Page 73 of Lost Moon

He steps back to anchor himself beside the threshold, his broad frame blocking the entrance like a silent guard, his unmoving eyes fixed on Elara as the nurses begin to wash the sulfur grime from her wrists.

Elara looks at him. For a moment, the ache in her hands and the rapid beats of her heart fade from her focus. Cael stands by the entrance like a sentry, his arms crossed while his dark hair shadows his gaze. He carries the weight of a storm cloud gathering thunder. Noticing her stare, he raises one eyebrow, ignoring the nurse who attempts to inspect his frame for wounds.

She drops her eyes from his face, catching sight of his blade instead. Crimson coats the point from the throat in the square. She averts her face, her stomach turning at the grim display. He then discreetly hides the sword behind him, though his stance and place remain the same.

The elderly nurses finish their work, smoothing a clean linen wrap over her wrists before gathering their basins. They lower their heads in a respectful bow and slip past his broad frame into the corridor, pulling the heavy oak doors closed.

The emptiness leaves nothing but the crackle of the fire and the heavy sound of Cael’s breathing near the door.

Elara remains in the large leather armchair. He does not reach for his green booklet, and he does not move from his post. The memory of the marketplace explosion seems to fade into the shadows, leaving only the profound silence they now share.

Neither of them knew what would come next.

XXVIII

A CONSUMING FEAR

E

Elara stands by her balcony, watching the garden.

Cael’s coat protects her from the morning breeze. No gardeners move among the beds. The usual chatter has vanished, and the scent of the morning meal has not emerged from the kitchens below. At her throat, the golden pendant feels freezing against her skin.

Elara closes her fingers around the metal, holding it tight until it begins to warm beneath her palm. Her gaze remains fixed upon the paths below, searching for any movement. The empty benches, the abandoned tools, and the roses bending beneath the breeze seem strangely unfamiliar, as though the palace changed overnight while leaving every stone in place. She listens for footsteps in the corridors behind her, for servants beginning their morning routine, or for the distant sound of voices carrying through the courtyard, but nothing reaches her.

The memory of dripping crimson returns to her thoughts, accompanied by the image of Queen Maereth’s raw panic and the reality of King Raelith’s worsening health. The small hope she allowed herself to harbor has shattered, and guilt pierces her heart while her hands slide along the inside of the coat.

Her fingers hesitate, attempting to intertwine into a prayer before falling apart. She presses them together once more, harder this time. She forces herself to think of her mother, searching for the strength and gentleness she remembers from her youth. Queen Aline had taught her that tears were not a sign of weakness, and Walker had reinforced that lesson, promising she would always be there for Elara, even from a distance.

A tear slides down Elara’s cheek. Yielding to the exhaustion in her body, she lets her quiet sobs escape. A few strands of hair sway and cling to her wet cheeks, trapping her within her own grief.

“Mother, I cannot do this,” Elara whispers, her limbs trembling. “How long must I endure this? How many more tragedies must I face before the world stops resenting me?” She shakes her head. “I am too weak. I am not like you, and I never will be.”

She buries her chin deeper into the wool collar, pulling the massive fabric tighter around her chest. Her gaze anchors on the vacant dirt paths of the garden, where the untended white roses flutter. Usually, by this hour, the rhythmic scrape of iron spades and the chatter of the laundry servants would rise to her balcony, offering a comfortable, predictable backdrop to the morning.

Instead, the kingdom holds its breath behind iron gates, leaving her alone with the echoing memory of the blast, the ground filling with crimson, and the trade master’s blood dripping onto the stone.

Her fingers slide lower into the deep pockets of the coat, searching for any small distraction to halt the rapid beating of her heart. Ever since she slipped the garment on after dressing this morning, the wool has served as a shield, but now her knuckles press against the rough seams of the lining for a different reason. Her thumbs trace the inner fabric, seeking the lingering shield of Cael’s arms when he locked his frame around her to block the fire. That barrier is the only piece of protection she can grasp. The scent of cedarwood and ink remains the only constant presence anchoring her to the space.

She closes her eyes and breathes it in. The scent belongs to him, and for reasons she cannot explain, that presence is easier to endure than the emptiness surrounding her.

Turning back to her bedchamber, she abandons the view and shuts the glass doors behind her. Moving across the chamber, she pulls Cael’s old booklet from her vanity drawer once more. She turns past the pages where he had written the words exchanged between them, her fingers slowing whenever she reaches a familiar passage.

She has read the booklet so many times that she already knows which page comes next, where the ink grows darker from the pressure of his quill, and where a corner has begun to soften from repeated handling. Only five poems remain unread. She pauses, reluctant to spend another one so quickly, then carefully turns the page.

I feel the breath stall within my throat, and my pulse slacken,

Leaving me to reach blindly for a single thread I wish to live for.

The cruelty of the woman I forced myself to call a mother,

Her decree that my very birth was fashioned as a punishment,

Forces my own mind to believe the shadow of her words.

Every rising dawn, I wish to meet the queen who gave me life,

To desperately touch the gentle grace my father promised me.