Levan did not waste another word. The moment she nods, the echo of his boots carried into the hollow corridors, steady and unyielding, a rhythm that seemed to set the pace for her own hesitant steps. His hand never strayed far from his sword, fingers brushing the hilt with an ease born not of nerves but of habit.
Ilaria catch up behind him. A single step of his is equal to two steps of her, so she made sure not to fall behind. From time to time, he would slow and lay his palm against the stone walls they passed, as though listening. Ilaria only watched as the carved patterns of the palace responded to his touch.
A faint threads of golden light slithered briefly across the surface, dragon sigils woven into the foundations themselves. They glowed for the span of a heartbeat before guttering out, leaving only cold rock behind. Ilaria blinked quietly, wondering if he was performing an odd ritual.
She had seen the priests and the Order of the Temple in Caelwyn perform similar gestures. Palms pressed to sacred stone, tracing sigils as they chanted blessings or summoned healing light, but this was not that. There was no prayer on Levan's lips, and there was no softness in his stance either.
His hand lingered on the wall like a man testing for a fracture in bone. His eyes sharpened with each flicker. He was reading the palace as one might read a book, like his fingers was tracing through the wards and barriers laid down generations ago, searching for what had disturbed them.
The air itself seemed heavier where he walked, his presence bending it taut. Every time his steps faltered, Ilaria's breath would hitch, fearing what he might have found, though he gave no explanation, only pressed onward with the patience of a man who had been down this path too many times and never once let it break him.
Ilaria hesitated, watching the way his fingers brushed against the stone when they reached the backyard of the palace. "What did you do...? I-I've seen priests in Caelwyn do something like that for blessings and healing..."
Levan did not look at her. "This is neither blessing nor healing," his voice was almost grim. "It's a ward. Your priests call on light, I test for shadows."
Ilaria watched his palm glow faintly against the stone, the light threading along the etched lines like veins pulsing with life. Her sister had not spoken in detail when her marriage was first arranged months ago. The council's reasoning had been wrapped in politics, but beneath it, Ilaria had heard whispers that the true reason lay not in power, but in shadows.
The Blithe.
She had grown up knowing the name as a myth, a hushed tale carried in bedtime stories to frighten children into obedience. A darkness that seeped into cracks of the world that stirred storms and fevered dreams. But myths had teeth, because for years now, subtle signs had spread. Lanterns flickering out without wind, crops rotting in the night, places vanishing without a trace...
Some say The Blithe came from beyond the realm, a rot that seeps into all things, others say it was born from the First Dragon's own shadow. When the First Dragon split after The Great War, its corrupted shadow fell where Noctharis now stands. And the patron of Noctharis — The Black Dragon, is said to guard this very scar, but even the dragon has been quiet about it.
Caelwyn had always stood against such things. The Order, the wards, the rituals, it was said that the White Dragon's blessing lingered in the blood of its descendants, shielding them from the old curse. And so, when The Blithe's touch grew bolder, the council had looked to them to bind two lines together and to forge a safeguard in flesh and vow.
Ilaria was that vow.
A faint rustle of wind brushed against her cheeks, and in the silence she heard the whispers again: "Daughter of Light, you do not belong here."
Ilaria pressed herself to Levan's side without thinking, her face brushing his back as her hands clutched at his arm, seeking safety in the only anchor she could find.
Levan looked back at her, only to notice the stiffness in her hold. "What's wrong?"
"I-it felt close," she whispered, her grip tightening. "Like it w-was watching me again...It keep whispering...words..."
Levan regarded her for a long moment. He had seen and heard similar cases before, from servants, guards, villagers, nobles, even priests, all reported of hearing whispers in the dark; to words no one else could understand. In time, they always faltered, their will unraveling thread by thread until they were nothing more than hollow vessels.
There are also those who managed to led themselves away from the whispers, but such cases are rare. Records from the past years show it is a struggle of willpower alone, and even then, the outcome is uncertain. Perhaps, most succumb not because the voice is strong, but because the mind is weak.
The Blithe did not care who its target was; rank, blood, or virtue mattered little. It only cared for the cracks it could slip into, and once it found them, it would not let go.
"Do not give it more power by indulging what you felt. Fear is the very crack it seeps through."
"B-but how can I not be a-afraid?" she blurted, her voice small. "It felt so real...Its eyes, its...its voice—"
"Then remind yourself they're not real," he said sternly. "Illusions are meant to unmake you, nothing more."
Ilaria's lips parted as if to argue, but the weight of his gaze silenced her. She did not move, though, and that was what irked Levan the most.
"Move," he said curtly, his tone brooking no refusal.
Disheartened, Ilaria slowly removed her hands from his arm, her fingers lingering as if reluctant to let go.
Levan pulled his hand away from the wall and adjusted his cloak, fully prying her hands away. "If shadows frighten you this much, then clinging will not drive them away."
"...But you saw it too," she whispered. "The thing..."
Levan's eyes flicked toward her. "I saw enough, and I cut it down before it reached you."
"...Then why does it still feel like it's here?"
For a moment, he said nothing, only studying her as though weighing whether to tell her the truth or let her linger in ignorance. Finally, he exhaled. No matter how scared she was, sugarcoating would only make matters complicated to deal with. And he hates complications.
"Because The Blithe does not leave once it touches you. It lingers to test your weakness."
Ilaria's stomach dropped, her throat tightening as though the very shadows were pressed against her skin. Her fingers twitched toward him again, but she forced them still at her sides.
Levan caught the flicker of movement, but his expression remained unchanging. "So you have to remember: when it whispers, you do not answer. When it beckons, you do not follow. To do otherwise is to invite it inside."
She swallowed, fear clawing at her skin. Does this mean it will happen again? She thought so, judging from the way he worded it out.
"Silence is better than trembling excuses. If you cannot be calm, then at least be still," he went on.
"Now keep moving," he said as he suddenly turned, striding back toward the corridor, startling her. Not wanting to be left behind, Ilaria gathered her gown and hurried after him, her steps quick and stiff, her silence born more of dread than obedience.
They went back inside the palace. Levan's strides were long and unyielding, forcing Ilaria to nearly trip over her own gown as she hurried after him. Her heels pinched and her feet began to ache, but she refused to lag behind, too afraid of being left alone in the dim, echoing halls and hear the whispers again.
When they reached her chamber, Ilaria blinked in surprise to find Sir Alaric and Sir Roderic stationed dutifully at their posts, as though they had never vanished at all. The two men bowed their heads as the crown prince approached, their eyes avoiding his as if his presence alone demanded silence.
"Ricky...? Rocky...?" She murmured as she looked at them. The two guards only regarded her respectfully with another bow.
Levan did not so much as slow his pace. He pushed open the door and stepped inside without a word, leaving Ilaria hovering at the threshold. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, her gaze flicking from the silent guards to the darkness of her chamber beyond, still afraid of the earlier encounter.
Levan noticed the way she halted, but made no effort to wait as he strode further. Swallowing hard, Ilaria gathered her gown and finally forced herself to step inside, her every movement careful, as if the shadows themselves might stir if she faltered.
"Your Highness!" From the corner of the chamber, Ilaria was startled by Melyn's worried voice. Her brows furrowed, as if she had been running around. "Where have you been? We were looking for you everywhere."
Ilaria blinked. Not only was Melyn there, but her other maids stood in line as well, arranged neatly at the back as they always were. "Mel..." she whispered in disbelief.
The moment they noticed the crown prince, Melyn and the rest of the maids immediately bowed low at the waist. "I greet His Highness the Crown Prince," they intoned with practiced reverence.
Levan's sharp gaze swept briefly over the room before landing on Melyn. "The lanterns," he said curtly. "Replace them all. Bring more if needed. Every corner should be lit."
"Yes, Your Highness," Melyn bowed deeply.
"And prepare her a bath," he continued, unfastening the clasp at his shoulder as though already dismissing the matter. "Use hallowbloom petals, fresh ones. The gardeners always keep a store. They harvest it when the cliffs allow. If the petals are not fresh, then have them gather more at once."
At that, the maids stiffened, exchanging startled glances. Hallowbloom was rare, its pale blossoms growing only along the cliffs of Noctharis, said to ward away ill omens and shadows alike. The fact that the prince asked the princess to be bathed with it...means something must have happened.
Melyn bowed. "Yes. There should still be a supply from the last gathering."
A nod. Levan's eyes then flicked toward Ilaria, unreadable in the firelight, while Ilaria looked at him as if hoping he would not leave. "See that you stay by her side tonight, she is not to be left alone."
Melyn straightened, placing a hand over her chest. "I will not leave her, Your Highness."
At once, the room stirred to life. The maids moved like a tide at Melyn's quiet instructions: Two slipping out to fetch hallowbloom from the gardeners, another rushing toward the baths to prepare warm water, and the rest busying themselves with the bedding.
Ilaria, too drained to resist, let them unpin her hair and loosen her gown, her body yielding even as her thoughts wandered elsewhere. She looked over her shoulder as she let the maids fussed over her, her eyes following her husband quietly.
He moved about the chamber with the sharp, purposeful stillness of a man surveying enemy ground. His cloak, which was now stripped from his shoulders was laid carefully across the arm of a chair — not discarded, but placed deliberately as if the lingering weight of his presence might anchor the room against unwelcome shadows.
Then he drifted to the balcony, unlatching the doors and letting the night air seep in without an ounce of hesitation. Ilaria shivered as if she was scared for him, but Levan only stepped forward and ran his hand along the railing. A golden light sparked faintly beneath his palm, flaring and vanishing. Just like he did earlier.
Finally, he drew back inside. The doors closed with a finality that reverberated in the chamber, his hand lingered on the lock until he was satisfied. Then he languidly walked to her. Without the heavy cloak draped over him now, Ilaria could see him more clearly. Broad shoulders tapering into a lean waist, his frame striking in its austerity.
"Your room is secured. Nothing will touch you here."
Ilaria's lashes fluttered as she slowly looked up at him, her voice soft, hesitant, but steady enough to carry. "Thank you...husband."
For the briefest moment, something flickered in Levan's eyes, but it was gone too quickly to name. He inclined his head in the barest of nods, then turned away, his profile severe yet unbearably handsome in the glow, leaving her standing in the wake of his presence.