Chapter 23: Wake Her Up

The night was deep.

Levan walked further to adjust the lantern between the two velvet cushions, its glow softening the shadows that pooled across the chamber. He pulled the curtains closed with a quiet sweep then let his gaze fall upon his wife, who only stirred faintly at the small disturbances.

Behind him, Lysander quietly reached for the iron handle, pulling the door with a step back. “I’ll take my leave now, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “The princess is in better hands than mine, I’d wager.”

Levan did not turn, his eyes fixed on the girl asleep with the massive tome. “You’d wager wrong.”

“Then raise your hand higher, she deserves more than half-measures,” he huffed a low chuckle. “Good night, Prince Levan.”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, he dipped his head in a graceful bow and withdrew, his footsteps fading into the hush of the library’s marble halls as the door shut close, giving privacy to the royals.

Now, it was just the two of them.

Levan lowered himself onto the other cushion perpendicular to where she lay slumbering. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His gaze lingered on the way Ilaria shifted in her sleep, to the way her cheek pressing deeper into the armrest as though seeking warmth.

Then, quite suddenly, her lips puckered faintly, a small absent gesture like she was biting at air before parting again as her breath evened into a soft rhythm. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, so at odds with what Melyn had told him of how the princess would cling to her and insist on sharing a bed.

Maybe it was because of the book, though he was not sure why she was suddenly interested in history. His gaze drifted to the massive tome still resting on her lap, its gilt title catching faintly under the lantern light: ’The Campaigns of King Agrathen.’ Of all things she could have chosen, she had buried herself in the blood-soaked annals of Noctharis’ wars.

Levan’s eyes lingered on the embossed title and wondered if she understands what she was reading at all, then his gaze returned back to the girl curled against the cushion who bears the title as his wife. His princess.

Noctharis has needed Caelwyn to fight off the uprising danger of the unknown force of The Blithe before it spread even more brutally. A string of cases had emerged in recent years, each one left festering and unable to be cleanly resolved. And he knew why the union was struck; why she had been sent here.

Caelwyn’s healers were no ordinary physicians; they were said to be touched by the divine. With hands as steady as a sculptor’s and prayers whispered like incantations, they mended wounds that no blade of iron or tincture of herb could reach. Where others stitched flesh, they restored what was broken.

But most crucial of all, they were the only ones who could tend to the victims of The Blithe’s wounds. The dark rot that spread from a single cut, eating away at flesh and soul alike could left even the strongest warriors helpless. But the Caelwyn healers, with their rites and sacred balms, could draw out the poison like drawing shadows from a flame.

It was only through their countless interventions after the union that many in Noctharis were spared. Had it not been for their aid, the death toll would have risen beyond reckoning. In fact, half the Southern reaches had already been swallowed by shadow before the union was intact.

Honestly…Levan did not know what to do with her. A wife was something he had expected. She was an alliance struck between two kingdoms for necessity, not sentiment, for their union was a lifeline, not a romance. That was why he had agreed to it. That was why he had taken her hand.

He had met her eight years ago during the late King of Caelwyn’s visit. Back then, she had been nothing more than a little girl trailing behind her king with eyes too bright for the world. She had always been carefree and unshaken by the grim shadows that loomed over his court. Even then, he had thought she did not belong in his land.

But now, here she was, his wife…Always smiling, always finding light where there should be none. He knew what purpose she served, knew what her presence secured for his kingdom. But beyond that, he did not know what to do with her, and that is what making this marriage difficult.

Ilaria stirred, turning onto her side as she tucked her clasped hands beneath her cheek to get comfortable. The great tome slid from her lap, tilting dangerously off the cushion. Swiftly, Levan caught it with one hand before it reaches the floor and stir the princess awake, quietly placing it on the empty space beside him.

Even without anyone she could trust here, she was still able to sleep unguarded, or was it simply fatigue from reading that made her unaware of her surroundings? Perhaps she had already grown comfortable with Lysander enough to be alone here. He frowned at the thought. Where was her maid?

Levan had just set the tome down when a faint sound drew his attention.

“Mm…sweet rolls…don’t burn them, papa…”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Ilaria’s lips as she whispered, her lashes fluttering as if her dreams were made of sunlight and laughter. She shifted again, snuggling into the cushion, her words barely coherent but filled with unmistakable warmth.

“…husband will like them…I’ll try harder next time…”

Levan’s gaze lingered on her as her murmurs faded back into the hush of sleep. For a long moment, he simply studied her. This girl who could speak of sweet rolls and burnt ovens as if the world outside was not rotting at its edges, he started to wonder if she was really that sheltered.

His eyes moved to the soft spill of her hair, of loose strands falling against her cheek with every rise and fall of her breath. Without meaning to and without even thinking, his fingers reached out and brushed the errant strands away, tucking them carefully behind her ear before he even realize what he was doing.

It was a simple, maybe instinctive thing, and yet his hand stilled mid-air as if he had committed some war crime. Levan curled his fingers into a fist, quietly questioning what he was doing, and sighed. Before he thought he would become even more irritated, he nudged her shoulder with a bump of his fist.

It did not take too much effort. Ilaria stirred at the bump, her brows knitting as her lips parted in a faint groan. She blinked slowly, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand before turning her face toward him. For a heartbeat, she looked almost childlike in her drowsiness.

“…Melyn?” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep as she closed her eyes back.

“Ah…but…Melyn’s not here…” She yawned and scratched at her arm, where faint creases still marked her skin from how deeply she had slept. “…Don’t wake me Liana…I’m still sleepy…I’ll die…if I don’t sleep…”

Ilaria slumped back on the cushion disoriented and went back to sleep while sitting. Slowly, her head began to tip to the side, almost imperceptibly, as Levan watched in silence. The sight was ridiculous.

“Hey,” he reached out to nudge her shoulder with a careful hand, not giving in to her antics. “Wake up.”

“…Mmm…five more minutes…” she murmured, still half-buried in sleep. Her head tipped again, only for Levan to catch it impulsively this time.

Instead of settling, Ilaria nuzzled her cheek deeper into his palm as if seeking comfort, her lips parting in the faintest sigh, making Levan blink in utter bewilderment and tried to push her head back, only for her to lean into his touch even more, clinging unconsciously to the warmth she mistook for familiarity.

A faint frown tugged at her brows in her sleep. “…Liana…since when did your hand get so big…and warm? And why…is your voice…so deep…?”

Was she serious? Levan had never seen anyone sleep so deeply that they could mistake a person for someone else.

“Open your eyes,” he said impatiently. When she did not stir, he abruptly withdrew his hand. The sudden loss of support jolted her awake, leaving her off balance. She blinked groggily, eyes struggling to focus as the remnants of sleep clung stubbornly to her.

Levan stared deadpannedly as she tried to get back into her senses, yawning and stretching like a cat who just had the best sleep in her entire life. It took some time for her to get back to her composure, but when her eyes adjusted to the dim lantern glow and landed on him, her body stiffened.

The princess sat up straighter, fingers fumbling with the edge of her sleeve like she was looking for something. Her hands flailed slightly before resting on the cushion as shock plastered on her confused and disoriented face. “H-husband?!”

Why is he here?!

Finally. Levan leaned back as he regarded her carefully, arms folded over his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Ilaria hastily wiped her face and smooth her hair, cheeks burning, eyes wide. But she avoided his gaze, too aware of how ridiculous she must look at the moment.

“What are you doing here?” Levan asked although he already knew.

“I…I was reading,” she mumbled, her eyes flicking to the tome sitting beside him an heat immediately flared in her chest.

Levan’s eyes caught her movement. “Reading, huh? And here I thought you spent your nights dreaming about anything but this.” He gestured slightly to the book.

“I—I just wanted to understand…” she stammered, biting her lower lip while internally mortified that he out of all people had seen her attempt to tackle something so serious and so uncharacteristic of her usual self. Who would believe a girl with macaron obsession suddenly wanted to learn about war?

“I mean—” she huffed and cleared her throat defiantly, refusing to let herself look embarrassed. “I’m interested, so why— why not? It’s not like it’s hard to understand.”

“Mm.” Levan’s hum was flat, as if she had just claimed she could sprout wings. And the infuriatingly calm look on his face just made her want to be swallowed by the Earth because truthfully, she was having a very hard time trying to understand the tome.

“I mean it,” she insisted, cheeks puffed in frustration as she turned her face away, hoping he would not notice how red it had grown. “You didn’t want to teach me anyway, so I figured I should read books.”

“When did I say that?”

Exactly! When?!

Ilaria bit her lip again, scrambling for words to say. She hesitantly looked back at him, her voice softening to a mumble without meaning to. “W-well…you always look like you don’t want to…”

“Did you ever ask?”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again as she shrunk back. “…No.”

The silence that followed made her want to curl up and disappear into the velvet cushions. He really have a talent to mortify someone without saying anything, and he was not sorry at all!

“But you would’ve said no!” she blurted quickly, as if the excuse could salvage her pride. It did not.

“So you decided for me,” Levan said evenly. The words landed heavier than they should have, leaving her tongue-tied. But just as quickly, he exhaled and said, “It’s too late into the night. Go back to your chamber.”

Ilaria’s shoulders sagged, her lips pressed into a thin line as she meekly rose to her feet. She smoothed her dress, gathering whatever dignity she could and moved toward the door without a word.

Levan leaned his head back against the velvet cushion, eyes closing briefly to steal a moment of rest. The quiet was already returning to the chamber when her steps suddenly faltered.

She turned, clutching the doorframe with both hands. Her voice was small and hesitant as she said, “But…husband, I’m scared.”

Levan’s head lifted slowly, his eyes narrowing at her. For a long, unreadable beat, he stared. Then, with a low exhale that was half disbelief and half irritation, he muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

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