Page 68 of Lost Moon

Olivia follows his gaze back to the window display, a knowing glimmer brightening her eyes. She knows Elara’s exact measurements, having custom-fitted the emerald gown for the princess only weeks ago, and the target of the prince’s purchase is obvious. It is a relief on his part, considering he did not specifically check her exact measurements.

“An excellent choice, Your Highness,” Olivia says warmly, her hands moving through the air to return a sign of compliance before she steps over to retrieve the garment. “The lining is thick wool, and it will drape beautifully on the princess without weighing her down.”

While she folds the floral dress into a dark parchment wrap, Cael pulls a small velvet pouch of royal gold coins from his belt. He unfastens the leather drawstring and places the formal payment onto the wooden counter.

Olivia sets the finished bundle down but does not step away. She turns to a cedar rack behind her counter, reaching up to pull down a thick, heavy woolen coat dyed in a matching shade of pale rose, lined with soft winter fleece.

“Take this as well, Cael,” she says, dropping his formal title for a brief moment of genuine care. “I saw the princess walking outside by the tailoring shop yesterday wearing your large traveling coat. She looked quite swallowed by it. She needs a proper winter layer of her own to keep her warm against the frost.”

Cael’s fingers smooth over the thick lining, and the thought of Elara wrapped in it brings a softness to his expression. He can already imagine her discovering the coat in her bedchamber, sheltered from the winter cold. He lifts his hands again. Thank you once again, Olivia.

He does not head straight back to the palace. There are still storage manifests to review, checkpoint lines to verify, and distribution logs to sign before the high court convenes for the winter session. He keeps his gaze ahead, forcing his thoughts away from the warmth of the tailoring shop and back into the strict alignment of his responsibilities.

His mind drifts to the way Elara had looked at him over the dinner table when his fingers found hers beneath the heavy tablecloth. She had been so easily flustered, her green eyes wide with a quiet, breathless curiosity that shattered her usual royal defenses. He remembers the soft color that had risen to her cheeks when she admitted she imagined his voice to be softer than his father’s commanding tone.

Surrounded by a kingdom that scorns his existence, the memory of her closeness protects him like a shield against the elements, a soft melody playing beneath the harsh reality of his station. Maveric signals a turn toward the eastern warehouse block, drawing Cael out of the recollection. He dismounts near the iron-ringed cargo doors.

The duty here is meticulous and draining. Cael stands before the district overseers, reviewing the written manifests for the incoming coal and firewood shipments meant to heat the lower-district shelters. The overseers hand him the ledgers with stiff, reluctant movements, their lips tightly drawn as they refuse to meet his eyes. They do not offer a single word of greeting, keeping their remarks brief and administrative to avoid crossing the line into open defiance. Cael scans the pages, his silver-tipped quill carving corrections into the margins wherever the distribution lines appear uneven or falsified to favor the wealthy estates.

By the time Cael finishes and mounts Snow again, the fading daylight has flattened into a dull, leaden grey. The wind picks up, whistling through the narrow stone corridors of the lower commercial streets, carrying the distant, growing hum of an unsettled crowd. He notices the shift in the air before his vanguards can call it out.

The hostile murmurs that had been rippling through the outer edges of the market all day are suddenly converging, condensing into a sharp, focused aggression along the main thoroughfare. The poisonous border rumors have finally found a breaking point among a disgruntled faction of lower-court sympathizers and trade agitators.

They emerge from the shadows of the arched stone alleyways, a coordinated group of broad-shouldered men carrying heavy iron utility bars and crude wooden staves. They do not scatter when the royal horses approach. Instead, they form a solid, menacing line directly across the cobblestone path, their features twisted with a dark, unyielding malice.

“There he is!” a harsh, booming voice shouts from the center of the blockade, drawing several more figures from the surrounding storefronts. “The silent coward who sells our princess away to foreign vanguards! Why should we bow to a mute monster who hoards our safety behind his palace walls?”

The aggressors step forward in unison, their iron bars scraping against the cobblestones as they prepare to launch a physical assault on the prince. Before the first weapon can even rise, the air fractures with the thunderous, deafening clatter of steel.

“Hold the line!” Maveric roars, his voice carrying the disciplined authority of a veteran knight as he drives his horse forward.

The five royal guards move with a blinding precision, their steeds rearing as they wheel their massive frames into a solid, impenetrable wall of armor around Cael. The three knights draw their broadswords in a single, fluid motion, the steel releasing a sharp, terrifying ring, while the two guards shift their massive iron-bound shields forward, locking them edge-to-edge into a defensive barrier.

An aggressive trade master launches himself forward, swinging a heavy timber stave at the guard line. A knight deflects the blow with a resounding, metallic smash of his shield, the force of the impact sending the weapon splintering onto the stone and knocking the back into the dirt.

The rest of the guards ground their boots and steeds against the cobblestones, using their sheer physical weight to shove the surging crowd back into the market stalls, keeping them contained within the iron wall of their armor.

Cael remains centered inside the protective ring as he grips the leather reins. He does not attempt to stand his ground or correct their corruption. The terrifying realization of what this growing violence means, and the necessity of keeping his secret gifts for Elara safe from their destructive hands, drives his immediate response.

He cannot let them ruin the fragile trust he has built with his princess. His hand checks the parcel secured against the saddle before he urges Snow forward.

With a click of his tongue, he commands his steed to break away from the center of the fray. The white animal leaps forward, its hooves striking the cobblestones with a furious, rhythmic thunder as Cael rushes past the edge of the blocked alleyway, leaving his guards to handle the containment.

Maveric and the knights maintain their unbreakable perimeter, moving their horses back in an orderly, defensive retreat to cover his path as they clear the commercial rows. Cael rides hard through the freezing winter fog, his chest rising and falling with unstable breaths as the lower district vanishes behind him. He speeds past the outer warehouse block and bursts through the massive iron gates of the upper palace courtyard, the heavy doors slamming shut behind his arrival to seal out the chaos of the kingdom.

The warm glow filtering from Elara’s balcony windows illuminates the falling afternoon darkness, confirming she is safe inside her quarters, removed from the chaos of the thoroughfare.

He guides his steed behind the palace walls, far from the main gates where the loud alarms still echo from the outer courtyard. There is no guard or knight present to take the animal.

Cael secures Snow within the stone stables, where the scent of other horses and dry hay hangs in the quiet air, and the candles of the iron chandelier above fade, yielding to the encroaching night. Only a few horses rest with their eyes closed, while others stand, looking across the dim space.

When he is certain of the steed’s security, he turns and exits the large structure, making his way into the palace. The interior corridors welcome him. Moving with a cautious tread to avoid detection as the palace grows darker, indicating each soul has retired for the night, he makes his way down the hallway until he stands before the wooden door of Elara’s bedchamber.

He halts for a second, his breathing finally stabilizing in the shadows. Feeling exhausted and suddenly hesitant, he refrains from knocking or seeking her presence. Instead, he bends down and places the parchment wrap containing the floral dress and the thick rose coat flat against the stone floor beside her threshold, ensuring she will perceive it the moment she opens her door.

He brushes his fingers gently against the wood. Sliding his hand back to his side, he leaves the garments behind. Turning away, he retreats down the corridor toward the isolation of his own private chamber. Each step forward, he makes his way up the grand staircase leaves him more exhausted, as though a heavy burden holds him down, an entire mountain of pain.

Once inside the sanctuary of his dark chamber, the doors click shut, sealing him away from the demands of the crown. The composure he forced himself to maintain all afternoon cracks. A wave of pain tightens inside his chest, the raw pressure behind his ribs building until he fears he will weep from the agony within his heart.