The Alliance

Chapter 33: A growing distance

For days now, Prince Phillip has been avoiding Jasmine.

Since their wedding night, he has not set foot in their marital chamber except to change his clothes. At night, he sleeps in his study, sprawled over a mountain of scrolls and maps, using work as an excuse to escape the uncomfortable reality of his new marriage.

At breakfast, he is polite but distant. Jasmine sits across from him at the long table in their private dining hall, picking at her food. The silence stretches between them like a chasm, only broken by the occasional clatter of cutlery against fine porcelain.

Jasmine steals a glance at him. His face is unreadable, his gaze fixed on his plate as if it holds all the answers to his troubles.

She clears her throat. “You’ve been keeping yourself busy.”

Phillip nods once, barely looking up. “There is much to do.”

Jasmine’s grip on her fork tightens.

At dinner, it is the same. Phillip eats quickly, exchanging only necessary words, and disappears soon after. She does not see him again until morning.

By afternoon, Phillip is on the training grounds, his sword slicing through the air as he takes out his frustration on straw dummies.

The sun beats down on his back, sweat dripping from his temples, but he does not stop. His muscles burn, his arms ache—but at least here, in the chaos of combat, he can think of something other than Jasmine.

His sparring partner, Sir Cedric, watches him warily. “Your Highness,” he pants after dodging yet another forceful strike, “if you keep this up, you’ll wear yourself out before the real war begins.”

Phillip grits his teeth. “I need the practice.”

Cedric raises a brow. “Or you need an escape.”

Phillip halts mid-swing, his expression darkening. He lowers his sword and storms off without another word.

Jasmine has had enough.

She waits for Phillip in their chambers, pacing near the fireplace as the minutes tick by.

When the door creaks open, he freezes upon seeing her, his grip tightening on the door handle.

She turns to him, arms crossed. “You have been avoiding me.”

Phillip exhales, stepping inside hesitantly. “I did not want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” Jasmine’s voice rises slightly. “You are my husband, Phillip. And for three days, you have been acting like I am some stranger you regret marrying.”

Phillip rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “That is not it.”

“Then what is it?” she demands, stepping closer. “Is it because I did not lie with you? Because I did not welcome you into my bed?”

Phillip flinches. “No. Gods, no, Jasmine.” He meets her gaze, his expression softer now. “I do not want to force anything upon you. I thought… I thought it was what you wanted.”

Jasmine’s anger flickers into something else—a frustration not just at him, but at herself.

She looks away, her voice quieter now. “I did not know what I wanted then.” A pause. “But I do now.”

Phillip straightens slightly. “And what is that?”

Jasmine inhales deeply, then meets his gaze with resolve. “I want to try.”

Phillip’s brows lift slightly in surprise. “You… do?”

She nods. “I want to try and make this work, Phillip. I know this is not the marriage either of us expected, but I cannot go on pretending like I do not care. I cannot keep living in this unspoken distance between us.”

Phillip watches her carefully, as if trying to decipher whether she is truly sincere. Then, slowly, he steps forward and reaches for her hands.

“We take it one step at a time,” he says softly.

Jasmine nods again, this time with certainty.

Far away, the moon casts an eerie glow over the landscape near Belzabod’s borders, where the small party sent by Princess Aurora moves cautiously through the shadows.

The spy leads the way, flanked by two of Eldermere’s most trusted men, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords warily.

“There,” the spy whispers, pointing toward the distant glow of a small village settlement.

The men exchange glances.

“We were told the missing princess was taken to Vynra,” one of the knights murmurs. “But if she is truly here—”

“Then someone has been lying to us,” the spy cuts in sharply.

They advance slowly, careful not to draw attention, their minds racing with questions.

Then, in the distance, they see them—

A man and a woman, walking through the village square, speaking in hushed tones. The woman’s face is shadowed, but as she turns slightly toward the lantern light, a familiar feature becomes undeniable.

The spy’s eyes widen.

“…Princess Bianca.”