Page 22 of Lost Moon

He purses his lips, remembering the devastating sight of the Veyrenn horses with their trembling legs, their ribs visible from severe starvation, and the way they flinched at every human contact. They had been abused under the negligence of King Eric, a complete fool.

Extending his hand toward Elara, he waits. When she takes his palm, her thumb strokes the back of his fingers, a motion so brief that he might have imagined it. The touch sends a jolt down his spine before she quickly mounts onto Snow’s back, leaving an awkward stillness hanging between them in the cold morning air.

He climbs into the saddle behind her, gathering the reins. The entire way back to the palace, his skin burns from the memory of her thumb against his knuckles.

“I have noticed the way your people respect you,” Elara says, her voice still low. “They must respect you and your dedication.”

Her praise hangs in the space between them, his jaw tightening as he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead.

XI

LIBRARY OF WORLDS

E

Before the morning sun clears the horizon,

Elara stands before her vanity mirror as Annie laces her into the new green gown. She brushes the tangles from Elara’s hair with a gentle touch, smoothing the strands into place. The care in the gesture causes Elara to hold her breath. Her mind resists the urge to trust the woman’s gentleness, terrified that allowing a new face into her life will invite the same painful loss she suffered with Walker.

Annie steps back, declaring herself satisfied. Elara thanks her and makes her way down stairs, remembering the way to the dining hall after yesterday.

Elara stops on the threshold of the dining hall, a sudden warmth heating her face. No one is present in the cavernous space except Cael. Rubbing the silk of her green dress between her fingers, she steps tentatively into the chamber. He turns at the sound of her footsteps and dips his head. Gripping the doorframe for balance, she inclines her head in response as the breath rushes from her lungs. If Cael notices her confusion, he makes no remark upon it as he turns to pull out the chair beside his own, gesturing for her to sit.

Elara takes her seat, hoping the flush of her face is not as noticeable as it feels. She loads her plate with a piece of roasted chicken coated in seasoned gravy and a glass of crisp apple nectar, letting her hair fall forward to hide her countenance. Cael continues his meal in unhurried silence.

As she eats, Elara tracks Cael’s movements, her eyes dropping to his hands. He relies on those palms to communicate, and she is his wife, and she cannot understand a single word he tries to say. His people mock him, and his own wife cannot understand him. Elara sets down her utensils, opening her mouth to tell him that his muteness matters nothing to her, but the words die on her lips as she recalls the raw panic upon his face when he saw that poster in her hand.

When Cael finishes his breakfast, he rises from the table. Elara stands with him, leaving her meal unfinished, and grabs his arm. Cael pauses, turning toward her. His attention settles on her so intently that Elara falters under his gaze, forgetting why she stopped him to begin with.

Swallowing, she tries again. “I wished to thank you for this dress. It is… something entirely new for me.” Her fingers lightly brush the skirt, her breath faltering. “Thank you.”

For several seconds, Cael does not respond. His steady eyes remain fixed on hers, unreadable. Cael swallows, and Elara tracks the movement in his throat, wondering what emotion or thought he is forcing down with the motion. For some reason, it makes her grin.

Slowly, he inclines his head.

Elara rises, intending to explore the library. Elias mentioned the archives were located upon one of the upper floors, and she is certain she can find the chamber on her own, or ask one of the passing servants if the need arises.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows lining the walls as she walks toward the staircase ahead. She ascends multiple flights of stairs, passing through halls bathed in light. The ascent is steep, forcing her to stop and catch her breath upon a wide marble landing. From this vantage point, she notes the lower corridors leading toward the throne chambers, guest dining halls, and the private quarters of the palace workers. Continuing upward, she takes a wrong turn and accidentally enters a threshold lined with war chambers and the treasury, where detailed maps and grand tapestries depicting historical victories cover the stone walls.

Realizing her mistake, she backtracks past the quarters of the ministers and advisers, scanning the uniform doors until she finally discovers the correct entrance to the archives. A single chamber occupies this level, its dark door standing ajar. Through the narrow opening the soft sounds of dusting, shuffling, and a familiar hum.

A gentle push opens the door, the heavy wood creaking. The library is so much larger than she expected. The dark walls lined with towering bookshelves packed with neatly arranged volumes spanning at least three levels. Sunlight filters through tall arched windows, casting a warm glow across the endless rows of books as dust motes float in the light, catching her attention as her gaze travels upward.

At the top of a silver ladder, Elias carefully dusts the highest shelves, rearranging books with precise, deliberate movements. The scrape of his brush against the wood and the soft thud of books settling into place fill the chamber. Elara gasps, marveling at the sheer size of the magnificence before her. Rows of towering shelves stretch toward a high ceiling, packed with ancient volumes and bound parchments that fill the air with the comforting scent of old paper.

Ornate black railings and carved wooden details frame the balconies and staircases connecting the tiers. The intricate woodwork shapes the massive archive, where every corner seems to hold a secret waiting to be discovered. The scent of aged pages draws Elara further inside, comforting in a way she has not realized she missed.

“Mr. Elias?” she calls, using his proper title, a sign of respect deeply ingrained from her upbringing.

He turns toward her at once, his lips curving into a pleasant smile beneath his graying beard. “Your Highness,” he greets with a smile, descending the ladder. His movements are slower than most, deliberate with age rather than weakness.

“What brings you here?” He sets his dusting cloth over the ladder’s top rung and wipes his palms against his breeches before descending the rest of the way, his eyes crinkling with the same warmth Elara associates with a grandfather.

“I only wish to find a book to read,” Elara says, a sudden wave of embarrassment coloring the confession as she realizes how long it has been since she was permitted such a simple pleasure. The vulnerability catches her off guard, emerging because her father's rigid court had starved her of any time for herself. Reading once filled much of her time when she was younger. Before court lessons consumed her mornings and appearances occupied the rest of her days, she often spent hours hidden within stories until Walker came searching for her. It has been far too long since she last held a book in her hands, breathing in the scent of printed pages and being pulled into a world separate from her own.

“What manner of stories do you prefer, Your Highness?” Elias asks, adjusting his wire glasses. “I shall show you a few sections that may interest you.” Beckoning her to follow him, Elias ascends the nearest staircase, the wood creaking under his feet. Elara follows him, her own footsteps nearly silent against the library floor.

He leads her past rows of towering shelves, each level stacked with volumes of varying sizes and bindings. Some are bound in soft, worn leather, their spines fading from years of careful handling. Others are gilt with intricate designs, catching the soft lamplight and reflecting it across the polished floor.