Rosalyn’s fingers hovered for the briefest mont before settling near Theron’s, and the room seed to hold its breath around them, waiting to see whether the Crown Prince would accept the gesture of the woman chosen to stand beside him.
Theron only stared at her.
His silence was louder than refusal.
He knew, logically, that this woman was his fiancée. Sowhere in his mind, that knowledge existed clearly enough. Rosalyn Caelvaris. Granddaughter of the Archduke. Suitable in blood, beauty, education, and political value.
Everything about her made sense.
And yet...
Sothing deep inside him recoiled.
A faint unease lingered beneath his skin like a wound he could not locate. He could not explain it, only that every instinct inside him whispered that sothing was wrong.
Hadn’t he wanted to end this engagent?
The thought surfaced abruptly.
Theron’s brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He had a reason. A very good one. He was certain of it.
So why could he not rember anymore? Why did the harder he tried to grasp the thought, the more it slipped through his fingers like mist?
"Vaelor..."
Rosalyn’s voice softened as she looked at him, her hand still slightly extended toward his.
Her eyes widened faintly at his reaction.
She had listened to her grandmother and left the capital during the cotton crisis, though she had despised every mont of it. She had not wanted to leave Eryndale. She had not wanted to shoulder responsibility for failing trade routes, angry rchants, and burning warehouses.
But sohow...She had succeeded. Perfectly!
And now the court adored her for it. Ministers praised her intelligence. Noblewon envied her. The rchants spoke of her composure beneath pressure, and the royal court had begun calling her the ideal future queen of Greenvale.
This was what she deserved.
Recognition.
Admiration.
Power earned openly before the eyes of the kingdom.
Rosalyn slowly glanced around the throne room, taking in the subtle looks directed toward her. Jealousy from young noblewon. Approval from ministers. Calculation from advisors.
She could see it all.
For the first ti, she was no longer rely the Archduke’s beautiful granddaughter.
Now she was politically valuable and necessary. And it would be utter foolishness for the Crown Prince to reject her after this.
Which was why Theron’s cold indifference irritated her far more than she cared to admit. She hated needing to reach for him first. Hated feeling like she was the only one trying to bridge the distance between them.
Then Theron finally spoke.
"You reek of jasmine."
The words ca suddenly. Quietly.
But there was sothing strange in the way he said it, as though the scent itself disturbed him.
Rosalyn stiffened faintly.
Theron continued staring at her, and the unease inside him deepened.
The jasmine perfu clinging to her skin felt wrong sohow. Her eyes, her smile, and even the way she stood beside him... None of it settled properly inside his chest.
It was beautiful. Perfect, even. Yet it was strangely empty, as though he were staring at a painting of what his future was supposed to be rather than the future itself.
"Your Highness does not like jasmine?" Rosalyn asked carefully.
Though her voice remained composed, tension pulled tightly at the corners of her lips.
Theron looked at her for another long mont before answering.
"I dislike things that are overpowering," he said calmly.
And for reasons he could not understand, the mont he said it, another scent flickered through his mory.
Wildflowers... Rain... Sothing softer... Sothing warm enough to make his chest ache.
The feeling vanished before he could grasp it fully. But the emptiness it left behind remained.
"Since Rosalyn is back, bring her to the Arcanum to visit the Archduke," the King said with a calm, almost pleasant smile. "You are yet to receive his blessing."
He said it so casually that for a mont the words felt almost harmless.
But Theron understood there was nothing harmless in his father’s tone.
The King had his reasons. He wanted to see whether Theron could truly stand beside this brilliant, polished woman the court now praised so eagerly. He wanted to remind the kingdom that Rosalyn still occupied the place chosen for her. And perhaps, beneath all of that, he wanted sothing else too—to make clear to that other woman, whoever she was, that she did not deserve to stand where Rosalyn stood.
More importantly, he wanted to find out who that other woman was.
Theron only stared at him.
That smile on his father’s face. That strange softness in his eyes. It did not belong there. It felt wrong enough to unsettle him. Since when did his father smile at him like that?
He lowered his head with asured restraint.
"The lady must be tired from all the travel," he said. "I will bring her tomorrow."
The King smiled and nodded as though that settled everything.
But Theron barely heard the rest of the court’s discussion. The ministers continued speaking of trade, harvests, and border matters, yet his attention remained fixed on his father with growing unease.
Sothing was hidden.
He could feel it.
He just did not know what.
-----
That evening, Aveline watched Lydia move into the small room beside hers with a quiet kind of relief she had not expected to feel so strongly. The little bed had a thin mattress, the kind that would have seed modest in any noble household, but Lydia’s face lit up as though she had been handed a palace.
"My own window..." she whispered, stepping toward it in disbelief. "And it even has a curtain."
She reached out reverently to brush her fingers over the simple wooden desk, then turned to the bed as though she could scarcely trust that it belonged to her. Her eyes widened with each small thing she discovered.
"My own bed. My own desk. My own room..."
Then, unable to contain her joy, she sat down and bounced once on the mattress, laughing in pure astonishnt.
"This is the first ti I have ever had a room to myself."
The words settled quietly in Aveline’s chest.
At dinner, Lydia was almost overwheld by the fruit Aveline shared with her. She thanked her again and again, her gratitude so sincere it made Aveline feel strangely shy. Lydia told her about her mother, who worked in the cotton fields, about the years of hardship that had shaped her, and about the desperate effort it had taken just to pass the exams and enter the Arcanum.
Aveline listened in silence, and for once, the silence did not feel lonely.
Later, when fatigue finally dulled the edge of the day, she stored the stones safely beside her bed and lay down beneath the covers. Her thoughts, however, refused to rest.
Theron’s face kept returning to her mind.
The brief glimpse she had seen of him earlier that day. The way he had looked so far away, and yet still sohow so vividly himself.
Sleep ca only after a long while.
And when it did, it carried her back to the dream she had begun to know too well.
The adows stretched before her, soft and bright beneath a sky that slled of wildflowers and rain. The wind moved gently through the tall grass, rustling through blossoms that swayed in the distance like a thousand tiny candles. The place felt warm in a way the waking world rarely did.
And there, in the distance...
Theron.
Aveline’s face lit up at once.
"Theron!"
She lifted her hand and ran toward him across the sunlit fields, her heart suddenly light with the sa reckless happiness she only ever seed to feel when he appeared.
She expected him to turn to look at her with the sa smiel she had learned to expect from him.
But...
When he turned... he looked at her as if she were a stranger.
"Theron?" she stepped closer, her heart suddenly feeling so heavy.
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