[Seraphine’s POV]
Horns split the morning air, deep and commanding. Armor clattered in waves across the courtyard, and I felt the king’s coming.
I lay in the borrowed bed, with my body hollow and trembling. The stable stank faintly of blood no matter how hard Rowan had tried to scrub it away. My hands kept drifting to my stomach—a habit that had no purpose anymore—and each time I pulled them back, the ache sharpened.
“They were crying,” I whispered. “They were crying when they took them.”
Rowan stood near the hearth, jaw tight, clothes stained with dirt and dried blood. “We will get them back,” he said. “Both. I swear it.”
I shook my head. “A vow means nothing if they’re already halfway to Blackharrow.”
He went rigid suddenly, listening. Heavy boots stepped on the road — steadily, purposefully, with the steps of a man who owned every stone he walked on.
King Aldric.
Rowan cursed under his breath and rushed to the corner, grabbing the blood-soaked linens we hadn’t hidden yet. He shoved them into a storage chest and forced the lid shut.
“Lie back,” he said. “He can’t know you’ve been on your feet.”
“I can barely stand anyway.” I stated.
Rowan helped me ease down, arranging the blankets so they hid the worst of my shaking. The twins’ absence felt like a pulled tooth—raw, throbbing, impossible to ignore.
The boots stopped outside the door, and it opened without a knock. Aldric stepped inside.
He looked carved from war—armor dented, cloak torn, mud and dried blood smeared across his greaves. His hair hung in damp black strands around his face, and his eyes—cold, sharp—took in everything with a single sweep.
They landed on me. Then shifted to Rowan, standing too close to the bed.
“What,” Aldric shouted, “is he doing here?”
His voice carried more threat than a drawn blade.
Rowan didn’t flinch. “Your Majesty, I—”
“I did not ask you.” Aldric’s gaze never left mine. “I asked my wife.”
My breath caught. “Rowan is my friend,” I said. “From Eryndale. He came when I fell ill.”
Aldric strode closer, the weight of his armor shaking the floor. “You are not in your chambers. You are pale. You look ready to faint again. Guards reported you were found in the stables before dawn.” His jaw tightened. “Explain.”
I forced my voice steady. “I… collapsed. The air in my chambers felt suffocating. I went to the stables for fresh air. I fainted, and Rowan carried me here.”
His eyes narrowed, studying every inch of my face, searching for cracks. “Why was I not told?”
“You were at war,” I whispered. “I didn’t think you’d wish to be summoned for my dizziness.”
“Dizziness?” His voice cracked, revealing something startling beneath: fear. “You nearly died.”
I stiffened. “I didn’t.”
“You might have,” he said more harshly, raking a hand through his hair. “Gods, Seraphine, if a messenger had reached me saying—”
He cut himself off, breath uneven. I blinked. I had seen Aldric furious, cold, calculating—but never shaken.
Rowan stepped forward, shoulders squared. “The decision to keep it quiet was mine, Your Majesty. I feared the court would overreact. If blame must—”
Aldric turned to him sharply. “You should not even be inside these walls!”
“I returned for her,” Rowan said.
My heart twisted painfully. Aldric’s gaze flicked between us—calculating, dark, dangerous.
“You are not to leave these rooms again,” Aldric said, his attention snapping back to me. “Not until you are well. Not until I say so.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand.
“No arguments. You will rest. Eat. Sleep. If you feel faint, you send for me immediately.”
“I doubt you would want to be roused every time I tire,” I said.
“I don’t care if it is a fainting spell or a mortal wound. Message me!” His voice dropped low, steady. “I’ve done many things that haunt me, and I won’t add to losing you.”
The words pierced deeper than they should have. My heartbeat faltered, unsteady. Then Aldric straightened, regaining his iron composure.
“And now,” he said, “I will speak with Elowen. I expect a full accounting of your illness.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“Aldric,” I whispered before I could stop myself. “She… she might be resting.”
“She can rest after I question her,” he said, already turning toward the door. “She has been tending you for months. She will have answers.”
Rowan and I exchanged a quick, sharp glance. Elowen had fled the castle hours ago, leaving only chaos and blood behind her.
Aldric moved to the threshold and barked to the guards outside: “Find the healer Elowen. Search the stillroom, the infirmary, every corridor. Bring her here for questioning.”
Two guards saluted and hurried off. Aldric lingered, eyes drawn back to me as if he wasn’t entirely ready to leave.
“You will rest,” he repeated.
Something in his tone felt almost gentle, though his face remained carved from stone. He stepped out, intending to close the door behind him, but the fragile quiet lasted only moments as the two guards returned, faces tight. They saluted sharply:
“Your Majesty—reporting on the healer.”
Aldric turned, his hand braced on the doorframe. “Well?”
The guard swallowed. “Elowen is not in her chambers.”
“Then check the stillroom,” Aldric snapped. “The kitchens. The herb garden. She is somewhere in this palace.”
“We did, sire.” The second guard stepped forward. “Her satchel is gone. Her pallets untouched since last night. No one has seen her since before dawn.”
Aldric went still. Not the stillness of calm—but of a blade being drawn.
“Gone,” he said softly.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence that followed was stifling. Aldric's fingertips turned white on the doorframe. His voice became quiet and threatening.
He looked over his shoulder at me then, with his eyes dark as storm clouds. Elowen had vanished without a trace, leaving only blood and broken oaths in her wake, and the man I hated most in the world was beginning to sense the shape of the secrets coiled around him.
“Very well,” he said, voice low and lethal. “If she has fled, she has a reason. And I will find it.”
The door shut, and the sound echoed through my bones. My stomach twisted. I sank back against the pillows.
Rowan sat beside the bed, his voice barely above a whisper. “He knows something is wrong.”
“He knows nothing yet,” I said hollowly. “But he will.”