Page 58 of Lost Moon

“That is his show. He shows such deliberate kindness to enhance his arrogance.”

She looks toward Cael, her heart hammering against her ribs as the profound safety of the previous night shatters. The memory of his arms holding her in the dark, the tenderness that had solidified her trust, dissolves. The weight of Amir’s venomous warning rises within her chest, making the distance between her and her husband feel entirely unbridgeable once more.

Cael stops mid-motion, his hand freezing over the architectural plans as the report registers. His gaze shifts to find Elara’s face, taking in her pale features and the defensive way her posture locks up, a horror gathering in his eyes.

He immediately mounts his steed, extending his hesitant hand toward her to help her, despite the distress churning across her features. When Elara makes no move to take his hand, he slips off his steed, gesturing for her to go first.

“No, I do not believe it,” Elara says, her breath trembling.

Cael shakes his head desperately, taking only one step forward to her. He whips the green booklet and quill out of the inside of his coat’s pocket, preparing to write.

Elara takes his hands, preventing him from continuing. Feeling his fingers tremble under her weak hold, she finally speaks. “I do not believe it is true, Cael.” She pauses, making sure her words sink. “Let us go together and discuss.”

Cael’s eyes widen, almost wet with fear. Her heartbeat stills for a moment at the sight of his unshielded vulnerability. He is truly afraid that someone else will not believe him.

Effortlessly, they move and mount onto the steed, hurrying back toward the main area of Raeverband. A small, angry crowd of lower-court nobles and disgruntled citizens has already gathered. The rumor from the border passes has traveled faster than their horses. The guard beside them prepares his shield and sword.

Never once has Elara witnessed a growing group of angry people threatening their own prince, hurtling insults. A bold voice from the crowd shouts across the stone path. “You are a cheap prince with wealth and a crown. Now, you are selling a princess away like she is a mere trinket.” His voice grows. “She will forever be far greater than anything you do, Silent Prince!”

Cael’s jaw clenches so tight the skin turns pale, making Elara wonder if he will break his teeth, but his arms tighten securely around the leather reins. Shifting his body, he blocks Elara’s view of the crowd, shielding her from being made a spectacle even as his own reputation is dragged through the dirt. No one of higher standing arrives, neither the king nor the queen, to defend Cael’s honor and, in accordance with Elara’s hope, his innocence.

“It is a false rumor,” the guard who informed them of the issue speaks, reining his steed in beside them. “You have no evidence to support this claim. Princess Elara remains beside Prince Cael,” he adds, sweeping his arm toward them to command the attention of the assembly.

Elara covers her ears, failing to block out the screaming crowd. She presses her forehead between Cael's shoulder blades, hiding from the vitriol. He tenses, but he does not pull away, and the noise of the crowd falters to witness her close contact with the prince they despise. Cael makes no attempt to address the accusations. Clicking his tongue, he urges his horse forward.

Elara hears the crowd shouting as they clear the square, and her arms tighten around Cael before the sound fades into the distance. She remains silent before they enter the courtyard at the palace and the horse slows for her voice to carry.

“I apologize,” Elara murmurs, turning her face away as he dismounts. “I cannot handle loud atmospheres.” She does not realize she is shaking before this moment.

Cael extends his injured hands, gathering her waist to lift her down from the saddle with absolute care.

Once her feet touch the stone path of the garden courtyard, she pulls back, her hands trembling as she smooths the fabric of her dress.

He watches her, his chest rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths. The sting of the public insults still hangs in the air, but his focus remains anchored on her pale face and her uneven breathing. Gently, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the forest-green leather booklet alongside the silver quill. His raw knuckles strain as he touches the paper, his movements rapid. He turns the book toward her, the ink still wet.

You do not need to apologize to me. Your safety matters to me.

Elara reads the lines, the suffocating panic in her chest easing by a fraction as she looks from the paper back to him. Cael extends his hand, his fingers waiting in the crisp air to guide her out of the courtyard. Elara places her palm in his, allowing his firm grip to lead her past the thresholds and into the warmth of the palace entrance hall. She reads the lines within his booklet, the suffocating panic in her chest easing by a fraction as she looks from the paper back to his face. Before she can find her voice to speak, the heavy timber doors at the end of the hall fracture open with a sharp thud.

The blond vanguard steps through first, his expression dark with frustration, but he quickly moves aside as Queen Maereth sweeps into the hall. Her sharp features are contorted with venomous disapproval, the silver embroidery of her gown catching the light as her quick, furious steps hit the stone floor. Behind her, several high advisors follow in a panicked cluster, their hushed, urgent whispers cutting through the quiet.

“A complete and utter humiliation,” Queen Maereth spits out, her voice cutting through the space like a blade as she stops a few paces away. “Our own citizens are shouting treason at the gates. They accuse the crown prince of trading his wife like an ornament to secure a border retreat, and you simply ride away in silence.”

Cael does not sign a response. He places his broad frame directly between his stepmother and Elara, his posture locking into an unyielding shield that blocks the Queen’s path. His jaw remains clenched, his hand tightening around the edges of the green booklet as he refuses to grant the court vipers a single trace of his internal thoughts.

“The King has fallen ill once again,” one of the elder advisors announces from the back, his voice trembling under the weight of the crisis. “The stress of the border rumor has taken a physical toll. His Majesty’s illness has flared, and the high council demands immediate answers before the outer districts fracture into rebellion.”

Cael’s arm guides Elara, moving inside the palace to escort her up the stairs toward her bedchamber. He avoids his stepmother, steering past the corridors where guards and knights gather anxiously outside King Raelith’s private quarters. Chaos stirs beneath these high walls, though it is filled with more fear than anger.

“Cael,” Elara whispers.

He looks down at her, his eyes betraying his attempt to hold his raw vulnerability back. He does not offer her anything, not even an attempt to take out his notebook and reassure her. He is afraid. Silent as he avoids her eyes. Understanding his intentions, she takes a step back, and her fingers, which she did not know had been grasping his sleeve, release their hold.

He remains in place, his eyes finally meeting hers to offer a stiff incline of his head in acknowledgment, as if he is afraid to ignore her presence. Turning down the hallway, he moves to meet King Raelith in the royal quarters, his silhouette vanishing into the dark corridor. Every guard and knight stationed by the King's threshold stiffens and bows to him, holding back their questions as the prince slips into the chamber.

Reluctantly, Elara retreats into her own bedchamber to ease her racing mind. When the heavy wooden door clicks closed behind her, the rumors of Cael trading her away to Zahraani hands steal the breath from her throat. Frustration builds beneath her ribs; every time she allows herself to trust her husband, the fragile safety melts painfully beneath the weight of malicious words.

Desperate to uncover the truth behind his hidden nature, she pulls his stolen booklet from her vanity drawer. Flipping through the initial pages, she stops at a verse written in faded black ink, some of the words blurred by time. Bringing the parchment closer to her face in the dim light, she reads the lines.