Page 7 of Lost Moon

He rips his hand away, forcing the memory into the dark. He had kept his torment a secret for years, refusing to shatter the affection his father still held for the woman.

Cael had spent his life protecting his father from Maereth’s malice. Now, his father has unknowingly bartered him away to another suffocating prison. He was trading one prison for another, sacrificing his own future simply to keep his father’s borders safe.

Cael leans back against the bench, his fingers gripping the edge of the stone as a tremor passes through him.

His heart still thumps against his ribs, the meeting of the council where his father announced that to secure a lasting peace and new trade routes, Cael would wed Princess Elara of Veyrenn swirling through his mind. Breath had fled him at the declaration, thoughts of responsibilities, affections, and actions he was not ready for crashing into his skull so rapidly his head spun.

Stifled laughs had traveled through the crowd, the nobles whispering their pity for the foreign princess who was to be bound to a prince who could not even speak his vows.

Cael is pulled back to reality by a gentle poke against his left cheek. Turning his head, he finds Kaera sitting beside him, a soft smile gracing her lips. Her long black hair rests across her shoulders, cascading down her arms. Her ankle-length black dress features short sleeves, a modest square neckline, and polished velvet shoes. It is a gown she wears often, a known favorite, proving that King Raelith values the comfort of his family far above the suffocating, rigid dress codes of other courts.

“What are you doing? It is scorching out here,” Kaera notes, smoothing her skirt as she settles into the space beside him.

A smile pulls at Cael’s lips, the first to surface since this morning. He raises his hands to reply, his fingers cutting through the air with the language he uses to communicate with family and palace staff. The heat is better than the suffocating silence of my chamber.

Her smile fades as she leans back against the bench. After a lingering beat of silence, she speaks again, voicing the truth he had tried to hide. “You are afraid. You are afraid of what this girl will be like. You do not want to get married yet.”

Cael averts his gaze to the running fountain, watching droplets scatter across the stone near his boots. He tenses, avoiding Kaera’s eyes. She places her warm hand over his clenched fist, her gentle touch loosening the tightness in his shoulders.

“Father has a reason,” Kaera admits, her voice softening. “He never does anything without a purpose.”

Cael pulls his arm back, severing the touch. His hands lift, his fingers cutting through the air with sharp, rapid motions. And I must assume more duties on top of everything else? Our own people mock me simply because I was born mute. I am not seen as a great prince. The high lords do not wish for me to inherit the crown. A shuddering breath escapes his mouth.

“Let us hope for the best,” Kaera reassures him, leaning closer.

Cael’s hands drop to his lap. His chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm, his gaze tracking the empty space on his finger where a wedding band will soon sit.

He cannot share Kaera’s optimism. A positive outlook has never come easily to him throughout his twenty-three years, not even as a child. Offering a small nod, Cael lets her know that the attempt at comfort is appreciated.

Kaera smiles. “Perhaps the princess is kind, and I can finally have a friend of my own.”

Cael raises an eyebrow with curiosity and a touch of amusement. Is that why you are attempting to comfort me? He signs, the ghost of a smile touching the corners of his lips.

A laugh escapes her. “I am only trying to remain positive. Actually, I recently found a book in our library and read a beautiful line. It said, Keep your face always toward the sunshine, and shadows will fall behind you.” Kaera picks at a loose thread on her gown, her voice soft when she speaks. “I do not like it when you are saddened.”

His expression softens at his younger sister’s affection. Despite the cruelty of the court and the isolation surrounding his life, he appreciates Kaera immensely, grateful that Queen Maereth had entered his father’s life if only because it brought this girl into the family. She stands, smoothing her skirt before turning toward the stone stairs. Cael watches her ascend until the dark entrance of the palace swallows her from view.

He looks down at his callused hands one last time, unaware that across the border, the princess he dreads is trapped in an identical terror.

V

ONE FINAL PRAYER

E

Elara’s eyes open, finding Walker asleep nearby.

Her vision remains blurred from the remnants of the panic attack. A deep, pulsing throb aches across the sides and back of her head, forcing a soft whimper from her lips. She is back in her own bedchamber with no memory of how she got there. Though the heavy curtains are drawn tight, a gap in the velvet reveals the darkness outside her window. The midnight hour has already passed.

She has been changed into her nightgown, the familiar soft fabric brushing against her skin. There is no need to question the transition, knowing that Walker is the only soul permitted to tend to her in such a state. Her head does not rest upon a pillow, even though her body reclines against the familiar softness of the mattress. Tilting her head, she finds Walker. The caretaker’s eyes are closed in deep sleep, shadows beneath them revealing her exhaustion.

The moment Elara sits up to adjust her weight, her hands grip the sheets for support. The movement stirs the stillness, and Walker awakens with a sharp inhale, straightening her posture as her eyes widen in alarm.

“Elara?” she whispers, a wide smile of profound relief breaking across her features. “You are all right. You are all right. My dear is finally awake.” Her voice carries a slight rasp from sleep.

Elara takes a moment to piece together the fragments of the previous morning: the bitter argument with King Eric, his devastating admission, the forced marriage, and the violent panic that had shattered her composure. Her grip tightens on the sheets as the reality of the situation floods back, and she fights the instinct to spiral once more. Anchoring herself in the present, she notices Walker clutching a small, damp cloth that has left a dark patch of moisture on her skirt. On the small table beside the bed, a cup of tea sits, cold and forgotten.

Walker follows her gaze to the porcelain, a soft sigh of guilt escaping her lips. “I prepared the tea a few hours ago, hoping you might wake.” She straightens, attempting to slip from the edge of the mattress. “I can brew another for you.”