POV: Henry
Her wrist is warm beneath my fingers.
That is the first thing I register—not the shock in her eyes, not the way her body goes rigid like a trapped animal, but the simple, undeniable proof that she is real. That she exists. That she did not vanish into memory the way I told myself she had to.
“Let go,” Cordelia whispers.
Her voice is controlled, but her pulse betrays her. It beats fast under my thumb, frantic, uneven.
“Not yet,” I say quietly.
The narrow street feels smaller than it did a moment ago. Sound presses in from both ends—footsteps, voices, the distant noise of the square. Every instinct I have tells me this is a bad place to stand my ground.
I don’t move anyway.
“Henry,” she says again, sharper now. “You have to let go.”
I lean in just enough that only she can hear me. “You disappeared.”
Her jaw tightens. “You forced me to.”
“No,” I say. “You chose silence.”
Her eyes flick past my shoulder, searching. I follow the direction of her gaze without turning my head. I don’t need to see him to know who she’s afraid of.
“He’s coming back,” she says under her breath. “Any second.”
“Good,” I reply. “Then you’ll tell me something before he does.”
Her grip twists against mine, not to break free but to steady herself. I feel it—something coiling beneath her skin, something alive and dangerous that recognizes the tension and wants to answer it. The air hums faintly, a pressure building that has nothing to do with the crowd.
“Don’t,” she breathes.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You are.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. “You don’t understand what you’re risking.”
“I understand exactly,” I reply. “I’m risking being ignored again.”
The words land harder than I intend. I see it in the way her expression fractures for half a heartbeat before she pulls it back together.
“Henry,” she says, and this time there is something raw beneath the control, “if he sees this—”
“—he’ll what?” I interrupt. “Kill me? Banish me? Do what kings always do when something doesn’t fit?”
She doesn’t answer.
That silence is answer enough.
“You let me walk away believing you chose happiness,” I continue, my voice low but steady. “You let me believe there was nothing left to say.”
Her lips part. “I was protecting you.”
“From what?” I ask. “The truth?”
Her breath stutters. The warmth around us flares suddenly, sharp enough that the stones beneath our feet vibrate faintly. A passerby glances toward us, frowns, then keeps walking.
“Stop pushing,” she hisses.
“I didn’t come back to watch you from a distance,” I say. “I came back because something didn’t add up. Because I couldn’t let it rest.”
Her eyes darken. “You should have.”
“I couldn’t.”
The word is simple. Final.
We stand there, locked in place by opposing forces—her need for secrecy, my refusal to be erased. The street stretches in both directions, an escape route for either of us if we choose it.
Neither of us does.
“Say it,” I tell her. “Tell me why.”
She shakes her head, a single sharp motion. “Not here.”
“Then where?”
Her gaze flicks again toward the square, panic bleeding through the cracks now. “Anywhere else.”
Footsteps sound closer. Measured. Familiar even to me now, after months of watching from the edges of royal life.
She feels it too. Her shoulders tense, her breath quickening.
“Please,” she whispers. “Let go. I’m begging you.”
The word hits me harder than anger ever could.
I loosen my grip just enough to ease the pressure, but I don’t release her entirely. “I won’t leave again without something,” I say. “An answer. A truth. Anything.”
She swallows. “You’re asking for things I can’t give you.”
“I’m asking for things you owe me,” I counter.
Her expression sharpens. “I owe you nothing.”
“Then why are you afraid?” I ask quietly.
She flinches.
The warmth surges again, hotter this time, and I feel it push against my skin like a warning. Whatever lives inside her now is not passive. It is coiled and watchful, reacting to every spike of emotion.
“I can’t do this,” she says. “You don’t belong in this world.”
“I never did,” I reply. “That didn’t stop you from pulling me into it.”
Her eyes search mine desperately, as if looking for an opening, a weakness she can exploit or a mercy she can claim.
“There are eyes everywhere,” she says. “Walls listen. People talk. If he finds out you’re back—if he thinks you matter—”
“I already matter,” I say. “Just not in the way you want.”
She closes her eyes briefly, like she’s bracing for impact. When she opens them, the fear is still there, but something else has surfaced alongside it.
Resolve.
“Meet me,” she says quickly. “Tonight.”
The words come out rushed, almost forced.
“Where?” I ask.
She hesitates for the briefest moment, then names a place—neutral, forgotten, far enough from the palace to feel dangerous and close enough to feel inevitable.
“After nightfall,” she adds. “You’ll stay hidden until then.”
“And if I refuse?”
Her gaze hardens. “Then this conversation ends now.”
I study her face, the lines tension has etched into it, the woman she has become layered over the girl I once knew. Power sits on her differently now—like a crown worn beneath the skin.
“All right,” I say finally. “Tonight.”
She exhales shakily, relief and dread tangled together.
“Let go,” she repeats.
I release her wrist.
The absence of contact feels louder than the grip ever did.
She steps back immediately, distance snapping into place between us like a ward. The warmth subsides, curling inward, resentful.
“You’ll wait,” she says. “You won’t be seen.”
“I know how to disappear,” I reply.
Her mouth tightens. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I know,” I say.
She turns away without another word, moving toward the mouth of the street just as Sebastian’s voice carries toward us from the square.
“Cordelia?”
She straightens instantly, every trace of panic wiped clean from her posture before she turns back toward him.
“Yes,” she calls.
Sebastian steps into view, his gaze sweeping the street before settling on her. His eyes flick briefly in my direction—not recognition, just assessment—before returning to her face.
“There you are,” he says, smiling. “I was looking for you.”
“I needed air,” she replies smoothly.
He nods, satisfied, and offers his arm. She takes it without hesitation.
As they walk away together, swallowed by the crowd and the sunlight, Cordelia does not look back.
I remain where I am, heart hammering, the city rushing around me once more.
She has agreed to meet.
The truth is approaching.
Whatever she is hiding, I know now with absolute certainty that it is large enough to justify every fear I saw in her eyes.