The silence stretched on for a while longer, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the carriage and the steady clatter of the wheels against the road.
Then, without warning, Maya spoke again.
"You know," she said lightly, still staring out the window, "this carriage is… surprisingly uncomfortable."
Darcien glanced at her. He said nothing.
"And bumpy," she added, shifting slightly on the seat. "I feel like I've been tossed around all day. Do royal carriages ever get cushions? Or is discomfort part of the experience?"
Still, he remained silent, his expression unreadable.
She sighed, undeterred. "Back home—" she paused, then quickly corrected herself, "I mean… where I grew up, long rides were at least quiet. Or you could listen to something. Music helps."
No response.
She turned her head toward him, squinting slightly. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"
Darcien's gaze stayed forward, his posture rigid, hands resting calmly at his sides.
Maya huffed softly. "Figures."
She went on anyway, her voice gradually softening as the tension in her body eased. She talked about small, meaningless things—the way the trees looked different here, how the sky seemed closer somehow, how everything smelled like earth and rain instead of smoke and metal. None of it was important. None of it demanded answers.
Darcien listened.
He always did.
Her words began to trail, sentences growing slower, pauses stretching longer between them. The edge in her voice dulled, replaced by something quieter, almost fragile.
"I guess…" she murmured, blinking heavily, "I'm just tired."
The carriage jolted slightly, and she swayed—then, without realizing it, her head tipped to the side and came to rest against his shoulder.
Darcien froze.
Every muscle in his body locked as though he'd been struck.
She shifted once, adjusting closer, her cheek settling more comfortably against him. A soft breath escaped her lips, warm against his collar. Then, half-asleep, she mumbled something unintelligible and lifted her arm, draping it loosely around his.
His breath caught.
She had crossed every boundary without even knowing it.
Princesses did not touch like this.
Nobles did not touch like this.
Even peasants showed more restraint.
Yet there she was—curled against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Darcien stared straight ahead, refusing to move. He did not push her away. He did not shift her arm. He simply sat there, tense and acutely aware of her weight, her warmth, the faint rise and fall of her breathing.
Uncomfortable did not begin to describe it.
"She is impossible," he thought grimly.
And yet… she slept so peacefully, as though she trusted him without question. As though she had forgotten where she was—or perhaps never truly understood it to begin with.
His jaw tightened.
What kind of princess behaved like this?
What kind of person had no sense of distance, no fear of closeness?
As the carriage rolled on toward his palace, Darcien remained perfectly still, listening to her soft murmurs and wondering—more unsettled than ever—who Princess Elowen truly was, and why she felt nothing like anyone he had ever known.