Page 35 of Lost Moon

Elara remains silent.

“You seem distressed, Your Highness,” he continues, his voice gentle and warm. “Is something troubling you? If you do not mind my asking, I would like to know.”

Elara hesitates, the words catching in her throat. “I… I broke one of the strings on the violin,” she admits.

A reassuring laugh escapes him. “A broken string can always be replaced, Your Highness. Please, do not trouble yourself over it.” He gestures toward the shelves with an easy smile. “Do you have an interest in musical instruments? I have books on every one of them, if you would like to learn.”

“Very well,” she replies, her shoulders relaxing under his kindness. “I suppose confessing the mistake is only fair.”

Elias smiles. “Do not trouble yourself. Mistakes happen, and they are easily repaired.”

“I did not mean to break it,” Elara murmurs, casting a fleeting glance back toward the violin.

“Of course not,” he replies gently. “Curiosity and courage are never wrong. Come. I will help you with this one, and then we can continue with your reading.”

Her lips curve into the faintest of smiles, the tightness in her chest easing. Following Elias along the side wing toward the library, they cross paths with the maid from earlier, who carries fresh linens toward the guest chambers. She glances up and offers another tired smile. “Ah! Your Highness, the chapel is clean now. I hope it meets your expectations.”

Elara blinks. “You do not need to report such things to me.”

The maid’s expression shifts, confusion flickering across her features. “Of course, Your Highness. Forgive me.”

“No,” Elara says quickly, flaring her hands. “I only meant thank you. For your work.”

The maid curtsies, her surprise evident, and moves on without looking back, yet a noticeable change loosens the tension in her shoulders.

They reach the refuge of the library, where the hours slip away within the walls, allowing her to lose herself in tales of adventure, courage, and discovery. The pages depict distant kingdoms where women rule as warriors, where lovers choose each other freely, and where heroes defy the fates assigned to them.

Elias sits across from her, occasionally glancing up from his own reading. He does not speak, and she does not feel the need to fill the silence, which is itself a strange and gentle thing. She has spent most of her life either alone or surrounded by people who required something from her. This is different. This is simply company.

The tale of a foreign woman inheriting a sword she does not know how to use demands her undivided attention. Reading the passage twice, she finds her own helplessness mirrored on the page. The desire to hold a weapon takes root, a refusal to remain a spectator in a dangerous court, even as she tries to convince herself it is only a story.

The light shifts without her noticing, pale morning becoming the amber of late afternoon, the shadows of the shelves stretching long across the polished floor. At some point, a servant passes in the corridor beyond, footsteps quickening toward the kitchens. Registering the movement distantly, she turns another page until a sudden pull of hunger forces her to surface from the text, blinking as if returning from a great distance.

She had not thought of the palace once. She had not thought of her father, or the ring on her finger, or what she is here to be. She had not thought of Cael either.

Midday arrives all too quickly, prompting a decision to check on the progress of the garden. Descending the grand stairs, the cool wind blows much weaker than before. The three women are absent, leaving her free to examine the beds where the winter poppy bulbs remain buried beneath the frozen soil. The patch is dark and still, showing no signs of life amidst the decaying autumn roots. The surrounding grounds are dying, the summer layout dissolving into brittle stalks and barren earth. Only a sparse cluster of white winter camellias and pale Christmas roses manage to break through the frost, their solitary blossoms appearing scattered across the amber yard to preserve a appearance of life against the biting season.

As she straightens, her attention shifts to the older, fading pink poppies nearby from the late autumn. Their petals thin, edges curling inward from the morning frost. A sudden, familiar pang of anxiety grips her heart, drawing her thoughts back to her mother’s dying flowers in Veyrenn. Hurrying across the stone, her eyes scan the immediate area for a source of water. The sun stands high now, pale and thin, casting long reflections against the stone.

A silver steel watering can rests to the right of the stairs near the entrance. It holds little, though it must suffice. She lifts it and returns to the empty beds, pouring over the frozen soil. The earth darkens further, drinking in what it is given. Her patience thins, replaced by a deep urgency.

Here, no one interrupts her. No one questions her presence or her purpose. Kneeling to continue the desperate task, the vessel grows lighter with every pour as she coats the first row, then the second. Forcing her aching arms to rise and refill the can, the repetition tests her physical limits under the thin winter sun.

At barely six years of age, a solitary seat on the second-to-last step of the castle reveals the first petal falling from her mother’s roses. Looking up in expectation of some acknowledgment of the small loss, her mother's eyes remain distant and tired. Reaching out to retrieve the fallen remnant, her small palms press the petal tight as if the gesture can prevent it from disappearing entirely. A sharp shake of her head releases the grip of the memory.

Fourteen years later, the ritual continues in unfamiliar soil, tending fields within a kingdom that still resists feeling like home. Defusing the urge to stop, she moves to the next cluster of plants. More dark earth. More water. The green fabric of the dress Cael provided clings to her back while her knees ache against the hard stone. The watering can slips from her grasp once, striking the steps with a hollow clatter. Freezing at the sound, she reaches out with unsteady fingers to lift the metal container again.

The approach of footsteps goes unnoticed until an unhurried hand rests on her shoulder. An involuntary flinch precedes her turn. Asma stands close behind, her silk scarf a vibrant lavender today, her expression carrying no reaction to the sudden movement.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” she says, her smile soft. “Watering the soil too often causes the dormant roots to weaken more quickly.”

Elara’s brows draw together. “The ground is barren. Someone must care for it.”

Asma inclines her head. “The seeds we buried require time to sleep, even with proper care.”

Glancing down at the silver watering can, the cool metal presses against her palms as a silent embarrassment stills her movements. “I did not know.”

“How could you?” Asma replies. “You were never taught.” Silence stretches between them. Elara remains kneeling, her gaze fixed on the damp soil.