Alistair's gaze didn't leave Elissa. He took a slow step forward, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the radiating heat of his presence. He looked down at the box in her arms, then back at her eyes.
Without a word, his hand reached out and grabbed the box from her hands. His fingers were long and pale, but the grip was firm—taking the burden from her before she even realized she was tired of carrying it. Elissa's eyes met his, and for a second, the roar of the market vanished.
"I believe the Duke can wait another hour," Alistair said quietly.
Elissa's heart performed a jagged, uneven skip. "You don't have to... I mean, you must be busy."
"I am never too busy to ensure my household is fed," he replied.
It was a formal excuse, a "Prince's reason," but the way his eyes lingered on the faint trace of a tear-track on her cheek told a different story.
"Right then!" Vane chirped, breaking the heavy silence with a sharp clap of his hands. "If the Crown Prince is buying, I'm ordering the expensive ale. Dante, try not to look so much like a gargoyle, you're scaring the merchants."
They began to move toward the tavern in a strange, lopsided formation. Vane and Kestrel took the lead, their bickering over meat pie fillings rising over the sound of the crowd. Dante acted as a silent, massive rear guard, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade.
And Alistair walked half a step behind Elissa.
He didn't speak, and he didn't offer her his arm, but he held her parcel against his chest as if it were a royal decree. Every time the crowd surged or a drunken sailor stumbled too close, Alistair's shadow shifted, creating an invisible, iron-clad perimeter around her.
"The North has many voices, Elissa," he said, leaning down so his words were for her alone, barely audible over the clatter of carriage wheels. "Most of them belong to people who are terrified of anything they cannot categorize. Do not mistake their fear for your truth."
Elissa looked up at him, her throat tightening. The humiliation was still there, but it felt smaller now, eclipsed by the man walking in her shadow.
"Something is bothering you." She heard , coming from behind her. It was not a question but a statement.
She turned enough startled to the voice and saw Alistair was watching her. "N -nothing " she whispered.
Alistair didn't break the eye contact, patiently waiting for the truth to be out.
"They called me a hollow vessel," she whispered, the words finally breaking free.
Alistair didn't stop walking, but his gaze sharpened, turning into something cold and lethal. "A vessel is only hollow until it is filled with something powerful enough to shatter it. The question is not what you lack, but what you are choosing to become."
He gestured toward the weathered wooden door of the tavern. "Now, eat. You'll need the strength.
The interior of The Iron Kettle was a thick soup of noise, woodsmoke, and the heavy scent of roasting fat. It was the kind of place where the air felt like a physical weight against your skin.
Vane and Kestrel, ever the masters of making themselves at home, practically annexed a corner booth. They slid in side-by-side, leaving the opposite bench for Elissa. A heartbeat later, the wood groaned as Alistair sat down directly across from her. Dante, like a silent, armored mountain, pulled up a heavy stool at the head of the table, his presence effectively walling them off from the rest of the rowdy tavern.
The table was small—meant for four commoners, not two Princes, a legendary knight, and a Starwind. It forced a proximity that made Elissa's skin prickle. Alistair placed her shoe box on the empty edge of the bench beside him, his movements precise and calm, while the rest of the room seemed to vibrate with the clatter of tankards.
When the meat pies arrived, steaming and gold-crusted, Elissa kept her head down. She focused on the flaking pastry, trying to ignore the way her knees nearly brushed Alistair's beneath the cramped table.
But she could feel it—that heavy, silent pressure.
Alistair wasn't eating with Vane's gusto or Kestrel's efficiency. He leaned back slightly, one hand resting near his mug of dark ale, his sapphire blue eyes fixed steadily on Elissa. It wasn't a glare; it was a slow, methodical observation, as if he were checking for cracks in her spirit after the noblewomen's insults.
Vane caught Kestrel's eye over a mouthful of gravy. He kicked her shin under the table and jerked his chin toward Alistair, a wicked, knowing smirk splitting his face. Kestrel smothered a grin behind her cider, her eyes dancing with that silent sibling telepathy that said, Look at him. He isn't even pretending to look at his food.
Dante, meanwhile, sat like a gargoyle of stone, his gaze fixed on the door, but his ears were clearly tuned to the table. He saw the way Alistair's hand tightened slightly on his mug whenever Elissa winced at a loud noise from the bar.
"The pastry is better if you don't fight it, Elissa," Alistair said, his voice a low vibration that cut through the tavern's din like a secret meant only for her.
Elissa looked up, her cheeks flushing a soft, dusty pink. "I'm not fighting it. I'm just... not very hungry."
"Eat," he commanded, though the tone held more quiet concern than royal authority.
The meal ended in a blur of Vane's jokes and Kestrel's loud recounting of the morning's "velvet war." As they rose to leave, the heat of the tavern followed them out into the biting, sleet-filled afternoon air.
The sleet had thickened by the time they left the tavern, small stinging needles against Elissa's cheeks. The warmth and noise fell away as the door swung shut behind them, replaced by the dull, muffled sounds of the street—hooves in slush, a cart's distant rattle, a 🐧 laughing too loudly somewhere down the alley.
The royal carriage waited where they'd left it, dark wood gleaming wet under the gray sky, the crest of the North blurred by a sheen of melting ice. Their guards had formed a loose cordon around it, shoulders dusted white, breath steaming as they dipped their heads.
"All quiet," one of them reported as Alistair passed. "Roads are slick, but nothing we can't handle."
"Good," Alistair said. His voice was even, unreadable, as always. "We'll take the south route back. Fewer hills."
Kestrel snorted softly. "Fewer hills, more potholes. Perfect planning, as usual."
"Complain later," Dante said, swinging himself into the carriage first. "Preferably after we're not standing in freezing slush."
Elissa followed the others up the step, fingers numb on the cold metal handle. The interior swallowed her in shadows and velvet—dark blue cushions, faint smell of leather and smoke, the soft creak of wood as they settled into their seats. She took her usual place opposite Alistair. Kestrel slid in beside her, all fur and sharp elbows; Vane flopped down near the window, boots already leaving damp marks.
The door shut with a heavy thud. A moment later, the carriage lurched forward.
Outside, the city blurred to gray streaks behind the fogged glass. Inside, it was warmer, but only barely. Elissa curled her gloved hands together in her lap and watched her own breath cloud in the cool air.
They rode in silence for a minute. The tavern's easy noise felt far away now, swallowed by the hiss of sleet on the roof and the steady roll of wheels over frozen ruts.
Kestrel broke first.
"Well," she said, tipping her head back against the cushion, "that could have been worse. No one tried to poison us, start a fight. I call that a successful lunch."
Vane smirked. "Speak for yourself. I distinctly saw at least three people eyeing you like a political bargaining chip."
"That's my default state," Kestrel said dryly. "At least the stew was decent."
Elissa let the words wash over her. It was easier to listen than to join in. Her head still held the echo of tavern voices, the way people had stared a little longer than necessary when she'd walked past. The way some had glanced at Alistair, then at her, then whispered into their cups.
The Sun-Princess. The southern girl bound to the northern heir.
Bound so tightly that even now, sitting across from him, she could feel him like a muted heat at the edge of her mind. but there was something--a thin, luminous thread.
She focused on the sway of the carriage instead. On the faint vibration through the seat as the wheels hit a rough patch, then smoothed out. On the soft clink of Kestrel's rings as she drummed her fingers against her knee.
They were just a few streets from the palace. They'd be at the gates soon. Warmth. Stone. Safety.
The thought had barely formed when the world dropped sideways.