Page 100 of Lost Moon

“But that is her husband.”

He used to be, Cael signs. I remember her shouting at my father a few years into their marriage after my mother left. I witnessed her manipulating his choices, forcing him into wrong decisions for this kingdom. She caused chaos in the palace, mistreating our staff, the guards, and the knights. His hands tug on Elara’s coat, ensuring the fabric rests firm against her frame. She hurt all three of us in many ways. The malice began when I was six years old, worsening over time. Her rage terrified my father. The fear explains his constant hesitation.

Cael’s hands tremble, the exhaustion of the memories settling into his frame, and Elara takes his palms back into her own grasp to anchor him.

“You do not have to say anything else if you do not wish to,” Elara murmurs, her hands sliding up to Cael’s cheeks to let his tears wet her skin. “It is clear she holds disdain for all of us. Perhaps it is power she aims for, or a political motive that will tear everything apart. All we know is that she cannot deceive the court forever. She cannot harm what Raelith spent years sacrificing to build, or what you work to protect.”

Her voice lowers into a quiet confession. “I am confused, Cael. I am afraid of everything happening around us. I am expected to stand beside you as queen, but I could not serve as your voice when Maereth took over the court. I fear that when I stand beside you, I will repeat the mistake. I worry that instead of serving as a shield, my silence will drag you down.”

She looks down, her words dropping into a whisper. “Books and knowledge were stripped from my life. My routine consisted of mourning by my mother’s dying garden or weeping within my quarters, afraid to encounter the staff. I do not know how to care for my own welfare, let alone the lives of our people.”

She sniffles to check her tears, leaning down to reach for Cael’s crown on the floor. She places the gold on her lap, letting the metal catch the reflection of the fire. “But I will not run away.”

Cael’s grip on the back of her neck weakens. Elara leans forward, lifting the crown back atop his hair. “I do not want to make another mistake that brings regret. I remain afraid, Cael, but I cannot allow another kingdom to suffer.”

He remains still, his gaze searching her eyes to read the sincerity behind her words. Then, he presses his lips to Elara’s forehead. His touch is soft against her skin.

Elara’s grip tightens around Cael’s hands while her posture eases, leaning into his physical affection. “Cael.”

Cael pulls back with a small smile, his right dimple showing. Your silence was not weakness, he signs. None of them would have listened to our words. Father reminded me of their hypocrisy in court. You have done far more for my heart than any line within my booklet could.

Elara gazes at his hands, the weight of his validation lifting the pressure from her mind. “You will not face them alone,” she says, her voice steadying. “If I am to stand beside you, I will learn to navigate their schemes. I will be your shield, Cael.”

Cael’s breathing slows, his gaze glinting under the firelight. He lifts his hands to return the vow. If you are my shield, I will be your sword. No lord on the high council will threaten your safety while I draw breath. Not even my stepmother will reach you. We face the court together.

Elara’s smile remains, a soft warmth touching her expression. “Thank you, Cael. Thank you for being in my life, and for remaining beyond our signed papers.”

Cael’s expression softens, the tension leaving his shoulders. Thank you for existing, petal.

The quiet of the dining hall lingers for a fragile second, the warmth of his final sign settling between them. Elara keeps her palms pressed against his knuckles, her chest rising with a deep breath while they watch the low embers of the hearth fade to gray ash. The afternoon light stretches long and dim across the dark stone floor, a momentary sanctuary from the obligations waiting outside the door.

The doors crash open against the stone wall, the impact shattering the silence. Hartwell steps into the chamber, his chest heaving under a ragged breath, his face pale. He discards all formal protocols, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword while his gaze locks onto the prince and princess.

“Your Highness,” he gasps, his knuckles turning pale against the framework of the entrance. “Queen Maereth utilizes her presence to sway the council and the citizens. She coordinates the arrangements to advance the timeline, forcing the deployment of the full battalion by tomorrow dawn. We must halt her influence now.”

Elara’s hands break from Cael’s grasp, her fingers tightening against her skirts while the color drains from her face.

Where is she located? Cael signs, standing up.

“She works at the writing table within the private quarters,” Hartwell answers, his fingers resting firm on the hilt of his blade. “Two senior advisors remain beside her, reviewing the recruitment tallies. The momentum grows every hour. They do not expect your presence. If you confront them now, you can arrest this decree.”

Both Elara and Cael force their trembling limbs to move, her boots clicking against the dark stone while she bridges the space between them. Cael’s fingers splay over her lower back, guiding her forward. A flutter stirs in her stomach at the contact, the heat of his touch serving as an anchor.

Together, they follow Hartwell, stepping out into the palace hallway. The air in the corridor hangs stagnant, the grand tapestries casting long shadows against the walls under the afternoon light. The pressure against her back regulates her rapid breaths, guiding her movements until her shoes match the pace of his own. They continue to hurry toward that wing.

Cael does not hesitate and pushes the door open, forcing their entry into the interior.

Queen Maereth sits behind the large mahogany desk, her fingers pressing the edge of the thick parchment charter that rests between her and the advisors. Stitched into the heading of the state document is the formal emblem of the crown, the ink fresh under the light of the tallow candles. Two senior council lords flank her. Their leather folders open while their heavy breathing scratches the silence of the private quarters.

Maereth lifts her chin and fixes her cold gaze onto her stepson. “Welcome, Cael. We review the border security while your father rests from his wounds. The high council recognizes the weight of my husband’s incapacitation, and we deliberate on the defense of Riverath.”

Elara steps past Cael, fixing her stare on the two senior advisors. One counselor fidgets with his woolen robes, his knuckles turning pale while his focus drops to the floorboards to avoid looking at the prince.

“This session lacks the legal authorization of the lineage,” Elara states, holding her posture straight. “Cael stands within this chamber, and his presence represents the throne while the king recovers. Factions of this council waver because they recognize the economic ruin of a premature campaign. You demand a swift retaliation, Maereth, but your charter demands the deployment of the entire southern vanguard, leaving our capital defenseless.”

Cael lifts his hands, addressing the hesitating advisors. The vanguard prepares for a strike, but the true threat remains the consequence of her choices. A retaliation will ignite a total conflict that our forces are not equipped to endure. Look at the parchment on the table. Read the deployment lines she drew, and realize the destruction born of this panic.

The advisor who avoided his gaze looks down at the charter on the desk. He tracks the scale of the mobilization tallies Maereth outlined, exchanging a tense glance with the second lord. The raw truth of Cael’s warning creates a fracture in their confidence.