The door of the carriage opened as Yeara turned, her eyes still wide. She glanced at the open doorway and finally pulled away from Zalthor's lap, stepping out.
A gentle after-breeze brushed her face as Zalthor stepped outside as well, his expression calm and controlled, the air thickened by his presence. Yeara's heartbeat no longer followed its usual rhythm—different emotions collided inside her all at once.
Her eyes darted back toward the balcony, but no one was there. She looked again, as if to confirm what she had seen… had her eyes been playing tricks on her?
"Impossible," she muttered softly, as if saying the words aloud could make them false. Her gaze wandered over the castle. It was immense, lavish—perhaps the grandeur of it all could help her make sense of what had just happened.
She turned toward the entrance and noticed a group of maids lined up outside, their heads bowed deeply. She had been so focused on the woman on the balcony that she hadn't realized they were standing there.
Zalthor turned to her, his expression unreadable.
"Follow me."
With that, he began to walk. She followed behind him. As she passed the maids, it was as if Zalthor's presence lingered—their heads lowered even further, bowing deeper at her approach, careful not to displease His Majesty.
She could not blame them, she herself felt that same intimidating aura emanating from him.
No wonder he was king. Even without knowing him, anyone could tell.
They moved down the hallway. Yeara's hands drifted to the sides of her dress, her nails scraping sharply against the fabric, as if the motion could keep her from clutching it and wrinkling it further.
'What is Ella doing here?'
'Is that Ella… why is she pregnant?'
Different thoughts flooded through her head so much that she barely followed Zalthor. The empty hallways on each side had paintings — old, archaic paintings that could not be interpreted by the naked eye.
'Does she perhaps have a relationship with Zalth—'
Zalthor halted.
Yeara's thoughts trailed off, her bones stiffening in fear.
He turned to her, his eyes scanning her face. She quickly managed a forced smile in order to mask her expression and avoid being read easily by him.
She shifted her gaze. It was then she realized he had stopped beside a door—a large door she had not even paid much attention to in her surroundings.
"This is the music room. If you perhaps want to keep your mind at ease, you could use it— very helpful." He spoke, his words carrying deeper meaning than said.
Why had he said that? Perhaps he had heard her thoughts.
"Very well, Your Highness. I think it would be better to leave this to one of the servants. You surely have many things to attend to—there's no need to play the gentleman."
Zalthor's eyes dimmed instantly, a faint tick in his jaw betraying his composure. Yeara moved her hands to her gown, lifting it slightly as she lowered herself into a curtsy.
A stubborn strand of hair fell across her face—she blew it aside quickly, then straightened, gave him a nod, and prepared to walk past.
It was not her business if he had a mistress. It didn't matter at all. After all, she was not marrying him for… love.
Her heartbeat raced as she stepped evenly, praying inwardly that she could pass him. If it meant the tiles themselves moved beneath her feet, so be it. She could feel his piercing gaze tracking her every step—and, just as she had hoped, she finally reached past him.
But.
His hand gripped her wrist.
Yeara's body froze, she had not expected him to grab her. Her eyes widened as he pulled her close.
Her body spun before her back landed slowly yet gently against the wall. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing grew heavier. She looked up, meeting those dark, unyielding eyes.
A gasp escaped her lips, soft and trembling like a piano note, as her hands rose above her head, her lips parting involuntarily.
Zalthor's hands held her firmly yet controlled, his gaze locked on hers. His other hand tightened slightly before relaxing, veins standing out faintly, though no one could read the thoughts behind those eyes.
"You test me, Yeara," he said, his voice low, deliberate.
He lowered himself to her height, still holding both her hands in place—neither too tight nor too loose. Yeara glared at him, struggling.
What if someone saw them?
"Your Majesty… someone might see us… this is wrong and—"
Her words trailed off as his grip tightened ever so slightly.
"You are my wife."
Zalthor's deep voice echoed through the hall, calm yet absolute. The stillness of the air made the tension between them almost suffocating.
"Not yet," she whispered.
Finally, Zalthor's hands loosened. Yeara's hands fell to her sides as she shifted her gaze away from him.
A faint tension lingered in the muscles of his jaw, and something sharp and fleeting flashed through his dark eyes.
A small pause stretched between them.
He moved, and before she knew it, he began to walk away. She pressed her lips together, her eyes staring at his well-sculptured back as he retreated.
She just watched, unable to say a word or call out to him. She could not even make out if he was angry or mad at her. His face had given nothing away at all.
'Oh yea, why did you have to say that?'
Guilt crept into her. She would need to apologize to him.
"Well, you were not necessarily wrong, were you? You just stated a fact, in fact, he should be the one to apologize."
She said out loud as she glared at the tree painting in front of her as if that was what caused her problem.
"Why did he even walk away—"
She immediately clamped her mouth shut as a maid passed. The woman bowed. Yeara saw the slightly worried look on the lady's face.
Embarrassment crept into her. she had forgotten she was talking out loud, and anybody who saw her would think she was running mad.
A soft breath escaped her lips. She did not even know her room or anywhere around her. If she had known, she would not have dared say anything to him — and now he was gone. She stamped her feet on the floor as she began walking through the hallway. Maybe she would just need to explore the palace.
She finally reached the stairs. She climbed. Her eyes moved up, the stairs curved in a very confusing way. She looked up; she was sure if a person spoke here it would echo, and finally her thought won.
"Wahh."
Her words echoed through the place. Her eyes lit. She opened her mouth to repeat it but stopped midway as she caught herself.
One person seeing her was more than enough—she could not afford another seeing her like this.
She walked down the stairs, deciding it would be best not to lose her way in this huge castle. Her legs moved as she noticed that at the left side was a hallway, and on the right side was a door, probably leading outside.
"Better if I stay outside… I would be able to find my way that way."
She spoke to herself. Her hands moved to the handle of the door as she pushed it open, but the door did not budge. She tried again one last time and it still didn't.
Finally, her eyes trailed downwards as she noticed the lock. She pulled it before pushing the door open, and finally it opened.
The breeze blew, brushing her face as it pushed her hair backwards. Yeara tucked her hair behind her ears as her lips parted in awe.
"I see His Highness loves flowers," she whispered as she stared at the arrays of flowers around the garden.
No one would ever believe that this cold and stoic king liked flowers, and even though he did not say it outrightly, the tattoo on his neck said it. But the one on his neck was different, it was like the flower was burning, a huge contrast to this vibrant one.
'Why am I even thinking about him?'
She wondered as she inhaled the fresh air. She walked towards the white rose to touch it, but her steps froze as she heard a familiar voice.
"Yea."