The coastal library, "The Crest," opened to public acclaim. Newspapers carried images of its graceful, arching form, children laughing in its sun-drenched reading nooks, scholars on its terraces overlooking the sea. Hadrian stood for the official portrait beside Seraphina, her hand in his, both of them smiling the careful, flawless smiles of their station. The caption read: "Vision Made Reality: The Prince and Princess Who Build Dreams."
Later, alone in his studio at the top of the palace's east wing, Hadrian stared at the celebratory front page pinned to his wall. The black and white photo seemed to mock him. He could see the tension in Seraphina's knuckles as she held his hand, the way her smile didn't reach the slight shadow under her eyes. He had missed these details in the moment, but the camera, that ruthless, unblinking eye, had caught them. He had been too busy performing his own part to notice hers.
He turned to a new drafting table, not for a palace or a library, but for a folly—a small, private observatory tower for the palace gardens. It was a gift. For Freya. A gesture from Rian, commissioned through him. "She feels the palace walls are stifling her view of the heavens," Rian had said, his voice weary. "Perhaps a dedicated space here, rather than that cold tower at home… maybe she'll feel more connected."
Hadrian understood the unspoken plea. Build me a bridge to my wife. The irony was a bitter taste on his tongue. He was using his genius to shore up the very marriage that was leaching poison into his own.
As he inked the delicate supports for the dome, his mind circled back to the journal entry. "A satellite to Freya's distant star… a curious specimen in Hadrian's beautiful, sterile museum." The words were calibrated to inflict maximum damage. They were true. His love for her had always been one of awe, of preservation. He had built environments to showcase her brilliance, to protect her passion. But when was the last time he had simply listened to her fears, not as a prince or an architect, but as her husband? When had he stopped trying to solve the mystery of her sadness and simply allowed it to exist?
A soft knock startled him. He glanced at the brass chronometer on the wall—well past midnight.
"Enter."
It was Maila. She held a steaming porcelain cup. "You missed supper, Your Highness. Again. The kitchen sent up chamomile and honey. They said it's for 'the Princess's nerves,' but she retired hours ago."
She placed the cup on a stone coaster, her eyes scanning the observatory plans. "Prince Rian's project?"
"It is."
"A kind thought," she said neutrally. She lingered, an unusual breach of protocol for the ever-correct aide. "Princess Seraphina had a… difficult day. The preliminary data on the southern reef die-off was worse than projected. The council is pushing for a faster solution than science can provide."
"She didn't mention it," Hadrian said, the statement hanging lamely in the air.
Maila's gaze was direct, not unkind, but unflinching. "Perhaps she did not wish to burden the celebration of your achievement with her troubles."
The rebuke was gentle, surgical. Hadrian flinched.
"She could never be a burden."
"Couldn't she?" Maila asked softly. "To a man who builds perfect worlds, isn't a messy, drowning reef a problem to be solved, rather than a grief to be shared?"
She gave a slight bow before he could formulate a response, and left, closing the door with a quiet click.
He was paralysed. Maila had articulated the very fracture he'd sensed but couldn't name. He was a problem-solver. Seraphina's world was one of cyclical mysteries, of processes, of acceptance. He wanted to build a seawall against the dying reef. She wanted to understand why it was dying, to sit with the loss, even if it was inevitable.
And Rian? What did Rian do? He probably listened. He probably said, "That must feel devastating," and asked her what the fish were doing as the coral faded. He offered companionship in the despair, not a blueprint out of it.
Hadrian finished the chamomile, its floral taste suddenly cloying. He looked at the observatory plans, then at the front-page photo of their perfect marriage. He was designing cages for other people's loneliness while his own grew wild and thick inside the gilded walls of his life.