Page 41 of Lost Moon

Despite her own shifting confusion regarding the silent prince, what she has read and witnessed tells her he gives far more than he takes. “He is strong,” Elara admits.

The final words slip from Elara’s lips, hanging quietly in the freezing air between them. A sudden, cold shift in the wind causes the chandeliers above the terrace to flicker, casting a long, sharp shadow straight across the dark patch of soil where they are crouching. Both women tense, turning their heads toward the palace entrance.

Standing at the top of the stairs is Cael. His tall frame cutting through the dim amber light of the corridor behind him. He is still dressed in his dark, structured tunic, his silver crown resting perfectly atop his messy black hair, but his gloves are gone. His left hand is exposed, the silver band shining against his bare, swollen finger, catching the glint of the chandeliers. He stands there, his eyes fixed on Elara, revealing that he caught the exact moment she defended his character.

Kaera turns her head at the sight of her older brother. Standing back up and adjusting her dress, she makes her way to him as he descends the stairs, slowly stepping into the garden. Neither speaks or acknowledges their father’s sickness. Kaera offers a nod before she retreats into the palace. Once again, Elara is alone with Cael.

She remains crouching in her muddy green silk dress, her heart hammering against her ribs. She ducks her head to hide the warmth coloring her cheeks. Cael stands still a few feet away from her, keeping his boots clear of the damp earth.

Desperate to escape his intense storm-grey gaze, Elara forces herself to stand up, brushing the damp soil from her skirt. She would rather avoid his presence after seeing him without the band earlier this afternoon. Her gaze drops to his uncovered hands, her breath catching at the sight of the crimson cuts splitting his swollen knuckles. Beside the raw injuries, his silver wedding band gleams under the candlelight. The suspicious thoughts she harbored vanishing against the reality of his bloodied skin.

“Cael,” is all Elara can say.

Cael’s eyes glance at the stains on her dress before he makes his way toward the winter camellias, offering them nothing but his silent admiration. The air returns to its usual heaviness. Because of his condition, he cannot ask her questions or voice whatever he wishes. Folding her arms over her chest, she tries to block out the sharpening chill.

He turns to her again, and Elara feels the immediate weight of his gaze, quickly avoiding it. Cael stands up straighter and closes the remaining distance between them. Reaching down, his right hand folds back his left sleeve, revealing the stain of dark dirt and the extent of his raw injuries. Her fingers curl at the painful sight.

Cael brings out the silver quill from his pocket and begins writing directly onto his own skin, attempting to bring his words forward without a booklet. Leaning closer, Elara reads his script with growing concern and confusion as the dark ink traces over his bruised flesh.

You must rest inside. Cold.

Elara offers a nod. “You must as well,” she mumbles, the sharpening cold finally causing her to shiver. “And please, never write with ink your skin. I am certain it is harmful, and you must treat your injuries.” The words spill from her before she can stop them, yet she does not regret the advice.

Cael lowers his arm, his fingers tightening around the silver quill before he slides the instrument back into the pocket of his structured vest. He offers a single tilt of his head toward the palace doors, the motion a silent invitation for her to leave the dark soil behind.

Uncurling her fingers from the fabric of her skirt, Elara steps onto the stone path beside him. They begin their slow walk up the stairs side by side in absolute silence, the amber light of the chandeliers guiding their steps as they navigate the grand corridors.

Desiring to bridge the distance between them, Elara recalls her training in formal court conversation. She keeps her gaze fixed forward, her voice low as she breaks the isolation. “I saw you hand those poppy seed bags to Asma earlier this afternoon,” she says. “Why did you request so many of them, even during the winter season?”

Cael pauses on the step, his grey eyes turning to meet hers. He glances at his wrist where he first wrote, and then looks back at Elara. She shakes her head. “Forgive me. Is the intent merely to prepare them for the upcoming spring?”

He nods.

Elara redirects her gaze to his injured fingers. “It would be nice if we could prepare more white lilies as well.”

Warmth relaxes the corners of his mouth, catching her by surprise as the severe mask of the prince vanishes.

Summoning the necessary courage to ask Cael if she may accompany him beyond the palace gates again requires several long minutes of internal hesitation. While anxiety coils within her chest to trigger old defensive habits, a nod of assent settles the matter, allowing her to mount behind him on the white steed.

They ride through the same paths, past the sweet bun stand, until he dismounts with effortless ease. He extends his hand to her. She grasps it, allowing him to guide her safely to the ground.

Today, she wears a different gown, the green silk abandoned in her quarters to allow the servants to remove the deep soil stains marring the fabric. The morning air offers a temporary warmth as the bright sun cuts through the freezing winter atmosphere. Two days have passed since she last saw him in the garden, and they have not spoken.

A lingering sense of deliberate distance shadows their interactions. Stolen glances now and again track his movements through the crowded streets, emphasizing the harsh difference between this public space and the safety of the fortress. Within the palace, workers, servants, and guards communicate through fluid gestures, their natural signs practiced in ways hers are not. Out here among the townspeople, however, very few understand him properly, drawing a sharp contrast to the ease of the royal household where his expressions meet immediate recognition.

The separation between their respective worlds becomes impossible to ignore. He is her husband, formally and legally, even if they remain near strangers, and a desire arises to truly know him.

Smoothing the fabric of her skirt with a light touch, the presence of onlookers becomes obvious as quiet whispers ripple through the crowd. Elara inhales a deep, steady breath before continuing forward on her own, sensing Cael entering the boutique she visited before, the same one where Olivia had given her the green dress.

A young boy peers down from a balcony high above, his gaze fixed on her. Elara smiles at him. He beams in return, then turns and calls down loudly, “Ma, the princess greeted me!”

A chuckle escapes her lips as her soft leather shoes brush against the rough earth of the road. Between the houses, she notices small farms where people sell fresh vegetables and fruits to passersby. Shops and eating houses appear next, offering a variety of cuisines. Steaming stews, large round flatbreads baked with savory herbs and curd, spiced cinnamon ciders and chilled refreshments.

Eventually, she comes to a bridge spanning a narrow blue river. Small fish of various shades of orange, green, and yellow move beneath the surface, occasionally fed by onlookers sprinkling bits of bread or grain. Stepping onto the curved bridge to pause at its highest point, she ignores all passing gazes to focus entirely on the slow currents below. Elara watches them glide and swirl, following their movement beneath the water, as though nothing above the surface exists at all.

When she finally looks up again, she continues her walk across the bridge, leaving the onlookers behind as she moves deeper into the streets of the lower city. The soft smile lingers while her focus returns to the rhythmic movements of the colorful fish. Folding her arms across the railing, she rests her chin against the wood. The steel beneath her skin feels bracingly cold. A light breeze moves across the bridge, swaying strands of her hair as they fall across her shoulders and down her back.

A fleeting imagination of sharing this quiet moment with a trusted companion surfaces. Despite the deep terror associated with vulnerability, the prospect of escaping her total isolation would be incredibly welcoming. Looking ahead past the immediate crowd, Cael’s tall silhouette appears further down the road, his black outfit shifting with each movement.