Chapter 120: His Princess

The corridor beyond the council chamber was cooler, the stone walls swallowing sound until even footsteps felt intrusive.

Levan followed the aide in silence, their pace unhurried but purposeful. This wing of the palace was rarely used for audiences because it was too narrow. It was where conversations happened when one did not wish to be overheard or remembered.

The aide stopped beside a tall window overlooking the inner gardens. Only then did he turn.

“Your Highness,” he said again, more softly now that the tension of the council chambers no longer present. “It has been some time.”

Levan inclined his head. “It has.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the man’s insignia before returning to his face, recognition settling with ease. He remembered him well from the wedding months ago.

Eryndor Vaelis. Always positioned at the Queen Serenya’s right hand, watchful and unyielding, eyes never straying far from Ilaria even as the vows were spoken.

“You serve the Queen well.”

“As I always have,” Eryndor replied. Then, after the briefest hesitation, his expression shifted. “And the Princess?”

“She is well,” Levan answered without pause. “She has adapted to Noctharis with more grace than anyone had a right to expect. She is safe.”

Eryndor exhaled quietly, relief passing across his features before discipline reclaimed it. “Her Majesty will be glad to hear that.”

Levan regarded him steadily. “You said you wished to discuss with me alone.”

“Ah, yes…” Eryndor nodded hastily. He looked around, making sure that no one was eavesdropping, then reached inside his coat. What he withdrew was not a scroll case bearing seals meant for public record, nor a proclamation stamped for council review.

“This was not meant to pass through official channels…”

It was a single letter, folded too neatly and sealed simply. Levan recognized the Caelwyn crest immediately, but not the formal sigil used in correspondence between thrones. This was the Queen’s private seal.

“This,” the aide said quietly, holding it out with both hands while speaking in a hush, “was entrusted to me directly. I was instructed to place it into your hands.”

Levan glanced down at the letter, then back to the aide’s face as wariness settled on his otherwise unreadable expression. “To me,” he repeated, making sure that he did not heard it wrong.

“Yes.”

Something in his eyes flickered. By every rule of court and crown, this should not have happened. Matters of this weight belonged before the King, or at the very least in Ilaria’s hands. A sealed audience or a witnessed exchange would have been the proper course.

“The Queen was specific,” Eryndor continued noting how the prince had not yet reached for the letter. “She said time would be lost if this passed through formal channels. And that there are matters she believes only you can address clearly and without delay.”

Levan took the letter then.

“She did not wish this discussed before the council,” he added, bowing slightly. “Nor before the Princess.”

That was worse. Levan’s thumb brushed the edge of the parchment, his thoughts already moving several steps ahead. If the Queen was shielding her sister from this; if she was bypassing kings and councils alike, then whatever lay inside was not merely dangerous.

It was destabilizing.

“I see,” Levan said at last.

It should have been the right moment for the aide to take his leave, yet his stance wavered. Apprehension flickered across his features. Levan noted the hesitation. He had seen many of the Queen’s aides, all disciplined and precise, but this one could not entirely mask a trace of personal concern.

“You are troubled,” Levan said, tilting his head, studying him. “Is there something you are not certain about?”

Eryndor shifted, unease creeping into his stance. “It is not my place to speculate,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But… the Queen seemed… unwell. I do not know if it is the weight of this crisis, or if there are matters of her health she has not disclosed.”

He swallowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I… I am concerned that she may be forcing herself to act despite her condition. And that, should she be compromised, the consequences would ripple beyond Caelwyn alone. I thought it right to warn you in the only way I could.”

Levan’s eyes narrowed slightly. The words Eryndor had spoken did not escape him.

The Queen… unwell?

A chill traced his spine. That was not merely the ruler of Caelwyn he was thinking of, it was Ilaria’s sister. Her only family. The one who had guided her, watched over her, and now… if she were sick or compromised in any way, it could ripple across the delicate balance of both their nations.

“Unwell,” he murmured, more to himself than to Eryndor. He felt the weight of the Crown Prince’s responsibility pressing against him in a way he had rarely experienced outside battlefields or council chambers. This was not a matter of strategy alone, this was personal.

A monarch’s sickness was a peril all its own. Even a minor ailment, if noticed beyond palace walls, could seed doubt, erode loyalty, and shift the delicate balance of power. Allies might hesitate, enemies might press, and courtiers could act with caution or with ambition.

Every heartbeat of weakness became a potential fault line, and Levan knew just how fragile such stability could be.

Eryndor’s gaze met his, taut with concern that Levan had seen only flickers of before. “Your Highness?”

“I understand,” Levan said quietly, voice steady but carrying an undertone of steel as he made the decision quickly. “If the Queen is ill, she will not put herself forward lightly. But if there is risk, I will ensure nothing reaches her unprotected.”

He paused, closing his fingers over the seal of the letter. “And if she is compromised, I will act personally. No one else will decide for her or for my wife.”

Eryndor’s brow lifted slightly, a faint relief softening the worry in his expression, though the crease remained. He had expected hesitation, perhaps defiance, but not the clarity and resolve in the Crown Prince’s words.

Levan’s mind was already calculating possibilities: contingencies, reinforcements, and the ways to protect Caelwyn’s throne without exposing Ilaria or herself to danger. His grip tightened briefly on the letter, the cool parchment grounding him even as the thought of his wife’s only family weighed heavily on his conscience.

“The Queen has always been decisive,” Levan said, “but if she is forcing herself to act in her condition, she is taking a risk that neither of our nations should bear alone.”

Eryndor nodded, acknowledging both the weight of the statement and the implicit promise it carried.

Levan allowed himself the briefest moment to imagine Ilaria’s smile and unworried expression, and vowed silently that no threat, no sickness, no failure of judgement would ever reach her while he drew breath.

“You have done well to bring this directly to me,” he said, lifting his gaze towards Eryndor with a hint of acknowledgement behind his eyes. “Thank you. You may go.”

The aide stepped back, offered a final bow, and disappeared down the corridor without another word.

Levan remained by the window long after Eryndor’s footsteps faded, the quiet settling around him like a held breath. The letter rested against his palm, its presence undeniable, heavy with things yet unsaid, but not yet faced.

Later.

Duty demanded answers, strategy demanded foresight, but there were promises that came before all of it. He slipped the letter carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart, where it would not be lost nor forgotten.

Whatever the Queen had entrusted to him would be addressed, but not before he ensured what mattered most was within his sight. Turning on his heel, Levan strode down the corridor with renewed purpose.

Because first, he would need to find his wife.

Levan found the gardens first. The outer courtyard lay bathed in afternoon light, the fountains murmuring softly as veilfish drifted beneath the surface, lazy and unbothered by the weight of kingdoms. He paused near the stone balustrade, eyes scanning the pathways instinctively.

For a fleeting moment, he half-expected to find her crouched near the water, sleeves rolled, speaking softly to the fish as if they might answer her. But there was nothing there, only rippling water and the scent of damp stone. He turned away without comment.

His chambers were next. It made sense because she liked them. Said they felt warmer than her own as if they belonged to a man rather than a crown. He pushed open the doors, gaze sweeping over the familiar space: the desk she sometimes stole parchment from, and the chair she liked to curl up in when pretending not to wait for him.

The adjoining door to her chambers stood ajar, inviting and suspicious all at once. He crossed through. Her rooms were quiet, sunlight spilling across the rugs, the bed untouched. No discarded shawl, no half-finished book. Not even the faint scent of flour she always carried with her when she had been up to something questionable.

Levan stopped just inside the threshold. That was… unusual.

For the first time since leaving the council chamber, a flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. He retraced his steps, passing servants who bowed quickly, some exchanging glances as he moved with a purpose too sharp to be casual.

The library came next, vast and hushed, dust motes floating lazily between towering shelves. If she was anywhere, it would be here. But he was only met with the confused expression of The Archivist instead.

“Your Highness?” Lysander looked up from a stack of ledgers as Levan entered, brows lifting faintly. He watched as the Crown Prince scanned the room, eyes moving with military precision across tables, alcoves, and reading nooks.

Ah… He immediately knows.

“She isn’t here,” Lysander said slowly, more observation than question.

Levan stopped. “You’ve seen her.”

Lysander raised a brow, then shook his head. “Not since morning.”

Another silence.

And before the man could open his mouth to tease, Levan turned to leave, already recalibrating. As he reached the doorway though, something tugged at the back of his mind: Sweet things.

The image of Ilaria’s eyes lighting up as she looked at the pastries she made for him surfaced in his mind. The way she lingered just a second longer when macarons were mentioned, pretending indifference and failing terribly.

Once, half in jest and half in longing, she had declared, Macarons are the best thing humans ever made.

He stopped mid-step.

The kitchens.

He changed direction without explanation. And just as he thought, the scent reached him before the sound, warm bread, sugar, and something unmistakably sweet. The kitchens were alive with quiet chaos and servants moving around one another in practiced harmony.

And there, near the far counter, with sleeves rolled past her elbows, hair loosely pinned and already threatening rebellion was Ilaria. She stood over a bowl far too large for one person, dusted in flour like she had declared war on it and lost. Her expression was focused, tongue peeking slightly between her lips as she stirred the batter.

Then she smiled. Not at anyone in particular, just… smiled.

Levan exhaled, the tension he had not realized he was carrying loosening all at once.

He watched as she laughed quietly at something one of the kitchen maids said, brushing flour from her cheek with the back of her wrist and only smearing it further. The joy on her face was so unguarded and so achingly genuine that he felt an irrational urge to keep it to himself as a secret the world had no right to claim.

This was what the council chambers never saw. What wars and treaties of the world could never touch. The weight of crowns and letters, of threats still gathering beyond the horizon, softened and drifted to the edges of his mind as he watched her move, alive and safe, exactly where she belonged.

Whatever storms waited beyond these walls, whatever dangers lurked in ink and sealed parchment, they could wait. Because for now, there was only this.

His princess.

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