I still can't sleep.
The fitting room scene plays on loop in my mind—the heat of Kyrell's touch, the way his fingers traced my birthmark with such reverence, the moment before he pulled away.
The look in his eyes when he leaned in, when we were so close I could feel his breath against my lips… But beneath that memory, beneath the confusion and the want I have no right to feel, lies something deeper.
The approaching coronation keeps weighing on me like physical pressure, crushing down on my chest until I can barely breathe in too-small rooms.
I throw off the covers and pull on a robe, needing air, or space, or something other than these four walls and my spiraling thoughts. The estate is quiet as I slip through the corridors, making my way to a balcony I discovered days ago.
It overlooks the gardens, private and peaceful. The night is cool against my heated skin, stars bright overhead in a moonless sky that makes everything feel infinite and impossibly dark at the same time.
I lean against the stone railing, closing my eyes, trying to find some measure of calm in the silence.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
My eyes fly open. Kyrell stands at the other end of the balcony, half-hidden in shadows. He's leaning against the railing, staring out at the dark gardens below. For a moment I consider leaving, giving him the solitude he clearly sought.
But something about the set of his shoulders, tense and burdened, makes me stay.
"I didn't know you were here," I say softly. "I can go if you'd prefer to be alone."
"Stay." He turns, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something more guarded. "I didn't hear you approach."
"You were distracted." I move closer, studying his profile in the starlight. "What's troubling you?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Just stares out at the gardens as if they hold answers he's desperately seeking. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, raw with emotion I've never heard from him before.
"The coronation. Taking you back there, into that viper's nest where they destroyed you once already."
"We've planned for this," I remind him gently. "Your father has strategies. We know what we're walking into."
"Plans can fail." He cuts me off, and there's something almost savage in his tone. "My mother had plans too. But an arrow caught her before she made it past the gates. She died because the plan failed."
My breath catches. "Kyrell…"
"I've spent my entire life preparing for this." The words pour out now like they've been dammed up too long, finally breaking free. "But what if I fail you? What if when it matters most, when our enemies strike, I'm not enough to protect you? What if I'm just like my mother: brave and devoted and dead?"
He turns to face me fully now, and in the starlight I can see the fear in his eyes.
Raw, honest fear that he's been hiding behind confidence and certainty.
The confession hangs between us, heavy with the weight of years of expectation and responsibility. This man who always seems so confident, so certain, is terrified. Not for himself—for me.
My hand finds his in the darkness, fingers interlacing with his. His palm is warm, calloused from sword practice, trembling slightly.
"You've protected me every day since you found me broken in that ravine." I tell him firmly. "You gave me hope when I had none. You made me believe I could survive this, that I could be strong enough to reclaim everything that was stolen. That's not nothing, Kyrell. That's everything."
His grip tightens on my hand. "You don't understand. If something happens to you, if I lose you…"
"You won't." I step closer, using my free hand to touch his face, making him look at me. His jaw is tight under my palm, a muscle jumping with tension. "We're going to be smart, careful. Your father's plans are sound, and I trust you. Completely."
"Even after this afternoon?" His eyes search mine. "My duty is to protect you, to help you rise on your own throne. Not to touch you like that, not to nearly..." He trails off, but we both know what he means.
The almost-kiss. The way his fingers traced my spine. The line he nearly crossed.
"Especially after that." My voice is steady, certain. "Because you stopped. You pulled back even though you didn't want to. That's honor, Kyrell. That's strength."
We stand close now, faces inches apart, breath mingling in the cool night air.
"I'm scared too," I whisper. "Of seeing them, of facing Leander and Cecily, of everything that could go wrong, of watching my sons and not being able to touch them, hold them, tell them I'm their mother."
"Sybil…"
"But maybe together we can carry what would crush either of us alone."
Something breaks in his expression and Kyrell pulls me into an embrace—sudden, fierce, and desperate. His arms wrap around me, and I feel him shaking slightly against me.
I hold him back just as tightly, my face pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder against my cheek.
We stay like that for a long moment, two people terrified of everything ahead, finding strength in each other. Finding something that feels like safety even though we both know safety is an illusion.
His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my unbound hair.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he murmurs against my temple. "I swear."
"I know."
"I mean it, Sybil. I…"
"Sybil? Your room was empty and Rodric told me he saw you going here and I had the most brilliant idea about your hair for the coronation!" Maren's voice cuts through the night like a blade. "We could braid it with— Oh."
She appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with barely suppressed glee.
Kyrell and I spring apart like guilty children caught stealing sweets, but the damage is done. Her hazel eyes sparkle with delight as she takes in our flushed faces, our defensive postures, the way we're suddenly very interested in opposite corners of the balcony.
"Don't mind me," she says cheerfully. "Pretend I'm not here. Continue with your... strategic planning."
"Maren," Kyrell runs a hand through his hair with visible frustration, "if you have so much free time to wander around in the evening interrupting private conversations, perhaps I could help keep you busy. Maybe I'll find you a proper suitor, arrange a date? Tomorrow, if possible."
Maren's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare…"
"Try me." His voice is dangerous. "I'm certain Lord Brennan's son is still available. Or perhaps that merchant's heir from the west provinces. The one with the unfortunate laugh and the collection of ceramic frogs."
"Kyrell!" she shrieks quietly.
"Or we could simply post a notice in the market square. 'Lady Maren seeking a husband. Inquire within, no particular requirements necessary.'"
Maren backs toward the door with exaggerated haste.
"Well. I just remembered—I left something in my chambers. Very important something. Must retrieve it immediately. You two should carry on with your..." She waves a hand vaguely. "Or don't. Whatever you were doing. Strategic war planning. Yes. Good night!"
She disappears as quickly as she arrived, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Left alone, Kyrell and I look at each other for a moment and then suddenly burst into laughter.
Real, genuine laughter that breaks the tension, releases some of the fear, reminds us both that despite everything, life continues. Joy still exists, even in the darkest moments.
"Your sister is incorrigible," I manage between laughs.
"She's a menace," Kyrell agrees, but his voice is warm with affection. "I really should marry her off. For the good of the kingdom."
"The poor man wouldn't survive a week."
"Fair point." He's still smiling, the fear from earlier momentarily forgotten. "Though it would be entertaining to watch."
________________