Chapter 32: Is It My Fault?

Breakfast had never tasted better. As promised, the Head Chef had cooked her omelette with double the cheese, and even slipped in extra salted meat, insisting it would give her strength for the day. Every bite warmed her belly and soothed the remnants of yesterday’s unease, almost making her forget the shadows that lingered in her thoughts.

But once her plate was cleared, her restless curiosity returned. Ilaria rose from the long table with a determined gleam in her eyes, tugging Melyn by the arm.

“The library,” Ilaria declared softly, almost like a secret vow. She had indulged herself with comfort, now it was time to feed her mind.

Melyn raised a brow as they strolled through the sunlit corridor. “You still want to go there after such a morning?”

“Of course I do!” Ilaria chimed, her words spilling faster the more she spoke. “There’s so much I haven’t read yet. Did you know there are whole shelves on maps alone? And another on herbs, though they smell terribly dusty, and I just know if I spend enough mornings there, I’ll finally piece things together. I’m so close to understanding my husband’s world, and then—”

She stopped short, her lips pressing together when the thought sipped into her mind. The bright lilt in her voice cracked, and for the briefest moment her chest ached at the thought of him…and of Seraphine.

Melyn glanced at her sidelong, puzzled by the sudden silence. “…?”

Ilaria forced a quick laugh, waving her hand as if batting away a fly. “I-I mean, understanding the world in general, you know! History, politics, treaties, all that boring but important stuff,” she puffed her cheeks in mock exasperation, though her eyes dulled just slightly, betraying the sulky cloud that lingered.

Melyn smiled faintly but said nothing, letting the princess cover her heartache in her own way as they continued down the long hall toward the library. She could guess what weighed on the princess’ mind, but she held her tongue. Not wanting to ask when Ilaria herself chose not to speak of it.

The corridors whispered with cool morning air as they made their way toward the towering double doors of the library. The faint scent of old books and cedar polish reached them even before the doors swung open.

At the heart of it all, bent over a desk stacked with scrolls and tomes was Lysander. His quill scratched steadily across parchment, though he paused the moment he sensed the princess’ presence. Slowly lifting his head, his sharp eyes softened when they found the princess.

“Your Highness,” he greeted cordially, his warm voice filling the chamber. Adjusting his spectacles, he squinted slightly against the light. “I didn’t expect you to come seeking parchment and ink so early in the morning.”

Ilaria stepped forward with a genuine smile, her gaze drifting immediately to the stack of tomes at his side, the same one she had asked him to keep aside for her. ’The Campaigns of King Agrathen.’

“I’m only halfway through understanding King Agrathen’s history,” she said eagerly. “I still have a long way to go.”

Lysander’s brow lifted, his mouth tugging in restrained amusement. “Halfway, is it? If memory serves, Your Highness barely made it past page two before surrendering to sleep.”

Ilaria’s cheeks warmed, and she pressed her lips into a pout. “That was because I came here at night! I was exhausted.”

“Mhm,” Lysander hummed, clearly unconvinced as he tapped the cover of the tome. “History does demand more stamina than embroidery.”

She shot him a playful glare. “Then I’ll simply have to prove you wrong. Today, I’ll get to page five,” she said, showing him her palms.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him, a sound like papers rustling. “Ambition suits you, princess, but tell me, are you chasing King Agrathen’s history, or something else hidden between the lines?”

For a heartbeat, her smile lingered, but the thought of Seraphine’s name brushed her mind like a thorn, pricking at her to the point that she could not help but ask herself.

Why am I so desperate…?

Those words alone were enough to let the other thoughts slipped in.

Why do I bend over backwards to understand his world, to prove myself worthy of standing beside him, when he already has someone else? Someone he’s chosen with his heart, if not his vows.

Hmph.

She forced her lips to curve again, though this time it felt less like mischief and more like purpose. “History matters to me,” she answered. “This kingdom is my home now and one day, I’ll need to bear the weight of it. If I can’t honour the past, I’ll never be ready for what’s ahead. It is my duty, whether for Caelwyn or Noctharis.”

Lysander studied her over the rim of his spectacles, his expression impassive. The last time she had come, she had spoken of wanting to grasp her husband’s world, though she had left much unsaid. Now, her words bore a sharper edge of duty, a wall to keep her heart hidden.

He inclined his head, as if to acknowledge her resolve, but inside he was quietly unsettled. So eager to carry burdens that are not hers, and so careful to never name the one that truly weighs her down. Alas, who was he to judge? Perhaps it was nothing more than a quarrel between husband and wife.

Ever smiling, Lysander stooped and carefully gathered the heavy tome, balancing it with the ease of someone long accustomed to its weight. “Come then, Your Highness,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “The Ivory Study is empty for now, the crown prince wouldn’t be there today.”

Ilaria stepped forward at first, instinct carrying her feet toward the gilded doors she had used last time, but the sight of them immediately twisted the memories she would rather not confront. Her pace faltered, and she lifted her chin with a faint huff. “Hmph. I don’t want to sit there today.”

Lysander blinked, caught so off guard that he almost dropped the tome. “You…don’t?”

Her lips curved into something between defiance and a pout. “Let’s go somewhere else, anywhere else, just not there.”

Lysander’s eyes crinkled behind his spectacles, though his expression remained politely neutral as he watched the princess turn and started to walk away. So they do have a fight, he mused inwardly, the corners of his mouth twitching at her unspoken rebellion.

But he only nodded, his voice was as smooth as ever. “As you wish, princess. I know just the place.”

And with that, he led her down a quieter corridor, past rows of tall shelves and the lingering scent of old papers until they reached a small alcove flooded with soft morning light. It was a corner meant for scholars, not royals, but Lysander knew it would suit her far better.

Ilaria…never thought reading could feel this restless. Boring, yes, but never this stressful.

She sat with the great tome spread open before her, its thick pages spilling with small words. At first, she fixed her eyes firmly on the ink, her lips moving silently as if sounding the words might steady her thoughts. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, the lines blurred and slipped away as her mind betrayed her, circling back to Levan and the sharper one that lingered behind him: Seraphine.

She bit her lip, adjusted herself, and tried again. Perhaps sitting straighter would help. But no! Her shoulders only sagged, and her thoughts sinking with them. So she slouched forward instead, chin on her palm, squinting at the page like it might finally surrender its meaning. Only for the image of them to break it altogether.

A huff escaped her and she shuffled again, clumsily drawing her legs up onto the chair, curling sideways like a cat. Maybe comfort would bring focus. For a heartbeat, she almost believed it, until the text blurred and spelled the name ’Levan.’ Her chest clenched once more she accidentally banged her forehead on the book, causing her to rub it in silent pain.

“Ow…”

Hardening her determination, she shook her head rapidly and tapped her cheeks, then sat cross-legged, balancing the great tome on her lap after struggling to lift it off of the table. Her hair fell in her face as she bent low, and she blew at the loose strands with dramatic frustration, muttering to herself as though the book was deliberately plotting against her.

As if her restlessness were not enough, it only worsened when a mischievous, familiar murmur drifted from the doorway. It was Lysander’s voice. “…She’s been waiting here all morning, you know. Perhaps if you greet her, she might finally turn more than two pages.”

Thump.

Ilaria froze at that, her breath caught mid-huff at the possibility of who it might be. Her head jerked slightly to look up, but she dared not lift her gaze. From the corner of her eyes, however, the world shifted, and the tall, unmistakable silhouette of her husband came to view, causing her to silently pray to the First Dragon to take him away.

Saints, why now…

Her pulse thudded, every ounce of her feigned concentration crumbling. He stood there like a storm contained in armour as an obvious irritation flickered across his face, not just at Lysander’s meddling but at something deeper, something she could never quite name. His gaze swept the chamber once then landed on her, grave and inexpressive.

For a fleeting second, her heart leapt. Foolish, treacherous thing…She wanted to believe Lysander’s little scheme and that Levan might have willingly come for her, yet the tightness in his jaw said otherwise. Because of course, this utterly unbothered, frosty prince would not spare any time just to ’greet’ her.

Their eyes locked for a moment, his gaze was steady as stone while hers were faltering beneath its weight. A faint ache of longing brushed her heart, so sharp it made her breath stumble. Quickly, she turned her back on him, still perched cross-legged on the chair with the monstrous tome across her lap.

The sudden movement nearly threw her off balance. The book sliding and her knees wobbling, but she caught herself with a small, breathless gasp, fumbling to right the pages and smooth her gown as though nothing had happened. Her cheeks burned at how ridiculous she might look. Grace of a royal? Hmph. More like a startled rabbit.

Still, she sat straighter and lowered her head again, pretending to read the tome as if words were not blurring together and her heart was not thundering loud enough for the entire library to hear. Meanwhile, Levan watched the way she turned away while shifting uncomfortably, earning a frown on his features.

She had not even greeted him.

“You sulk as if I’ve wronged you, yet I’ve barely said a word,” he deadpanned.

The words reached her like frost across her skin. Her lips pressed together, the retort rising but dying in her throat. What could she even say? That his silence hurt more than any sharpness could? That his very presence reminded her of Seraphine?

So she only mutter, “I’m reading.”

Levan’s golden eyes slanted faintly, lingering on the stubborn curve of her shoulders. Lysander had told him he was at fault, and though he did not know why, he had let that insistent Archivist drag him here anyway.

That man fancied himself a diplomat, but truly, he was a meddler with too much parchment and too little sense — one who seemed far too amused by playing matchmaker where he had no business.

“Then read,” Levan said, the steel in his tone remained. “If that helps you forget me.”

Ilaria’s fingers stilled against the tome, the words on the page blurring into nothing. But she did not turn, for fear he would see the truth written too plainly in her countenance.

When she did not respond, Levan exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with restraint. But when his eyes returned to the back of his wife’s head, the question left him before he could stop himself.

“What’s wrong with you?” The words slipped out low and reluctant, as if he hated himself for asking, yet hated not knowing even more.

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