The aftermath of Krista's abduction had turned my ancestral home into a maelstrom of strategic debate and political maneuvering. Lord Alaric, ever the pragmatist, saw the incident as both a threat and an opportunity: a chance to definitively crush the rising half-blood factions and send a clear message to the Church. Discussions raged through the night and into the early morning, filling the usually quiet halls with a cacophony of voices, of shifting alliances, of ruthless calculations. The 'peace' they spoke of felt more like a prelude to war.
The noise was oppressive. Every word, every argument, every subtle power play grated on my heightened senses. I needed a reprieve, a place where I could process the raw edges of the previous night – the chilling sight of Krista bound and afraid, the surge of protective fury, the dangerous intimacy of carrying her through the forest. My own chambers offered little solace; the walls felt thin against the relentless political hum.
My feet, almost of their own accord, carried me away from the estate's main corridors, away from the tension, and towards the quiet sanctuary I had come to associate with her. The school library.
I arrived early. The librarian, a punctual human, was already at her desk, a comforting presence. The library itself was a haven of hushed silence, the morning light filtering through the tall windows, casting dust motes in gentle dances. And then I saw her.
Krista. She was already there, curled in her favorite spot on the carpeted floor, utterly absorbed in a book. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through me. It had only been a day since I'd seen her last, in far more terrifying circumstances, yet finding her here, so calm, so engrossed, was a strange relief. She had slept, then. Good.
I cleared my throat, a deliberate, low sound to announce my presence, to break her absorption. Her head snapped up, and her eyes, still carrying a hint of the night's trauma around their edges, met mine. She was here early.
"You're here early," I stated, the observation genuine.
She gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile. "I slept almost the entire day yesterday and couldn't wait to stretch my legs." She paused, then, to my surprise, returned the question. "Why are you here early?"
It was a simple, human question, devoid of judgment, and for a moment, I found myself answering with a raw honesty I rarely displayed. "It's too noisy at home. Everybody's been discussing about how to handle the protests and riots going on in the city. I wanted to read in peace." I moved towards her, slowly, deliberately, and sat across from her on the carpet, opening the book I carried. I felt her gaze on me, assessing, perhaps seeing a vulnerability she hadn't before. The early light illuminated the features she had noted: "angelic" was her word, I knew from my observations of human thoughts, and I found the irony just as striking.
The quiet settled between us, a fragile truce in the midst of a brewing storm. Then, she broke it, her voice tentative yet laced with a dangerous curiosity. "What do you think about the issue? Do you think they should make changes with the law?"
My heart gave a strange, almost imperceptible lurch. The law. The very thing I was bound by, the very thing that made my protective instincts for her a profound transgression. I thought about the half-bloods, their desperate pleas, their families torn between worlds. I thought about the centuries of rigid Council decrees.
I hesitated, weighing my response. To voice my true, burgeoning doubts would be heresy, a betrayal of everything I was raised to be. To parrot the Council line felt like a lie, especially after the half-bloods' desperate bargain. I chose a middle ground, the safest, most neutral stance I could muster. "No, I think things are great the way they are. It's more important to keep the peace."
She didn't accept it. "But the peace has already been disrupted. And the protests won't stop until the governments do something about it."
Her unwavering belief, her fierce desire for justice, was both admirable and terrifying. She saw the fundamental flaw in the Council's imposed 'peace.' "It's not something we have a say on, like you said, 'unless the governments do something about it'. We should just leave it to them." I tried to shut down the conversation, to revert to the detached, arrogant Prince.
But she persisted, pushing, probing. "But what if instead of solving it, they get rid of them?"
Her question hit me like a physical blow. Get rid of them. The very thought that had haunted my waking hours since the abduction. The Council's 'decisive' action. The utter ruthlessness of my father's logic. She saw it, even from her human perspective. She saw the monstrous implications.
My internal walls slammed back into place. Her gaze was too piercing, too perceptive. The vulnerability I had briefly shown, the chink in my armor, felt exposed. I couldn't allow her to see the truth of my conflict, the dangerous empathy I felt for her, for the half-bloods, for a world where peace was maintained through such brutal means. My control, my facade, my very identity as a Prince, demanded I retreat.
I stared into her eyes for a long moment, a silent message of warning, of dismissal, of self-preservation. Then, without a word, I got to my feet and left her there, alone in the library, in the sudden quiet that now felt heavier than any noise. It was the only way to protect us both from the dangerous truths she unwittingly unearthed.