Chapter 52: The Weight of Silence (Part 2)

Ilaria suddenly found herself steeling. Something cold was threading through her ribs, alarmingly whispering to her to hold herself from moving. He had always given her the creeps due to his quietness, but she never thought of him as a threat. He was never one.

Maybe it was simply because the fact that he was speaking at all that unsettled her. At family dinners in the past, he had barely spoken a word to the King and Melvin. Sometimes he had not even seemed to have the heart to open his mouth, just sitting there in silence until it was time to leave.

So why the sudden interest? And to talk about something sacrosanct so offhandedly…

If Neven had noticed her reaction, then he paid no mind.

“It was truly a remarkable ceremony, I still remember the first time I faced the Black Dragon in The Maw of Veythar,” he went on. His expression was somewhat solemn, like he was merely telling a story from a book rather than experience.

It was what he said next that unruffled her.

“The dragon sees the truth in a soul and unfurls its wings for the worthy. The flame answers only to what is true. I have grown up believing that the Dragon’s judgement was absolute. That the ritual was sacred. I still do. And yet…” he paused, “…the truest stories might also have seams.”

Ilaria suddenly felt chill running down her arms. Hearing the questioning tone in his voice as he talked about the ceremony felt so wrong. “…What…do you mean?”

“Humans are clever,” he spoke the phrase wryly. “We craft pageants, we engineer impressions. A crown is an old thing. It has to convince men as much as it convinces dragons.”

Neven turned slightly, only to raise his gaze at the statue, its many-headed form looming and watchful. “The dragon is magnificent, princess. It commands awe, but that awe can be guided. Sometimes a hand reaches in and arranges the scene so the dragon’s gaze falls exactly where that hand planned.”

As if drawn by his motion, Ilaria turned head first to the statue. At first, it seemed no different from the other monuments or marble figures she had seen in the palace. Caelwyn’s Temple even boasted statues far grander than this one. But as her gaze met the eye of one of its heads, it seemed so alive that she had to look away.

Why is the prince saying such things? The Coronation of Wings was hallowed, everyone knows that the divine sight could not be bent by mortal artifice. The Oath of Balance has prevented them from doing so. The royalties of the Kingdom of Aurathis, had they dared to lie or fabricate facts, they shall be damned with death by the Bringer of Dawn itself — The Golden Dragon.

Ilaria may not have been an expert in reading people, but one thing was certain: the prince was not talking about her. Then…was he speaking of her husband’s place as Noctharis heir?

“…Forgive me, but I doubt that,” she found herself saying despite herself. Perhaps because it concerned Levan, she could not hold her tongue. “The ceremony is witnessed by two divinities and the people of the kingdom. The patron of the royal line chooses its heir, and the Golden Dragon’s vision grants legitimacy.”

The story of the fractured bond between the brothers surfaced in her mind unbidden. Even if they no longer see each other eye to eye, he could not possibly disdain Levan for the Crown, could he? The succession had never been a matter of humans’ choice, after all.

She searched his face for scorn, for accusation, or anything that might give her the benefit of doubt. But instead she found only a quiet, dangerous patience that unnerved her more than anything.

“…You doubt the Coronation, Your Highness?” she asked softly, as if not to disturb the carved dragon that seemed to be breathing just beside them.

Neven’s mouth quirked slightly, though his expression betrayed nothing of the thoughts he might have in his head. “Doubt is a blunt word. I am merely mindful,” he said.

“The thing about ceremonies is that they give men the illusion of witness. A ritual can be beautiful and still be guided by hands nobody names. Men arrange light as easily as they arrange a crown.”

His gaze slid back to her, cold like a seal closed over some private thought. “Sometimes the dragon chooses. Sometimes men choose with the dragon’s blessing afterward. And sometimes…people learn how fragile blessings can be.”

Ilaria felt the air thin around her. His suggestion had been almost casual, yet it struck her like a stone. “So you believe they would arrange it?” she asked, her voice small. For someone who grew up surrounded by continuous prayers and holy rites, even the thought of questioning something so sacred was a taboo in itself.

Neven gave a faint, almost pitying shake of his head, like he had expected more than her tenderhearted reaction. “I think there are always arrangements to be found where power waits. Whether that means anything to the dragon is another matter.”

He watched her for a long, quiet beat, then added, mellow and almost kind, “Be careful which truths you wear like armour, princess. Not every crown reflects the same light.”

At last, he straightened, his robe catching the lanternlight like a shadow unmoored. The opening of his robe fell slightly aside with the movement, and her eyes caught on a darkened mark etched over his chest — a scar, stark against his skin, right where his heart should be.

Neven made little effort to cover it as he inclined his head in faint courtesy, already turning away as if he had not just questioned her belief and left her adrift. As if he had not just let his buried bitterness slip bare.

Before he stepped back into the darkness from which he had come, his voice lingered, deep and velvety, as his gaze seemed to caught the remnants of sorrow etched upon her face. “Stay a while. The sea understands grief better than courtiers ever will.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone beneath the statue’s gaze, his words rippling through her chest like a tide she could not still. Only after she could no longer feel his presence did she release a breath she did not know she was holding. She looked down at her hand, which was clutching her gown so tightly.

“My…” she quickly released it, realising how her nails had dug into the seam and caused it to tear.

For a fleeting moment, she lifted her gaze toward the sea again, but the sight no longer soothed her. The waves, once steady and beautiful now seemed endless and unknowable, carrying the echo of Neven’s voice like a chill that clung to her skin. It felt as though he had walked away with the comfort of the balcony itself, leaving only a hollow draft in his wake.

Shivering, she gathered her skirts and turned on her heel. Her steps were quicker than she meant them to be, almost hasty, as though she feared the silence might close in if she lingered another breath longer. By the time she reached the safety of her chamber door, her pulse was still uneven, and the night outside felt far colder than it had when she first sought solace there.

She did not know why, but the sightings of The Blithe suddenly crept in her mind, causing her to slow her breath as if that motion could calm her palpitating heart.

No, don’t think about that…

The air was so thick with unease that when she turned. “Ah!” She let out a sharp yelp before she could stop herself, only to find Vivienne standing close with her hand extending as if she had meant to call her.

There was a worried look on her face in an instant. “Your Highness, is everything okay?”

Ilaria let out a shaky breath of relief as her maid’s familiar features came into focus. Her hand pressed gently against her chest, steadying the frantic beat of her heart. She drew in a few more breaths before she could finally ease herself.

“I-I’m fine,” she said quickly, offering a faint smile that wavered at the edges. “You only startled me, that’s all.”

Vivienne tilted her head, brows knitting in concern as she studied her. “Forgive me, princess, I did not mean to frighten you,” she bowed before looking at her again. “But where have you been? Should you not be in a banquet with His Highness?”

The question struck like a bell. For a second, Ilaria’s smile faltered, sorrow clouding her expression. She lowered her gaze, the memory of the night’s sting pressing sharply back into her chest. “I was going to,” she murmured, trying to shrug the situation with a lie. “But I…had…a change of mind.”

Vivienne’s eyes lingered on her, a flicker of wonder and worry mingling there, but Ilaria forced a lighter smile in hopes the maid would not catch on the disappointment and shame in her demeanour. “Would you help me out of this gown? I think I’ve had enough of tonight.”

Moments later, the silks and jewels of the banquet were folded away, and Ilaria lay curled beneath the soft coverlets, her nightgown thin against the chill that seemed to have seeped into her bones. Her chest still felt fragile, like the wrong thought or memory might shatter her from within.

Vivienne lingered quietly beside the bed, her presence steady but unobtrusive. For a long time, Ilaria said nothing, her eyes tracing the canopy above, until at last she turned her head toward the maid.

“Vivi…” Her voice was small, softer than she intended. She reached out beneath her blanket, her fingers brushing over Vivienne’s hand before curling around it. The warmth grounded her in a way the lanterns and the ocean air had not.

“Would you stay?” Ilaria whispered, her lips trembling into the faintest plea of a smile. “…You can sleep beside me if you want, or are you also stubborn like Melyn?”

Vivienne’s squeeze was gentle. “Just sleep, princess. I’ll be here,” she said softly. She did not move to lie beside her, and it was all the comfort Ilaria needed to finally close her eyes.

That night, she did not dream of anything.

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