Chapter 13: Closed bridges
1731 Words
Princess Elowen cried.
Only one tear fell.
Just one.
A tiny silver drop slipping silently down pale skin beneath candlelight.
And King Demitri nearly lost his mind over it.
Because the moment he saw that tear,
something savage awakened inside him.
Not pity.
Pity was weak.
This was rage.
Pure and violent and consuming.
His chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. A brutal ache spreading beneath his ribs while one singular thought repeated endlessly inside his mind:
Who did this to her?
Not the crying itself.
No.
It was the way she looked shocked by her own tears.
As though breaking apart in front of someone else was forbidden.
As though vulnerability itself was shameful.
Demitri had seen noblewomen cry before.
He had seen queens collapse dramatically during court scandals, watched princesses weep over failed engagements and bruised pride.
None of it had ever affected him.
But Elowen,
Elowen looked like someone who had spent her entire life swallowing pain until her body no longer knew how to release it properly.
And somehow that single tear felt more horrifying than sobbing ever could.
Demitri’s hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
King Charles.
Queen Vivienne.
Princess Eleanor.
For the first time in years, Demitri wanted blood not for revenge.
But for her.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead,
it felt terrifyingly natural.
Elowen quickly looked away, wiping the tear almost immediately as though ashamed it existed at all.
That hurt him even more.
Demitri wanted to ask more questions.
Wanted to demand every detail.
Every punishment.
Every cruelty.
Every moment someone made her believe she deserved suffering.
But if he stayed any longer,
he feared what he might do.
Because right now, the idea of marching into Norwasia and burning the entire royal family alive felt painfully reasonable.
So instead,
he left.
Abruptly.
Without another word.
The chamber doors closed behind him heavily.
And the moment he disappeared,
Elowen broke.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
She collapsed beside the edge of her bed with shaking hands pressed over her mouth while years of restrained grief tore out of her violently.
Ugly tears.
Painful tears.
The kind that left her chest aching and throat raw.
She cried for the little girl who spent nights locked in cold rooms wondering why she was unloved.
For the princess sold like livestock while her kingdom celebrated.
For every moment she convinced herself that perhaps she truly deserved it.
And most painfully,
she cried because someone finally looked at her suffering and called it wrong.
The validation shattered her far more than cruelty ever had.
Because cruelty she survived.
Kindness,
kindness undid her completely.
At some point during the night, exhaustion overtook grief.
And Elowen fell asleep curled atop the blankets, tear-stained and trembling.
---
The next morning was miserable.
Sunlight pierced directly through the curtains like punishment while a brutal headache throbbed behind Elowen’s eyes.
She groaned softly and buried herself deeper beneath the blankets.
Everything hurt.
Her eyes felt swollen.
Her head heavy.
Even breathing felt exhausting.
When Edna entered carrying breakfast, she stopped immediately.
“Oh dear god.”
Elowen peeked weakly from beneath the blankets.
Edna looked horrified.
“Your Majesty, you look dreadful.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not an insult.”
“It certainly sounded like one.”
Despite herself, Edna laughed softly before hurrying toward the bedside.
Elowen attempted sitting upright and immediately regretted existing.
Her headache worsened instantly.
Edna frowned deeply while adjusting the curtains slightly darker.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A little.”
A lie.
Edna clearly knew it too.
Still, she said nothing while placing cool tea beside the bed.
For once,
Elowen did not reach for books.
Did not read through breakfast.
Did not ask for political records or economic reports.
She simply rested.
Quietly.
And over the following days, that behavior continued.
No midnight strolls.
No late-night reading until dawn.
No wandering around the chamber organizing books absentmindedly.
Elowen remained unusually quiet.
Thoughtful.
Withdrawn.
Edna noticed immediately.
So did Demitri.
At first, he told himself he did not care.
Then three nights passed without Elowen appearing in the gardens.
And suddenly the silence became unbearable again.
The palace felt wrong without glimpses of silver dresses beneath moonlight.
Without red hair glowing softly through the pathways.
Demitri found himself pausing near windows unconsciously.
Listening for movement that never came.
Annoying.
Deeply annoying.
By the fourth day, concern settled heavily enough that he abandoned pretending otherwise entirely.
That afternoon, he went directly to her chambers.
When the doors opened, he stopped briefly at the sight before him.
Elowen sat near the tall windows while sunlight poured softly around her, illuminating strands of deep red hair cascading down her back.
Edna stood behind her carefully combing through the long waves while Elowen read quietly.
The image felt strangely domestic.
Peaceful.
Too peaceful for his liking.
Then Demitri noticed the stack of books beside her chair.
Empty.
Every single one he had sent her already finished.
God.
Did the woman inhale literature instead of reading it?
Edna noticed him first.
Immediately, the servant nearly jumped.
“Your Majesty.”
Elowen looked up quickly.
And instantly looked back down again.
Interesting.
Edna quietly excused herself almost immediately, clearly sensing tension neither royal understood themselves.
The moment the doors closed behind her, silence settled over the chamber.
Elowen carefully placed her book down.
Demitri studied her openly.
The swelling around her eyes had faded mostly, but faint traces remained.
And suddenly he knew.
She cried after he left.
The realization tightened something painfully inside his chest.
“You disappeared.”
The words left him before he considered them.
Elowen blinked softly.
“I was resting.”
“You stopped going outside.”
“I was tired.”
Demitri frowned faintly.
That was not the full truth.
But before he could push further,
he noticed something else.
She still refused to meet his eyes properly.
As though embarrassed.
Or perhaps afraid of what he saw inside her that night.
The thought irritated him unexpectedly.
So instead of questioning further, he spoke abruptly.
“Join me for lunch.”
Elowen looked up immediately.
Surprised.
“You want me to attend?”
Demitri nearly asked if she had forgotten she was queen.
Then stopped himself.
Because judging by her expression,
perhaps no one had ever wanted her presence at meals before.
The realization soured his mood instantly.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
Elowen hesitated only briefly before nodding.
---
The royal dining hall of Delmatia was enormous.
Towering ceilings arched high above polished marble floors while crystal chandeliers scattered warm golden light across endless tables lined with silver and gold.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
But unlike Norwasia, the luxury here felt restrained.
Purposeful.
Not excessive.
Elowen noticed immediately.
She also noticed something else.
The table was set for only two people.
No nobles.
No guests.
No political gathering.
Just her and Demitri.
A strange nervousness fluttered inside her chest.
Back in Norwasia, she only attended royal meals publicly when foreign dignitaries visited.
Appearances mattered then.
A forgotten princess helped complete the illusion of perfect royalty.
Otherwise,
meals were taken separately.
Quietly.
Alone.
Demitri noticed the way her gaze lingered briefly across the table setting.
The way surprise flickered when servants pulled out a chair for her automatically.
The way she seemed almost uncertain where to sit.
Again,
anger stirred inside him.
God.
What kind of family made their daughter feel unwelcome at her own table?
Elowen sat carefully while servants began placing dishes before them.
Lavish dishes.
Perfectly prepared meats glazed in herbs and wine.
Fresh bread still warm.
Delicate pastries filled with cream and berries.
The kind of meals Elowen saw often growing up.
But rarely tasted herself.
Demitri noticed the brief hesitation before she touched anything.
Like she expected permission.
Something dangerously murderous stirred inside him again.
Instead of addressing it,
he spoke casually.
“You stopped reading.”
Elowen blinked softly before glancing toward him.
“Only for a few days.”
“Why?”
She hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“My head hurt.”
Simple.
Quiet.
And somehow painfully vulnerable.
Demitri nodded once.
The conversation continued awkwardly at first.
Small things.
Food.
Books.
The weather beyond the palace walls.
To Elowen’s surprise,
she enjoyed it.
The simplicity.
No manipulation.
No hidden insults.
No carefully disguised cruelty beneath smiling words.
Demitri spoke little, but when he did, he listened to her answers properly.
Actually listened.
Not waiting impatiently for her to stop speaking.
The realization felt strangely warm.
Then eventually,
he asked about Norwasia again.
And this time,
Elowen answered more openly.
Not because she intended to.
But because somewhere along the way, conversation with Demitri stopped feeling like interrogation.
She spoke about failing trade routes.
Noble corruption.
How wealth became performance instead of stability.
Demitri listened quietly.
But truthfully,
he barely cared about Norwasia anymore.
Not tonight.
He wanted to know her.
What made her laugh.
What frightened her.
Why she looked surprised whenever treated kindly.
Why she carried loneliness like second skin.
And over the following days,
he found excuses.
Many excuses.
A new book delivery.
Questions about economics.
Invitations to tea.
Discussions regarding court traditions.
Anything.
Everything.
Demitri sought her out constantly now.
And Elowen,
though confused,
slowly stopped fearing his presence.
She still found his behavior strange.
But eventually decided perhaps kings were simply complicated creatures.
Meanwhile,
far beyond the palace walls,
Maria smiled beautifully while planning murder.
Inside the lavish Dansdale estate, Maria Dansdale stood before a mirror while servants adjusted pearls through her dark hair.
Her expression remained calm.
Elegant.
Perfect.
But rage poisoned every thought beneath the surface.
The king liked Elowen.
No.
Worse.
He cared for her.
Maria saw it clearly during the garden incident.
The protectiveness.
The attention.
The fury.
And now palace whispers confirmed everything she feared.
The king spent time with the Norwasian princess willingly.
Frequently.
Maria’s nails dug sharply into her palms.
That throne should have been hers.
She loved him first.
Wanted him first.
Dreamed of him first.
And Elowen,
that pathetic unwanted princess,
stole everything simply by existing.
Hatred twisted violently inside her chest.
Fine then.
If Elowen disappeared,
everything would return properly again.
Maria smiled slowly at her reflection.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Terrifying.
And for the first time since arriving in Delmatia,
Queen Elowen was truly in danger.
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