the garden trees, leaves whispering like distant voices that cannot quite reach the room. Somewhere far down the corridor, a servant's footsteps pass and fade.
Valerius exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing, the breath leaving him less like a king issuing command and more like a father setting down a burden.
"You may be right," he admits. "I am a king, but in this… I am only a father."
Rowan's expression softens, a small, knowing smile forming, the kind that belongs to shared history rather than present rank.
"And I am only a father too."
For a moment, crowns and titles fall away, leaving just two men who once ran through palace halls as boys, who snuck into kitchens for sweets, who swore childish oaths about ruling the world side by side. Now they sit across from each other worrying about the fragile happiness of their children, something far more uncertain than any throne.
The tea cools between them as the morning light climbs higher across the floor, inch by inch, marking the quiet passage of time in a room where history and fatherhood sit side by side.
The quiet in the room deepens after their shared words, settling gently like dust in sunlight. The ticking of a distant clock becomes noticeable, slow and dignified, measuring time that feels heavier than usual.
Valerius does not immediately reach for his cup again.
Instead, his gaze drifts to the window, past the reflection of the room, past Rowan's silhouette, toward the gardens below. Servants move like small figures along the paths, gardeners trimming hedges into careful shapes, life continuing in its orderly rhythm beneath the palace walls.
His voice, when it comes, is lower than before, almost as if the walls themselves are not meant to hear it.
"After her mother, Violet Silverwindcrest, died… I haven't seen a real smile on her face."
The words are quiet, but they land with the weight of years.
His fingers tighten slightly over his knee, the knuckles paling before he relaxes them again. The king's posture remains upright, trained by decades of control, yet something in his eyes shifts. Not weakness. Just memory that never truly fades.
Rowan does not interrupt.
Valerius continues to look outside as he speaks, as though it is easier to confess to the gardens than to another man.
"She was so young," he murmurs. "Too young to understand loss, yet old enough to feel it every day." His jaw tightens faintly. "And I… I was already drowning in the crown. Councils. Borders. Treaties. A kingdom that never stops demanding."
His reflection in the window looks like a ruler carved from stone. His voice does not.
"I could protect the nation," he says quietly. "But I could not give my daughter the time she needed."
A faint breeze brushes the curtains, stirring them just enough to break the stillness.
Valerius finally looks back at Rowan, and for a moment there is no king in that gaze. Only a father standing too late beside a child's grief.
"But this time," he says, more firmly now, "I want to see a beautiful smile on her face. One that reaches her eyes. Far more than yesterday."
Hope, fragile and unfamiliar, moves beneath the words.
Rowan watches him in silence for a few seconds. The Ravenshade patriarch has faced wars of trade, political storms, and the slow grind of power, yet this quiet confession holds more gravity than any negotiation.
He nods once, slow and certain.
"Yes," Rowan says. "You will. I wish it too."
There is no grand speech in his reply, no elaborate reassurance. Just steady belief, offered like a hand placed firmly on a friend's shoulder.
The two men sit there in the growing daylight, the tea now barely steaming, the world outside continuing as it always does.
Inside the room, however, something unspoken binds them tighter than any alliance.
Not kingship.
Not power.
Just two fathers, carrying hope like something both precious and breakable.
Rowan lets the silence sit for a while after his words of reassurance. The morning light has shifted higher now, stretching long pale shapes across the polished floor. Somewhere beyond the closed doors, distant footsteps echo through the corridor, faint reminders that the palace never truly sleeps.
He draws a slow breath, fingers resting loosely around his teacup, though the tea has long since cooled.
"There is something else," Rowan says at last.
Valerius looks up, attentive.
"I would like to meet Alisha," Rowan continues. His voice carries a quiet warmth, touched with nostalgia rather than formality. "It has been a very long time since I last saw her."
Valerius' expression softens almost immediately.
Rowan's gaze drifts slightly, as if searching through old memories. "The last time… she was only nine. Small enough to hide behind the curtains in this very palace." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "She tried to avoid greeting guests by pretending she was invisible."
Valerius lets out a quiet breath of laughter through his nose. "She believed if she stood still enough, no one would notice her."
"She failed," Rowan says dryly. "Zara spotted her within seconds, at that time zara was only five years old."
Both men share the brief memory, the weight of earlier sorrow easing just a little.
Rowan's tone turns thoughtful. "Now she must have grown into a young lady. Taller. More graceful." He pauses, choosing his next words with care. "More beautiful. Elegant. Sharper in mind and presence."
There is no political meaning in the praise. Only the natural passage of time, seen through the eyes of someone who once knew her as a child.
Valerius studies Rowan for a moment, then nods slowly. "You are right. Time does not wait for any of us."
A trace of pride flickers in his eyes, the quiet pride of a father watching his child grow despite sorrow.
"Why not?" he says gently. "You should see her."
He reaches toward the small silver bell placed on the side table and gives it a single, soft ring. The clear note cuts through the room's stillness, delicate yet commanding.
Moments later, a servant appears at the door, stepping inside with a respectful bow.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Valerius straightens slightly, the king returning to his posture even as warmth remains in his voice. "Please inform Princess Alisha that Lord Rowan Ravenshade is here and wishes to see her."
The servant bows deeper. "At once, Your Majesty."
She withdraws silently, the door closing with barely a sound.
The room grows still again, but it is a different kind of stillness now. Anticipation hums softly beneath it, like the pause before a long-awaited reunion.
Rowan sits a little straighter without realizing it, the composed head of the Ravenshade family replaced, just for a moment, by a man about to see a child he once knew, now grown beyond memory.
Valerius watches him with quiet understanding.
Outside, the palace gardens shimmer under the late morning sun, unaware that within these walls, time itself is about to reveal how much it has changed. 🌿
Soft morning light spills across the floor of Alisha's room, slipping through tall lace curtains and painting gentle patterns on the carpet. The air smells faintly of lavender from the small sachets tucked into the drawers, a scent her mother once said made rooms feel calm and lived in.
Alisha sits on the rug near the window, skirts spread around her like pale petals. In front of her, a small white cat rolls onto its back, paws curled toward its chest. Its fur is so thick and fluffy it almost looks unreal, like a toy brought to life. The sunlight catches in its coat, turning the white into something soft and glowing.
Alisha smiles, shoulders relaxed, as she dangles a ribbon above the cat's belly. The cat swats clumsily, missing on purpose more than once, then finally catches the ribbon between its paws and kicks at it with exaggerated determination.
A silent laugh shakes Alisha's shoulders. She leans forward and gently rubs the cat's side, fingers disappearing into the cloudlike fur. The cat answers with a low vibration she feels more than hears, a steady purr humming through its tiny body.
The room around her is neat but warm, filled with quiet signs of her presence. Books rest in careful stacks on a small table. A half-finished embroidery hoop lies beside a cushioned chair. Near the bed sits a polished wooden box containing letters and pressed flowers, small treasures kept close.
A knock touches the door[2].
Alisha does not hear it, but she feels the faint vibration through the floorboards, subtle but familiar. The cat's ears twitch, and its head turns toward the sound[3].
Alisha looks up.
Another knock follows, slightly firmer.
She gently lifts the cat off her lap and sets it down. It immediately circles her skirts before flopping onto the rug again, watching with round, curious eyes.
Alisha rises and smooths her dress, fingers moving automatically to neaten the fabric. She crosses the room with light steps and opens the door.
A palace maid stands outside, posture straight, expression respectful but kind. She waits until Alisha's eyes meet hers, then begins to move her hands with clear, practiced motions.
Lord Rowan Ravenshade is here. He wishes to see you.
Alisha blinks in surprise. Her brows lift slightly, and for a second she simply stands there, absorbing the name.
Rowan Ravenshade.
A figure from childhood memories. A tall man with a calm presence and a voice she remembers only as a faint vibration from long ago.
Her hands move in reply, graceful and quick.
I understand. I will come.
The maid nods with a small smile, relieved to deliver a message that brings no distress. She steps aside to give Alisha space.
Alisha closes the door softly and turns back into her room. The white cat meows silently at her, tail swishing.
She kneels and strokes its head once more, fingers lingering in its soft fur.
I will be back, her hands sign automatically out of habit, even though the cat cannot understand.
Then she stands, straightens her posture, and takes a quiet breath.
A guest from the past is waiting.
And for the first time that morning, a flicker of anticipation lights her eyes as she moves toward the future waiting beyond her door.
[1] A kind of Magical Message Delivering Animal, Who Delivers Message Without Anyone Knowing. Totally End To End Encrypted.
[2] A another servant ,who knows sign language came to call Alisha. As the other one to whom Valerius ordered told this servant to call Alisha.
[3] She sensed the vibration through her skin. As every kind of sound have different frequencies. So, Alisha knows some of the necessary frequencies for her use.