Chapter 7:
Cracks in the Facade
The royal bedchamber was a study in opulence—silk drapes in deep crimson, a four-poster bed carved with Eldoria's crest, and a hearth casting a warm glow over polished floors. But as Alaric faced Lysandra, the room felt like a battlefield. She stood by the window, her sapphire gown pooling like ink, her arms crossed, and her green eyes blazing with a fury she'd kept leashed until now.
"You humiliated me tonight," Lysandra said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. "The envoys were watching, Alaric. The entire court was watching. And you spent half the banquet staring at the servants' table like a lovesick boy."
Alaric's jaw tightened, the memory of Elara moving through the hall—her quiet grace, her fleeting glance—still vivid. He'd tried to focus on the toasts, the dances, the Valorian envoys' endless flattery, but his eyes had betrayed him. "I was distracted," he said, aiming for calm. "The festival preparations, the trade talks—it's a lot to juggle."
"Don't lie to me," she snapped, stepping closer. "I'm not blind, and I'm not a fool. You've been slipping off to the servants' quarters, whispering with maids. Do you think I haven't heard the rumors? Lord Cassian's practically shouting them from the rooftops."
The mention of Cassian sent a chill through Alaric, the note's warning—Beware Lord Cassian. Trust no one—flashing in his mind. "Cassian's a snake," he said, deflecting. "He'd spread lies about anyone to gain favor. You know that."
Lysandra's eyes narrowed, searching his face. "Maybe. But lies need a spark of truth to catch fire. Who is she, Alaric? The auburn-haired maid? The one you can't stop watching?"
Her words struck too close, and Alaric felt a surge of guilt, not just for his feelings but for the hurt in Lysandra's voice, buried beneath her anger. "There's no one," he said, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm committed to this marriage, to our alliance. You have my word."
"Your word," she echoed, her tone bitter. "A fine thing, when your eyes say something else. We're not lovers, Alaric, but we're partners. If you jeopardize this alliance, you jeopardize both our kingdoms. And I won't let Valoria pay for your foolishness."
She turned away, her braid swinging like a pendulum, and Alaric felt the weight of her words settle over him. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the truth gnawed at him—Elara was more than a distraction. She was a glimpse of something real, something his marriage could never be. "I'll do my duty," he said finally, his voice hollow. "I always have."
Lysandra didn't turn back, but her shoulders stiffened. "See that you do," she said, and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that felt final.
Alaric sank onto the bed, his head in his hands. Duty. The word was a chain, heavier each day. He thought of Elara's words in the courtyard—They want to matter—and the way her eyes had lit with conviction. She'd spoken of the commoners, but he felt it too, a longing to be more than a title, more than a pawn in his father's game.
The next morning, driven by that longing, he found himself near the servants' quarters again, this time under the guise of checking the festival's food stores. The kitchens were a hive of activity, maids and cooks chopping vegetables and kneading dough for the feast. Elara was there, stirring a pot of stew, her sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour on her cheek.
"Your Highness," she said, startled, as he approached. She wiped her hands on her apron, her hazel eyes wary but curious. "The kitchens are in order, if that's what you're checking."
He smiled, disarmed by her directness. "I'm sure they are. I just… wanted to ask about the festival. You said it means a lot to the people. What do they do, out there in the villages?"
Her expression softened, a spark of warmth breaking through her caution. "They gather in the square, share what food they can. There's music, dancing, stories. It's simple, but it's theirs. They forget the hunger, the taxes, for a night."
Her voice carried a quiet reverence, and Alaric leaned closer, drawn in. "And you? Do you dance, Elara?"
A blush crept up her neck, and she looked down, stirring the stew. "Sometimes. But I'm better at listening to the stories." She paused, then met his gaze, a hint of defiance in her eyes. "Why do you ask, Your Highness? You'll be at the high table, not the village square."
Her words were a gentle rebuke, a reminder of the gulf between them, but they only made him want to bridge it more. "Maybe I'd like to hear those stories," he said, his voice low. "Maybe I'd like to understand."
She studied him, as if weighing his sincerity, then nodded slightly. "The festival's tomorrow. You'll see some of it, even from the palace. But the real heart of it is out there, with them."
Before he could reply, a cook called her name, and Elara turned back to her work, leaving Alaric with a racing pulse and a dangerous thought: he wanted to see that heart, to see her world, even if it meant defying every rule that bound him.