The Eastern Alliance arrived in style: silk-clad officials with jewel-studded turbans and a procession of white mares adorned in golden harnesses. Trumpets blared through the courtyard as the royal family assembled on the marble steps to receive them. Princess Charlotte stood tall in a pale blue gown stitched with silver thread—the very image of poise and precision.
Elias stood at her side in full dress uniform, his polished boots gleaming, sword at his hip. He hadn't spoken to her since their spat over posture, but Charlotte could feel him there—like a second sun: burning, inescapable, and carefully distant.
As the delegation descended from their carriages, murmuring greetings and bowing low, Elias leaned in, barely perceptible.
"You're gripping your skirt," he murmured.
Charlotte didn't look at him. "And you're clenching your jaw again. Careful, or it might crack."
He said nothing more, but she could have sworn the ghost of a smile flickered at the edge of his mouth.
The first day passed in a blur of banquets, ceremonial tours, and orchestrated grandeur. Charlotte played her part with grace and intellect, laughing politely at foreign jests, translating formalities in three languages, and dancing twice with visiting princes. She did not, however, dance with Elias. He stood at the edge of the ballroom, unmoving and unreadable. His eyes never quite settled on her—yet they never truly left.
On the second night, a private reception was held in the Moonlight Salon—a jewel-box of a room lit by a thousand flickering candles and perfumed with jasmine. The Eastern crown prince, a handsome young man with an easy smile, offered Charlotte a carved glass of pomegranate wine.
She accepted with a nod, lifting the glass—only to pause as Elias materialized beside her.
"Your Highness," he said softly. "I would advise against it."
Charlotte arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you patrol my beverages?"
"Since foreign toasts became politically symbolic," he replied, voice taut.
She held his gaze a beat too long, then set the glass aside with practiced elegance. "Very well. But you owe me a toast later."
The Eastern prince watched the exchange with a wry smile before bowing himself away. Elias did not move.
"You're overstepping," Charlotte said once they stood alone, framed by a tall window overlooking the reflecting pool aglow with candlelight.
"Perhaps," Elias said. "But I'd rather overstep than let you walk blindfolded into a diplomatic snare."
"Maybe I like blindfolds," she snapped.
Elias turned to her, his face composed—but something flickered beneath. "No, you don't. You just like pretending you're not afraid."
That struck deeper than she let show. "And you?" she shot back. "You act like you feel nothing at all. You won't look at me, won't speak unless forced, and treat me like we were never friends."
He stepped closer, voice low. "Because we're not children anymore. Because if I let myself remember what we were—"
He faltered.
"Then what?" Charlotte whispered. "What happens if you remember?"
The silence between them stretched—taut, breathless. Behind them, laughter rippled through the salon. But here, in the hush and candlelight, it was only the two of them.
"I'm trying to protect you," Elias said at last. "From everything I've become."
Charlotte lifted her chin, fire and fragility dancing in her gaze. "I don't need protecting, Elias. Not from you."
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached out—his knuckles brushing her cheek, tentative and reverent, like a man touching an old wound.
"I don't know if I can be the boy you remember," he murmured.
"Then don't," Charlotte said, her voice trembling once. "Be the man I can trust now."
Something shifted then. Not resolved. Not whole. But real. Tangible.
Later that night, as Elias walked her back to her chambers in silence, the air between them still humming with unsaid words, Charlotte paused at the door and glanced over her shoulder.
"I was wrong earlier," she said. "You're not losing."
He gave her a puzzled look.
Charlotte smiled—just barely. "The etiquette battlefield. You're holding your ground."
Elias didn't smile, but he bowed—deeply, deliberately. And this time, when his eyes met hers, he didn't look away.