The throne room was quiet.
Not with tension.
But with trust.
Lucien stood at the foot of the dais, the royal seal in his hand, the weight of the realm settling across his shoulders.
Kael stepped down from the throne—not with reluctance, but with purpose.
"You'll do well," he said.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "You're trusting me with the entire kingdom?"
Kael smirked. "I'm trusting you with a few weeks. Don't get dramatic."
Elara stood beside him, her travel cloak fastened, her eyes bright with something between disbelief and hope.
Lucien looked between them.
Then nodded.
"Go," he said. "Before I change my mind."
---
They left at dawn.
No procession.
No banners.
Just two horses, a small satchel of clothes, and a map marked with a single destination: Virelyn—a quiet province nestled between the mountains and the sea, known for its wildflower fields, its cliffside inns, and its silence.
Kael had chosen it for one reason.
It was far from everything.
And close to nothing but time.
---
The journey took two days.
They didn't rush.
They didn't speak much.
But the silence wasn't heavy.
It was curious.
Tentative.
Like two people learning how to breathe in the same rhythm.
---
Virelyn was everything the stories promised.
Rolling hills blanketed in lavender and gold.
Cottages with ivy-covered walls and windows that opened to the sea.
Markets that smelled of honey and spice.
Children who laughed without fear.
It was a place untouched by war.
And Kael had never felt more out of place.
Until he looked at Elara.
And saw her smile.
---
They stayed in a small stone villa on the edge of a cliff, where the ocean sang them to sleep and the stars felt close enough to touch.
The first night, Kael lit the fire while Elara unpacked.
He watched her move—graceful, efficient, familiar in a way that still surprised him.
"You've done this before," he said.
She looked up. "Traveled?"
"No," he said. "Made a place feel like home."
She paused.
Then smiled. "Only once."
---
The days passed slowly.
They walked through the fields.
Ate breakfast on the terrace.
Read books by the fire.
Talked.
Really talked.
Kael learned that Elara hated pears but loved plums.
That she used to write poetry but never shared it.
That she once dreamed of being a writer—not a queen.
He listened.
And the more he listened, the more he realized how much he didn't know.
Not because she had hidden it.
But because he had never asked.
---
One afternoon, they sat by the sea, their feet buried in the warm sand.
Kael turned to her.
"What did you think of me," he asked, "when they told you we were to be married?"
Elara laughed softly. "That you were cold. Arrogant. Impossible."
He winced. "Fair."
"And you had feelings for my former best friend then so…"
He looked at her, startled.
She shrugged. "I noticed. I just never said anything at first."
Kael was quiet.
Then said, "I didn't want to love you."
"I know."
"But I do."
She smiled. "I know that too."
---
That night, they danced.
No music.
No audience.
Just the sound of waves and the crackle of firelight.
Kael held her close, his hand at her waist, his forehead resting against hers.
"I want to know everything," he whispered. "Every story. Every scar. Every dream."
Elara looked up at him.
"Then stay," she said. "Not as a king. Just as you."
He kissed her.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like he was running from the crown.
He felt like he was running toward something better.
---
Lucien stood at the edge of the throne room, watching the last of the petitions fade into silence. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
He was tired.
But not from ruling.
From waiting.
Waiting for the next storm.
Because peace, he knew, was never permanent.
It was a breath between battles.
And something in the air had shifted.
---
In Virelyn, Kael and Elara walked hand in hand through the wildflower fields, the wind tugging at their cloaks, the sky painted in hues of fire and dusk.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Kael had learned that Elara's silences were full of meaning.
And Elara had learned that Kael's stillness was a kind of listening.
---
That night, they sat by the fire in their villa, a bottle of plum wine between them, the sea whispering against the cliffs below.
Kael turned to her.
"What was your favorite thing to write?" he asked.
Elara blinked, surprised. "You remember?"
"I remember everything you tell me," he said.
She smiled, then looked into the flames. "Stories. Always stories. I liked creating people who made choices I was too afraid to make."
Kael studied her. "And now?"
"Now," she said, "I think I'm ready to write something real."
He reached for her hand.
Held it.
"I want to be in that story," he said.
"You already are," she whispered.
---
Back in the capital, Lucien stood on the balcony overlooking the city.
Maren joined him, her hair damp from the bath, her robe loose at the collar.
"You're brooding again," she said.
"I'm ruling," he replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "Same thing."
He chuckled. "You're not wrong."
She leaned against the railing. "You miss them."
"I do," he admitted. "But I'm glad they're gone."
She looked at him. "Why?"
"Because Kael deserves to know her," he said. "And she deserves to be known."
Maren was quiet.
Then said, "You're a good brother."
Lucien turned to her. "I'm trying to be a better man."
She smiled. "You already are."
---
The days in Virelyn passed like pages in a book Kael never wanted to end.
Each morning began with Elara's laughter echoing through the villa as she tried—and failed—to teach him how to cook. Each afternoon was spent exploring the cliffs, the markets, the quiet corners of a world untouched by duty. And each night, they fell asleep tangled in each other's arms, the sea whispering lullabies through the open windows.
Kael had never known this kind of peace.
Not in war.
Not in court.
Not even in victory.
Only here.
Only with her.
---
One evening, they sat on the rooftop terrace, a blanket wrapped around their shoulders, a plate of figs and cheese between them.
Elara leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you ever think about what life would've been like if we'd met differently?"
Kael considered it. "If we weren't arranged?"
She nodded.
"I think," he said slowly, "I would've fallen for you anyway. Just slower. Just harder."
She smiled. "I would've made you work for it."
"You still do."
She laughed, soft and warm. "Good."
---
Back in the capital, Lucien stood in the war chamber, staring at a map that hadn't changed in weeks.
No new threats.
No new movements.
And yet…
Something felt off.
Maren entered quietly, a tray of tea in her hands.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Brooding?"
"Listening for footsteps that aren't there."
He accepted the tea. "I don't trust silence."
"Maybe it's just peace."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe it's the kind of quiet that comes before something breaks."
Maren sat beside him. "Then we'll be ready."
He looked at her.
And for a moment, the weight of the crown didn't feel so heavy.
---
Later that night, a raven arrived.
No seal.
No signature.
Just a single line, scrawled in hurried ink:
> The fire you buried still breathes.
Lucien read it twice.
Then burned it.
Maren watched the flames consume the parchment.
"What did it say?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
But his jaw was tight.
And his eyes were no longer calm.