Elowen
I wake before the bells.
The room is dim and hushed, the kind of silence that presses inward instead of offering rest. Pale gray light leaks through the curtains, thin and undecided. My body feels heavy, burdened by a night that never truly ended. I did not sleep so much as drift, caught between waking and memory.
The other side of the bed is empty.
I turn my head slowly, already knowing what I will find. Cool sheets. No warmth. No presence. The absence lands harder than his weight ever did.
"So he left," I think. "And somehow, that frightens me more."
Something did not happen last night. The truth settles in my chest with a strange mix of relief and dread. He stopped. He withdrew.
Whatever I denied him did not earn immediate punishment. That restraint lingers now, sharp and unsettling.
I sit up, the silk of the nightgown whispering against my skin. My muscles ache, not from struggle but from the tension of holding myself together.
My heart still remembers his nearness, the certainty in his voice, the way he assumed my silence would mean surrender.
"I did not give it," I tell myself. "I did not bend."
Fear is still there. It coils easily. But beneath it, something else has taken shape.
Awareness. When I said no, something shifted. Not in the room. Not in the court. Inside him.
"He is not ruled by cruelty alone," I think. "He is ruled by pressure."
Pressure from the crown. From war. From expectation. From a world that never taught him refusal. And for the briefest moment, he hesitated.
I did not win. But I endured.
That matters.
Footsteps pass beyond the door, followed by low voices. Servants. Guards. I rise quietly and move closer, careful not to disturb the stillness, pressing my ear to the wood.
"…Rowan…"
"…the border…"
"…retaliation…"
The words drift like smoke, heavy and dangerous.
"War," I think. "It is no longer a rumor."
I step back, my hands curling into the fabric at my sides. Rowan's disappearance has grown teeth. It is no longer whispered only in corners. It is shaping decisions. And I am no longer merely a bride carried here to seal peace.
"I am a symbol now," I realize. "A reason. A risk."
The thought chills me.
The door opens without ceremony.
Cassian enters, he cruel demeanor back to normal
No apology.
No explanation.
Just instruction.
I nod. Not because I submit, but because I understand timing.
He pauses at the threshold. "I expect you will be summoned by King in a moment.
Don't say too much."
Then he leaves.
The restraint in his voice lingers like a warning. Anger burns and fades. Control does not.
I dress slowly, choosing each movement with care. Servants come and go, their eyes respectful but curious. I listen more than I speak. Conversations quiet when I pass. Glances follow me.
"They are watching," I think. "So am I."
I am fastening the last clasp at my sleeve when a soft knock sounds at the door.
"Enter," I say.
My handmaid steps inside, head bowed, her expression careful. "Your Majesty," she says, "the king requires your presence."
The words tighten something in my chest.
"Now?" I ask.
"Yes, my lady. Immediately."
I nod, dismissing her with a gesture. When the door closes, I turn toward the window and let out a slow breath.
"The king," I think. "So soon."
I think of home then. Of my mother's voice. Of corridors that did not echo with power and consequence. I miss it, but the ache is duller than I expect.
"Perhaps longing is a luxury here," I tell myself. "Or perhaps I am already changing."
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
"I will not shrink," I decide. "Not loudly. Not foolishly. But not at all."
I will learn this court. Its silences. Its fractures. I will learn Cassian. Not the prince they fear or the man they obey, but the one who hesitates when the weight grows too heavy.
"I do not need to defeat him," I think. "I need to survive him."
And this time, I will do it on my own terms.