The morning broke earlier than she expected. Eva stirred before the servants came, the pale light brushing over the chamber's stone walls. Sleep had been restless, full of drifting images—her mother's voice, Lucarion's calm, the weight of the letter still imprinted in her hands.
She rose quietly, her fingers seeking the parchment she had left waiting on the table, tracing the grooves of the ink as if they might release the sound of her mother's voice. The script curled and slanted with deliberate elegance, its lines not just words but rhythm, movement, like strokes across a canvas.
And as she lingered there, the thought came unbidden: he had given her this. He had placed her mother back into her life. Whatever his reasons, whatever his careful calculation, she could not deny it. Gratitude welled in her chest, sharp and difficult to hold. She wanted to answer—not only with words, but with something of her own hand. A gift.
She set out her sketchbook. The charcoal whispered across the page, shaping Lucy's form with broad strokes, then finer lines to catch the curve of her neck, the softness of her mane. But when she reached the background, she hesitated. The mare deserved a setting worthy of her presence. Something meaningful.
Eva leaned back, studying the half-finished sketch. She would have to learn where Lucarion sought quiet—the places he favored when no one watched. A landscape that mattered to him. Only then would the gift feel whole.
When the bell rang to summon her for breakfast, she set the sketch aside, smudges on her fingertips and a faint ache in her wrist. Her expression unreadable to the servants who entered, though her heart felt just a touch less guarded than it had the day before.
The dining hall was quieter than usual that night, the servants moving softly between courses. Eva kept her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her eyelids betrayed her—blinking a little too long, a little too slow.
Lucarion noticed. He stilled mid-motion, his knife laid aside with deliberate precision. His gaze lingered on her longer than courtesy demanded, weighing, assessing, as though nothing else in the hall existed.
"You look tired," he said simply.
Eva's fingers tightened briefly against the napkin. She forced a small smile. "I'm fine. It was… a full day."
His expression did not shift, but his eyes were unblinking. "You haven't slept well." It wasn't a question.
She glanced down at her plate. "Not last night. But it's nothing—just restless thoughts."
Lucarion leaned back, his tone steady, but there was no sharpness in it.
"Then don't wait for me to dismiss you. Go when you need to. Rest. Tomorrow will demand enough of its own."
The words carried the weight of command, yet the cadence was softer—an allowance, not an order. For a moment, she glimpsed not the prince, but the man who noticed her weariness and chose to ease it.
For a moment, Eva could only look at him, unsure how to answer. Finally, she inclined her head, murmured her thanks, and excused herself earlier than she had expected.
—
When Eva entered the solar the next morning, Lucarion was already seated, a document set aside as servants cleared the table of bread and fruit. He rose as she approached.
"I've cleared today's schedule," he said without preamble. "Court will manage without us for a day."
Eva blinked, caught off guard. "You… cleared it?"
It was the kind of concession she doubted he ever made lightly. To surrender a day of governance, to hand the weight of his duties to others—yet he offered it without hesitation, as though her rest mattered more than his crown.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. "You need rest. And perhaps air. I thought to take you somewhere quieter."
Her curiosity stirred. "Where?"
"A set of hot springs," he answered. "They lie an hour's ride from here. Secluded. I use them when I need distance from the court." His tone was practical, but there was something intent in his gaze, as if this admission itself was no small thing.
Eva's lips parted, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through her composure. "Hot springs," she repeated, almost to herself. She had never imagined him admitting to needing such escapes, much less offering to share them.
They set out not long after, Eva astride Lucy, Lucarion on a black stallion that moved with the same contained strength as its rider. The road cut through rolling woods, the air crisp with early spring.
For a while, they rode in silence, the clop of hooves and the creak of leather filling the space between them. Occasionally, Lucarion gestured to a landmark: the ruins of an old watchtower, half-collapsed under ivy; a stretch of meadow where wildflowers were beginning to show. His voice was matter-of-fact, but Eva noticed he chose details that carried history, not spectacle.
The springs were tucked between low cliffs, steam rising in gentle veils from turquoise pools. The air smelled faintly of minerals and pine. Servants had gone ahead to prepare the place, laying out fresh linens, fruit, and wine under a canopy of canvas.
Eva paused at the sight, her breath catching. "It's beautiful."
Lucarion dismounted smoothly. "And quiet," he added softly.
She lowered herself into the water—clothed in a simple dark linen shift provided for the bath—her muscles loosened, the heat seeping into bone.
Across the pool, Lucarion settled into the water. His head tilted back slightly, eyes half-lidded, shoulders no longer braced as though expecting to bear a weight.
Eva watched him in the lull of steam and silence. If the council chamber was where he ruled, this was where he simply was. And for a moment, the thought caught her unguarded: what would it be like if that discipline ever broke? If the restraint she had seen in him since the beginning—measured, relentless—were to falter, even once, and turn toward her?
The steam curled between them, veiling her quickened breath. She turned her eyes to the water, but the thought lingered, unsettling and electric all at once.
She let her eyes drift shut, the sound of water lapping against stone surrounding her like a lullaby.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tentative. "Thank you. For bringing me here."
Lucarion's reply was simple, but it carried the weight of intent.
"You needed rest. And I wanted you to see this."
The steam curled lazily between them, veiling the edges of stone and water. For a time, there was only quiet—the soft lap of the springs against the rocks, the faint hiss where bubbles rose and broke.
Then Lucarion's voice cut through the stillness, low and even.
"Will you send a reply to your mother?"
Eva's eyes opened at once. She turned her head, her gaze flicking not to him but to the servant standing discreetly under the canopy. The man stood at ease, attentive but distant, hands folded at his waist.
Lucarion followed her glance. His tone remained calm, unhurried.
"He is deaf. We can speak freely."
Eva blinked, surprised. The servant gave no sign of hearing, only bowed slightly as Lucarion gestured toward the wine set out on a tray. At once, the man moved forward with practiced ease, pouring two goblets and placing them within reach before retreating again into the background.
Eva let out a slow breath. She reached for the goblet, turning it once in her hands before answering.
"I think I would rather wait," she said softly. "Until she arrives. Words on a page won't be enough. I want to speak to her. To see her."
Lucarion studied her over the rim of his cup, the steam rising between them. "You will," he said. No hesitation. No condition. "When she arrives, you will have time alone with her. I will see to it."
His certainty was not the polished assurance of a ruler, but something quieter, more personal. He wanted her to believe him.
Her fingers tightened on the goblet. "You're certain?"
"I don't offer certainties carelessly," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "But in this, I give you mine."
The quiet that followed was heavier, though not oppressive. Eva stared into the water, her reflection rippling with every shift of the spring. Slowly, she let herself believe him.
The journey back to Lucarion's wing was quiet. The sun had already tipped westward, painting the sky in washes of amber and rose. Light sifted through the trees in fractured beams, glinting on the streams they passed, gilding the mossy trunks. Eva watched it all with unusual intent, as though each detail pressed itself into her memory—the shimmer of water, the scatter of leaves, the soft haze rising off the earth.
By the time they reached the familiar stone arches of the fortress, she felt her fingers itching again, the image already unfurling in her mind. Color and shape, shadow and brilliance—the bones of a painting waiting to be born.
A distant murmur reached her ears as the gates closed, faint as a shadow of conversation she could not catch—but she noted it nonetheless. The court continued in its own rhythms, as intricate and dangerous as ever, while she had stepped briefly outside its grasp.
Once alone, she dismissed her maids with unusual haste. Setting out her sketchbook and pigments, she worked by lamplight, capturing first the slope of a tree, then the drift of water beneath it. The hot spring's calm lingered in her veins, guiding her strokes. Time thinned around her. Hours dissolved unnoticed until the candles burned low.
It was only when she leaned back to study the rough canvas that she felt it—an ache deep in her belly, a pull just beneath her navel. Familiar, unwelcome, yet oddly grounding. Her month's cycle had come at last, delayed by restless nights and a body strained by change. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, exhaling slow, recognizing the relief threaded within the discomfort.
Weary now, she set her tools aside and slipped into bed. The ache dulled under the weight of exhaustion, and before she could think further sleep claimed her, heavy and unbroken.