The sound of their laughter still clung to the tower walls when Lara bent double, trying to steady her breath. Vaskar leaned lazily against the stone, arms folded across his chest, looking far too composed for someone who had just sprinted half the palace grounds.
"You are not even sweating," Lara glared at him between gasps.
"I don’t sweat," Vaskar said with mock gravity. "Princes merely...glow."
Lara snorted so loudly that a passing servant dropped his basket of apples. "Glow? You? You looked like a startled stag when I ran past you."
"Startled?" He tilted his head, eyes glimmering with mischief. "No, I was but admiring the grace of your form in flight. Truly, who could not?"
Her cheeks warmed instantly, though she tried to mask it by crossing her arms. "Admiring me losing, you mean."
"But you didn’t lose," he countered. "You triumphed magnificently. How could I possibly look away from such a display?"
She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile. "You’re laying it on thicker than a stew."
"I am not," Vaskar replied smoothly.
Lara muttered, but her laughter betrayed her.
For a moment, they both stood there, shoulders brushing as they leaned against the tower. The palace grounds stretched wide before them: sun-drenched gardens, fountains sparkling with light, and the distant hum of daily life. For once, it all felt far away, as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Then Vaskar nudged her with his elbow. "Shall we make it best of three?"
Her head whipped toward him. "Another race?"
"Why not? Perhaps I’ll win this time."
She raised a brow. "And what if you don’t?"
"Then," he said, lips curving into that infuriatingly confident smile, "I’ll grant you one wish. Anything you ask, no matter how outrageous."
Lara’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Anything?"
She leaned in just enough to make him blink. "Careful, Aramis. I might ask for something you’re not ready to give."
He blinked, then laughed, a sound so unrestrained it made her grin in spite of herself. "Then I suppose I’ll have to win this time."
"Then stop glowing and start sweating," she shot back.
The playful fire was rekindled instantly, both of them poised for yet another reckless dash across the palace grounds. The race was less about winning now—it was about being seen, heard, and known, in ways neither of them could afford anywhere else.
Meanwhile, inside the palace...
The throne room of Aegis was vast, its marble floors gleaming beneath shafts of golden light that fell through high, arched windows. The banners of Aragon’s house—rich crimson and silver—hung heavy from the high ceiling, yet the chamber felt cold despite its grandeur.
Upon the dais, King Aragon sat on the throne as though it were an ill-fitting mantle, his posture regal but his eyes wary. The weight of a crown freshly won still pressed upon him. When his gaze fell upon the woman kneeling at the base of the steps, something within him shifted.
"You may rise," Aragon said at last, his voice even, though it carried an edge of discomfort. He had never grown accustomed to the sight of people bowing low before him; there was something in the act that unsettled him, as though their humility cheapened his own station.
The woman lifted her head, her eyes soft, her expression untouched by fear.
"What is it?" he asked, his face unreadable as carved stone.
"Do you not remember me, Your Majesty?" Her voice was gentle, almost tender, carrying the lilt of familiarity.
His brow furrowed. "Do I know you? Forgive me—I was absent for many years. There are memories I cannot easily summon."
"I am Aurora," she said simply, as though the name alone should stir recognition.
And it did. A flicker crossed his face, and memory stirred—two children in sunlit gardens, chasing each other through orchards, laughter carried on summer air. Aurora, always two steps behind him, two years younger, forever trailing yet never far.
"Aurora," he murmured.
She smiled faintly, though her eyes shone with something deeper, a hope long preserved. "Do you remember your promise to me? You said... You said you would marry me, once we were grown."
Silence fell heavy in the hall, broken only by the whisper of banners stirring in the draught. Aragon’s frown deepened.
"You are not married?" he asked, incredulity softening his tone.
"I..." Aurora faltered, words catching like thorns in her throat. Her hands trembled where they clasped before her. How could she speak it? That she had once been taken into the chambers of the late king—not as wife, but as consort? That her promise, her childhood dream, had been swallowed by duty and by shame?
"I..." she tried again, her voice breaking.
The truth hung unspoken, yet heavy in the air, as Aragon’s dark gaze lingered on her, searching.
Aurora’s voice faltered, and the silence pressed upon her like the very stones of the chamber. Aragon’s gaze remained fixed upon her, heavy, probing, demanding an answer she could scarcely bring herself to utter. Updates are released by novel※fire.net
"I..." She drew a breath, her hands tightening in their clasp. "I was taken into the service of the late king."
Aragon’s frown deepened. "Service?"
Her eyes fell to the marble floor, shame pulling her shoulders low. "Not as a maid, nor companion to the queen. I was... chosen. By His Majesty."
The words were scarcely more than a whisper, yet they reverberated through the hall like a bell tolling in the stillness.
Aragon leaned back in the throne, his jaw tightening, though his expression remained otherwise controlled. "Chosen." The word was flat, heavy, like a stone cast into deep water.
Aurora’s cheeks burned with humiliation. "I did not seek it. I was but a girl, and when the king commands, who dares refuse? I told myself it was duty, that it would bring honor to my family. But all the while, I kept a single hope in my heart—that one day you would return, and the promise of our youth would yet live."
Her eyes lifted then, shimmering with unshed tears, searching his face for some flicker of the boy she had once known.
Aragon was silent for a long moment, his expression carved in restraint. At last, he spoke, his voice quiet, measured, yet edged with something she could not name.
"You ask me to remember a boy’s promise," he said. "Yet you bring me a truth that binds you to Rasco’s shadow."
Aurora flinched, as though struck. "Do you despise me for it?"
His gaze softened, though only faintly. "No. But it is a weight I must reckon with. A king may forget many things, Aurora—but not the chains of his house."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The air was thick with memory and unspoken sorrow, as though the hall itself held its breath.