Sunlight punched through her curtains like it had something personal against her.
Elena groaned into her pillow.
Her entire body felt heavy—like disappointment had mass, like hope had curled up in her chest overnight and died there quietly, without the decency of a dramatic exit.
She forced herself upright, rubbing her face. Her head throbbed. Her heart felt… bruised. Her hair looked like an angry bird had staged a coup. Her dress from yesterday was wrinkled beyond redemption.
And her pride?
A smoldering ruin.
Perfect.
She cracked her door open—
And immediately slammed it shut.
Because standing directly outside her door was:
Four Sentinels.Fully armored.Fully awake.Staring straight ahead.
Including poor Eris, who turned red the moment he saw her.
Elena whispered, horrified: "Why are you all here?!"
Eris: "We—uh—Your Highness's orders. He told us to… not leave our post."
"What post?"
Eris's ears went pink."…You, my lady."
She nearly evaporated.
"Wonderful," she muttered. "I'm a human houseplant."
She squared her shoulders, opened the door again, and stepped out.
Sentinel Formation: Instant. Perfect. Terrifying.
She tried to walk down the hall like a normal person.Instead she walked like someone who had definitely slept in lingerie while waiting for a prince who never arrived.
She reached the breakfast hall—
And nearly choked.
Because Soren was there. Already seated. Already serene.
He did not look at her when she entered the hall.
He sat at the long table already—straight-backed, princely, unreadable—discussing something in low tones with Kael and Claire, as if he had not left her alone last night trembling against his door like a fool.
He looked perfect.
Hair tied back. Gloves impeccable. Expression carved from winter stone.
No trace—none—of the man who had looked at her like she was inevitable. Like she was wanted. Like she mattered.
Meanwhile Elena looked like she had been emotionally trampled by a decorative elk.
Kael noticed her first.
He blinked. Slowly. Suspiciously.
Claire's eyebrows rose in a very Ohh? Oh ho ho? kind of way.
But Soren—
Soren turned.
His eyes collided with hers.
And for a fraction of a heartbeat, Elena saw everything:
Shock. Relief. Hunger. And a guilt so sharp it could cut bone.
But it vanished. Sealed behind armor.
"Lady Elena," he said, smooth, polite, princely. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't had her pinned against a storage wall with his gloved hand between her thighs.
As if she hadn't waited.
Her throat tightened, but she matched him perfectly.
"Your Highness."
He inhaled—barely—but it was enough.
She sat as far from him as possible. Practically in another postal code.
Fine. She could be formal too. She could be composed. She was a grown woman who had survived kidnapping, interdimensional travel, and OB-GYN night shifts.
She would not be undone by one man with emotional constipation.
She would be composed. She would be distant. She would not hope.
Then the doors opened.
The king's envoy swept in. The same man who had arrived late last night. The same man whose presence had pulled Soren away from her door. The reason she'd sat awake until dawn wondering if she'd imagined the entire thing.
He was draped in gold and far too much perfume. Slimy confidence oozed from every pore.
He bowed with theatrical flourish.
"Prince Soren. I trust our… conversation last night was productive?"
Elena's stomach dropped.
Last night. Conversation. Productive.
She stabbed a piece of fruit with unnecessary aggression.
Soren did not flinch.
"Envoy," he said, his tone so neutral it bordered on cruel.
The man smiled thinly and let his gaze slide—openly, appraisingly—toward Elena.
"And this," the envoy said, voice carrying far too well, "must be the infamous rift-woman."
The word struck like a brand.
Rift-woman. Not a name. Not a title. A classification.
A thing.
A murmur rippled through the hall—not loud, but immediate. The sound of curiosity sharpening into calculation.
Elena felt it then: the weight of attention shifting, eyes flicking to her with renewed interest.
She caught fragments.
"That explains it…""So that's why she's here.""No wonder the prince—""From the rift, they say. Pulled through alive.""Dangerous, or valuable. Perhaps both."
Her stomach tightened.
So that was the story circulating now. Not healer. Not guest. Not woman.
Asset.
Elena offered a tight smile that radiated, Say that again and I'll commit a diplomatic incident.
Soren's voice cut through the air like steel.
"She is under my command."
The murmurs stilled.
Not vanished—stilled. Contained. Like fire banked under ash.
Her pulse stumbled.
Under his command. Not under his protection. Not important. Not anything like last night.
Just… contained.
The envoy nodded approvingly."Excellent. Then we may proceed with negotiations unhindered."
More whispers followed, softer now.
"Smart of him.""Keeps her leashed.""She must be powerful if they're all circling like this.""Or dangerous."
Elena's jaw ached from holding her expression steady.
Elena kept her expression steady, though her jaw ached from holding it in place. In her old world, this kind of scrutiny had been familiar terrain. As a young consultant in crowded hospital corridors, she had learned early how men minimized women like her—with silence, with polite disinterest, with smiles that dismissed rather than welcomed. She had been talked over in meetings, second-guessed in emergencies, mistaken for the intern while she ran the room.
Apparently interdimensional travel had not spared her from that curse.
She had learned, then, how to survive it.
How to read the room without flinching.How to let underestimation work in her favor.How to wait until it mattered—and then speak with precision that left no space for doubt.
What these nobles did not understand—what Soren himself might forget in moments like this—was that she was not fragile under scrutiny.
She was trained by it.
They saw a rift-woman. A curiosity. A variable to be managed.
They had no idea they were looking at someone who had faced down arrogant men with power over lives and budgets and reputations—and walked away with all three intact.
Elena lowered her gaze, the picture of compliance.
Soren didn't look at her again. Not once.
He spoke with the envoy. Discussed borders, alliances, threats. His voice was steady, formal — cold enough to frost the table.
He didn't glance her way even when Myrene leaned in, brushing her fingertips along his forearm in a gesture that made Elena's lungs tighten.
Myrene laughed softly.
Elena did not move.
She stared at her plate, unable to eat, unable to reconcile the man who had kissed her senseless against a door with the prince who now treated her as a strategic inconvenience.
Maybe he regretted it.Maybe last night had been nothing but heat and adrenaline.Maybe she had always been a complication — an asset, a liability, a problem to manage.
Maybe she was nothing.
The breakfast droned on until the High Steward dismissed the table.
Everyone rose.
Soren rose as well.Myrene glided beside him.The envoy followed, still talking.
Soren didn't look back.
Kael did — that sharp, measuring glance that missed nothing.Claire did too, eyes soft with worry.
Elena remained seated long after the hall emptied.
She stared at the table until the torches dimmed and servants began clearing plates around her, as though she were part of the furniture.
When she finally stood, her legs felt foreign beneath her, like her body questioned the point of movement.
She drifted through the citadel — past training yards, libraries, long balconies overlooking the snow-choked cliffs.
Places that had once felt safe.Now unreachable.
She stopped in the courtyard, snow falling in slow, quiet spirals.
It settled in her hair, clung to her lashes, melted against skin she no longer trusted.
Maybe it meant nothing to him.
The thought cut deeper than anger ever could.
She closed her eyes and whispered — not to the citadel, not to the gods —
"Why did I expect anything else?"
The snow did not answer.
But somewhere deep beneath the stone and silence, something old and patient shifted — and listened.