Darian
Weeks had passed since the ball, since the unveiling, since the night when all of Valmora had crowned Elowen as their queen.
And in all that time, I had managed to keep her at arm's length.
Not out of hatred. No—never that. Hatred was clean, simple, straightforward. What I felt for Elowen was anything but. It was fire in my chest, storm in my blood, a relentless hunger that I refused to let consume me. So I buried myself in council meetings, inspections, training. Anything that kept me from looking too long into her steady eyes, from noticing how her laughter softened the corners of her mouth, how her grace filled every damned room she entered.
And yet… avoidance was a coward's game.
Which was precisely why I ended up on the training field with Simon.
Duke Simon Ravenscar. Old friend. Trusted brother-in-arms. The man had been with me since the battlefield years, long before the crown weighed heavy on my brow. He had the audacity to be my conscience, too, reminding me of what it meant to be more than king—a man. Which often led to fists flying when words failed.
Tonight was no exception.
The gravel crunched beneath our boots as we circled one another, sweat slick across our skin, knuckles raw and red. My lip split under one of his blows, and I welcomed the sting, the distraction.
"You fight like a man possessed," Simon grunted, swinging again. "Tell me, Darian—what demon are you trying to exorcise this time?"
I answered with my fist. He staggered back a step, then laughed. "Ah. The Queen, then."
My jaw clenched. "Watch your tongue."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin lingered. "I meant no disrespect, old friend. Only an observation. You avoid her as if she carries plague. And yet, I've seen the way you look when you think no one notices."
He lunged, and I countered, both of us crashing into the dirt. Dust and curses filled the air until finally, breathless, we pushed apart, chests heaving.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the rasp of our breathing and the night insects beyond the training yard. Then Simon wiped the blood from his cheek and leaned back against the wall.
"Adelaide is with child," he said suddenly, his tone quiet, reverent.
I stilled.
"She told me yesterday. A girl. The healers confirmed it." His smile softened, stripped of jest. "I thought I'd share it with you first. We've waited long for this."
For a moment, all the fight drained from me. My chest tightened, not with envy, but with something deeper. Longing. A pang I had buried for too many years.
"You'll be a good father," I said, my voice low.
"And you?" Simon's gaze sharpened. "Do you intend to be one? Or will you keep pushing away the woman who might give you the chance?"
I said nothing. The words tangled in my throat. Did Elowen even want children? She was young, radiant, untouched by the shadows that haunted me. Would she welcome such a burden—or resent it?
"I want heirs," I admitted at last, the truth grinding its way out. "But not merely heirs. Sons, daughters… not trophies of succession, but flesh of my flesh. I want… a family."
Simon studied me for a long moment. "Then tell her. Or at the very least, stop hiding as if she's a curse upon your soul. You've fought battles fiercer than this, Darian. Do not let fear of her rejection undo you."
I scoffed, though the words struck deep. "You make it sound simple."
He smirked, wiping blood from his brow. "It is. You're the one making it complicated."
We parted ways soon after, his laughter still echoing in my ears as I strode back through the palace gates, sore, bruised, bleeding, and far more unsettled than when I had left.
The corridors were dim when I returned, servants bowing low as I passed, but I barely registered them. My knuckles throbbed, my lip bled steadily, and every muscle screamed. It was a welcome pain, grounding me.
But when I entered the great hall, the pain was not the first thing noticed.
It was her.
Elowen.
She stood with Fiona, their conversation quiet and low until Fiona's sharp intake of breath broke the moment. "Darian—your face, you're bleeding!"
I dismissed it with a grunt, but Elowen's eyes had already locked onto me, wide and filled with something that twisted my chest. Concern. Genuine, unguarded concern.
Fiona clapped her hands together, ever the orchestrator. "Elowen, you should tend to him. Alexander and I will leave you to it." Her smile was pointed, purposeful, before she whisked herself and her husband away, leaving us alone.
The silence stretched, heavy and charged.
Elowen approached slowly, as though nearing a wild beast. She took my wrist gently, her fingers cool against my fevered skin. Electricity shot through me at the touch, subtle but undeniable.
"You're hurt," she murmured, her brow furrowing.
"It is nothing," I said, though the blood betrayed me.
Her eyes lifted to mine, steady, unyielding. "It is not nothing. Sit."
I obeyed before I could stop myself.
She tore a strip of linen, dampened it with water, and pressed it to my split lip. The sting was sharp, but the brush of her fingers eclipsed it entirely. Her nearness was suffocating—her breath against my cheek, the faint scent of lavender clinging to her skin.
Every pass of the cloth over my skin was a tether, pulling me closer, fraying my restraint. She did not flinch from my gaze, though her cheeks carried the faintest flush.
For weeks, I had avoided her. But here, with her hands on me, the pretense shattered.
"Elowen," I said, my voice low, rough, the name almost a growl.
Her hands stilled, trembling slightly against my jaw. She did not move away.
And in that silence, that charged, fragile silence, I realized Simon was right.
The fiercest battle I faced was not at the borders, not against rivals or enemies. It was here. With her.