The morning sun slanted across Sophie's chamber, but she barely felt its warmth. Sleep had been fleeting, haunted by Marta's words and Alexander's shadow, and when she rose, her body felt heavy with secrets.
The day passed in fragments—meals she barely tasted, conversations she only half-heard. Eira noticed, of course; she always did. But there was nothing Eira could say that Sophie hadn't already whispered to herself.
By evening, Sophie thought she might have escaped notice. She dressed for the royal supper with careful precision, choosing a gown of deep green that softened her features but did not draw too much attention. The mirror reflected a queenly figure, though the eyes staring back were her own—tired, restless, and far too human.
The guards escorted her to the great hall. The long table glittered with polished silver and jeweled goblets, the air thick with the mingled scents of roasted meat, honeyed wine, and burning candles. Alexander sat at the head, as always, his posture rigid and commanding. His dark eyes lifted the moment Sophie entered.
And in that moment, she knew she hadn't escaped at all.
He was watching her—had been, perhaps, for longer than she realized.
Sophie took her seat, forcing her hands to remain steady on the table. She could feel his gaze, sharp as steel, measuring every breath she drew.
The meal began with the usual formality. Nobles murmured polite nothings, laughter echoed thinly, and servants drifted silently between the rows. Yet beneath it all, Sophie felt the weight of Alexander's silence pressing harder and harder.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are quieter than usual."
His voice was low, but it carried, silencing those nearest them. Sophie's fork paused above her plate, and she forced herself to meet his eyes.
"Am I?" she said lightly. "Perhaps I'm only tired."
Alexander's expression did not change, but something flickered in his gaze. "Tiredness does not sharpen the eyes as yours are sharpened. It does not make one pace through the night."
Her pulse stumbled. He knows. He hadn't been outside her chamber, yet somehow he had seen, or heard, or felt. He always did.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted carefully. "This palace… it has a way of pressing down on me."
He leaned back in his chair, his goblet turning slowly in his hand. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is not the palace that weighs on you, but secrets."
The word lanced through her. Sophie tightened her grip on her fork to keep it from slipping. Around them, conversation picked up again, but only out of courtesy; she could feel the court's attention hovering, hungry for cracks.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, too quickly.
Alexander's lips curved—not in a smile, but in something colder. "Don't you?"
He rose then, sudden enough that the hall stilled. Every noble froze, eyes darting between king and queen. Without a word, Alexander extended a hand toward Sophie.
Her heart hammered, but refusing would be worse. She placed her hand in his, letting him draw her up from her seat.
"We will walk," he said simply, and none dared question him.
The hall's doors closed behind them, muting the hum of curiosity. Alexander led her down the shadowed corridors, his stride unyielding. Sophie's mind raced, searching for some explanation, some shield against the storm gathering in his eyes.
At last he stopped in a quiet gallery, where tall windows overlooked the moonlit gardens. The air was cool, scented faintly of roses.
Alexander turned to her, and the distance between them felt perilously small.
"You are restless," he said. "You slip away in thought, as though guarding something from me. Do you imagine I do not notice?"
Sophie's breath caught. "I'm only trying to find my place here."
"You think me a fool." His voice was sharp now, cutting into her. "Every day, you walk like someone carrying a blade beneath her cloak. Tell me, Sophie—what is it you hide from me?"
Her chest tightened, the urge to speak tearing at her. Marta's words burned on her tongue. She could tell him. She could reveal Draven's betrayal, cast the shadow away from herself and onto another.
But then she saw Alexander's face—impenetrable, unreadable—and doubt seized her. If he already knew, if he had chosen to keep Draven close, then speaking now could brand her as a threat.
"I'm hiding nothing," she whispered.
His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, and she felt the air shift, heavy with his presence. "You are lying."
The accusation hung between them, alive and dangerous.
Sophie forced herself to meet his gaze. "And if I am? Would you punish me for a truth you cannot see?"
For a long moment, silence stretched like a drawn bow. Then, to her surprise, Alexander's lips curved again—this time not with coldness, but with something darker, more amused.
"You are bold," he murmured. "Bolder than she ever was."
The mention of Seraphina hit her like a blow. Sophie's heart lurched, but she bit her tongue, refusing to ask what he meant.
Alexander studied her a moment longer, then turned toward the window. "I will learn your secrets, Sophie. Whether you speak them to me or not."
His words were not a threat—they were a promise.
And in that promise, Sophie felt the ground tilt beneath her.
She had thought silence would keep her safe. But now she realized that silence might only draw him closer, his hunger for truth sharpening with every lie she dared to tell.