The broken prince

Chapter Three

THE BROKEN PRINCE

“Don't trust the girl.”

For one impossible second, the world stopped.

Then the windows exploded.

Glass tore through the room in a thousand glittering fragments. The force of the blast threw Nimara backwards, and before she could scream, Vaelorin caught her around the waist and dragged her against his chest.

He turned his body, shielding her from the flying glass.

Something sharp struck his shoulder.

He barely flinched.

Nimara did.

“Vaelorin!”

“Stay down!”

The command came out like a growl.

He pulled her beneath the table, covering her with his body as the last of the glass rained across the floor. His arm locked around her waist. His other hand braced against the stone beside her head.

For several seconds, there was nothing but the crackling fire and their ragged breathing.

Then silence.

A terrible, unnatural silence.

Nimara lifted her head.

Vaelorin was so close that she could see the tiny flecks of silver in his dark eyes. A strand of his black hair had fallen across his forehead. There was a thin cut along his cheek, and blood was slowly spreading across the shoulder of his black coat.

“You're bleeding,” she whispered.

His gaze searched her face.

“Are you hurt?”

“I'm asking you first.”

“And I'm asking you now.”

She stared at him.

“Do you always have to win every conversation?”

“Only the important ones.”

“Then congratulations. You've won. Now let me see your shoulder.”

He didn't move.

Nimara placed her hand against his chest and tried to push him back.

It was a mistake.

His body was warm beneath the expensive fabric, and she suddenly became aware of every place they touched. His arm around her waist. Her fingers against his chest. His face only inches from hers.

The air between them changed.

Vaelorin noticed it too.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips.

Only briefly.

But Nimara saw it.

And, annoyingly, her heart chose that exact moment to behave like a drunken fool.

“You should move,” she whispered.

“I was about to say the same thing.”

“Then why haven't you?”

His eyes returned to hers.

“Because I don't trust what's happening in this room.”

“Neither do I.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

Her breath caught.

For the first time since meeting him, Vaelorin seemed to have lost the perfect control he wore like a second skin.

His gaze lingered on her face, searching for something she didn't understand.

Then he looked away and pushed himself upright.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

He offered her his hand.

She took it.

The moment their fingers touched, the silver mark on her palm flared.

Vaelorin went still.

A thread of silver light curled around their joined hands.

Neither of them spoke.

Then a whisper brushed the inside of Nimara's mind.

He will destroy you.

She jerked away.

Vaelorin caught her wrist before she could stumble.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“That's rich, coming from a prince who looks as though he has several hundred secrets buried beneath his palace.”

“Nimara.”

Something in his voice made her look at him.

He wasn't angry.

He was frightened.

And somehow, that frightened her more.

“I heard something,” she admitted. “A voice. It said you would destroy me.”

His fingers tightened around her wrist.

“Did it sound like the woman?”

“No.”

“What did it sound like?”

She hesitated.

“Like it was inside my head.”

Vaelorin exchanged a look with Perrin, who had just emerged from behind an overturned cabinet.

“Oh, wonderful,” Perrin muttered. “A haunted palace, a resurrected dead woman, and a mysterious voice inside our guest's head. Shall I fetch tea, or should we proceed directly to the end of the world?”

“Find the royal guards,” Vaelorin ordered.

“And tell them what? That the western tower has exploded because your dead beloved has developed a talent for dramatic entrances?”

“Perrin.”

“Going.”

He disappeared through the doorway.

Vaelorin turned back to Nimara.

“We're leaving.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere safer.”

“Does such a place exist in your kingdom?”

“No.”

“At least you're honest about something.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Then his expression hardened as he looked at the blood on his shoulder.

Nimara followed his gaze.

“You're hurt.”

“It's nothing.”

“You're bleeding through your coat.”

“I've survived worse.”

“And I have met men with the intelligence of a boiled potato. That doesn't mean I take medical advice from them.”

She reached for the fastening of his coat.

Vaelorin caught her hand.

“Nimara.”

“What?”

“You should be afraid of me.”

She stared at him.

“Is that supposed to be a warning or an introduction?”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. Sit down.”

For a long moment, he seemed to consider refusing.

Then, to her astonishment, the crown prince obeyed.

---

The adjoining chamber was small, with a narrow bed, a washbasin, and a single candle burning beside a stack of folded linens.

Vaelorin sat on the edge of the bed while Nimara stood before him, trying very hard not to notice how unfairly handsome he looked even while injured.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned.

“I'll survive.”

“Your confidence is touching.”

She carefully removed his coat.

The fabric stuck to the wound at his shoulder, and when she pulled it free, he drew a sharp breath through his teeth.

Nimara froze.

“Sorry.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

“You don't have to apologise.”

“I just hurt you.”

“You're allowed to.”

She blinked.

It was such a simple thing to say.

Yet he spoke as though nobody had ever offered him the smallest kindness without demanding something in return.

She turned towards the washbasin before he could notice the effect his words had on her.

After cleaning the wound, she pressed a folded cloth against it.

Vaelorin watched her work.

“You've done this before.”

“I have.”

“For whom?”

“People who were foolish enough to get hurt.”

“An impressive number of people, judging by your personality.”

She gasped.

“You've been spending too much time with Perrin.”

“He has a terrible influence.”

“Finally, something we agree on.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

It transformed his face.

For one brief moment, the cold, distant prince vanished, and Nimara saw the man he might have been if the world had been kinder to him.

Her hands slowed.

Vaelorin noticed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“And you're a terrible patient.”

“Then we're both fortunate that I'm paying attention.”

She looked up.

Their faces were close again.

Far too close.

His shirt was open at the collar, revealing the edge of an intricate black tattoo that disappeared beneath the fabric. She could see the faint outline of the scar Perrin had mentioned, a silver-black mark running across his skin near his collarbone.

It pulsed once.

Nimara's palm answered.

A sharp spark of silver leapt between them.

She gasped.

Vaelorin caught her hand.

The room fell silent.

The light travelled from her palm to his scar, winding around his wrist like a delicate chain.

Then something extraordinary happened.

For a heartbeat, Nimara wasn't in the chamber anymore.

She saw a moonlit garden.

A young Vaelorin stood beneath a white-blossomed tree, laughing as a beautiful woman reached up to kiss him. He looked younger, unburdened, almost happy.

The woman touched his face.

Then the vision shattered.

Nimara was back in the chamber, her breath caught in her throat.

Vaelorin had gone deathly pale.

“What did you see?” he demanded.

She struggled to find her voice.

“You. In a garden.”

His expression changed.

“And?”

“A woman. She was kissing you.”

He released her hand as though it had burned him.

“Forget what you saw.”

“Who was she?”

“I said forget it.”

“And I heard you the first time.”

He rose so abruptly that the bed creaked behind him.

“You have no idea what you've just touched.”

“Then explain it to me!”

“You saw something that should have remained buried.”

“Was she the woman who died?”

He said nothing.

Nimara's anger softened into something more uncertain.

“Vaelorin…”

“Don't.”

“I'm not trying to hurt you.”

“You don't understand.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Every time someone gets close to me, the curse finds a way to take them. I watched her die. I held her while the life left her body, and there was nothing I could do.”

His voice broke on the final word.

Nimara had never heard anything so devastatingly quiet.

For a moment, she forgot about the prince, the palace, and the terrifying voice beneath the floor.

She saw only a man who had been carrying his grief alone for six years.

She stepped closer.

“Look at me.”

He didn't.

“Vaelorin, look at me.”

Slowly, he turned.

“You cannot keep punishing yourself for being unable to save someone,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened.

“You know nothing about the things I've done.”

“Then tell me when you're ready. But don't stand there and convince yourself that suffering is the same as atonement.”

He stared at her as though she'd struck him.

Then he laughed bitterly.

“You speak as though escaping grief were as simple as opening a door.”

“Have you tried?”

His eyes flashed.

“You think I haven't tried?”

“I think you've spent six years punishing yourself for something you believe you couldn't prevent.”

“You know nothing about what happened.”

“Then stop treating me like I'm your enemy!”

The words rang through the little chamber.

They both fell silent.

Nimara's chest rose and fell.

Vaelorin stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on her.

Then, slowly, he said, “You should hate me.”

“I'm considering it.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“Nimara, if the curse is what I fear it is, staying near me could cost you your life.”

She swallowed.

“And if I leave?”

“I don't know what will happen.”

“That's an honest answer, at least.”

He stepped closer.

“I cannot promise to keep you safe.”

“I'm not asking you to promise me the impossible.”

“I cannot promise that I won't hurt you.”

“Then don't.”

His brow furrowed.

“Don't what?”

“Don't hurt me.”

Something shifted in his expression.

It was such an ordinary request. No grand declaration. No demand that he become a different man.

Just a request.

And he looked at her as though nobody had ever given him a choice quite like it.

“I don't know how to do this,” he confessed.

“Do what?”

“Want someone near me and not be terrified of what will happen to them.”

Nimara's heart ached.

She reached for his hand.

“You can start by not shouting at me every five minutes.”

A startled laugh escaped him.

It was brief and rough, as though he hadn't used it in years.

“Is that your wisdom?”

“I'm full of wisdom.”

“You stole a key from the royal archives.”

“And yet here you are, holding my hand.”

He looked down.

Their fingers were intertwined.

Neither of them had noticed when it happened.

His thumb brushed the silver mark on her palm, and the light beneath her skin softened to a gentle glow.

“Nimara,” he murmured.

She looked up.

He was watching her mouth again.

This time, he didn't look away.

“Tell me to step back,” he said quietly.

Her heart hammered.

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

The honesty in his answer stole her breath.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Nimara lifted her free hand and touched his cheek, just beside the cut the explosion had left.

His eyes closed.

It was such a small gesture, yet his entire body seemed to go still beneath it.

When he opened his eyes again, the distance between them felt almost unbearable.

“I should be afraid of you,” she whispered.

“You should.”

“But I'm not.”

“You ought to be.”

“Vaelorin?”

“Yes?”

“Stop telling me what I ought to feel.”

His gaze dropped to her lips.

“Then tell me what you feel.”

She could have made a joke.

She could have stepped away.

Instead, she whispered, “Curious.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“Only curious?”

“Don't push your luck, Your Highness.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

She leaned towards him.

He met her halfway.

Their lips touched.

At first, it was barely a kiss—a soft, uncertain meeting that lasted only a heartbeat.

Then Nimara's fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Vaelorin drew her closer, one hand settling carefully at her waist.

The second kiss was different.

It was still gentle, but the restraint between them began to unravel. He kissed her as though he was discovering something he had convinced himself he would never be allowed to want again. Nimara rose onto her toes, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, and he made a quiet, unguarded sound that sent warmth rushing through her.

For one precious moment, there was no curse.

No prophecy.

No dead woman whispering warnings from the darkness.

Only Vaelorin.

Only her.

When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together.

Nimara struggled to catch her breath.

“Well,” she whispered.

His eyes remained closed.

“Well?”

“I may have to revise my opinion of your bedside manner.”

A low laugh escaped him.

“You are impossible.”

“And you kiss surprisingly well for someone so miserable.”

His eyes opened.

A dangerous spark appeared in them.

“Surprisingly?”

She grinned.

“Would you like to demonstrate again?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then he kissed her.

This time, she was the one who forgot how to breathe.

His hand tightened gently at her waist, and hers slipped into his hair. She felt him smile against her mouth, and the ridiculous, wonderful discovery that the feared Hollow Prince could smile while kissing her nearly undid her.

Then the silver mark on her palm burned.

Nimara cried out.

Vaelorin pulled away instantly.

“Nimara?”

Silver light raced up her wrist.

His scar ignited in answer.

The room filled with a low, resonant hum.

And a voice whispered inside her mind.

Now you have given him something else to lose.

Nimara stumbled backwards.

Vaelorin caught her before she fell.

“What happened?”

She stared at him, trembling.

“The voice.”

His face hardened.

“What did it say?”

She looked down at their joined hands.

The silver mark had changed.

A thin line now ran from the centre of her palm towards her wrist, branching into delicate patterns like the roots of a tree.

“It said…” Her throat tightened. “It said I've given you something else to lose.”

Vaelorin's expression emptied.

Slowly, he released her hand.

“No.”

“Vaelorin—”

“No.”

He stepped away from her as though the space between them could undo what had happened.

“You shouldn't have kissed me.”

The words struck harder than she expected.

Nimara stared at him.

A moment ago, he had been holding her as though she mattered.

Now he looked at her as though she were the beginning of another funeral.

She lifted her chin.

“You kissed me too.”

“I know.”

“Then don't stand there and pretend I forced you.”

His eyes flashed with pain.

“I am trying to keep you alive!”

“And I'm trying to understand why you think pushing everyone away is the only way to do that!”

“You don't understand what loving me means.”

“Then perhaps you should stop deciding what it means for me!”

Silence crashed between them.

For a moment, she thought he might reach for her again.

Instead, he turned away.

“Get some rest. At dawn, Perrin will take you to the eastern wing. You will remain there until we understand the mark.”

Nimara felt her chest tighten.

“You're giving me orders now?”

“I'm protecting you.”

“No. You're frightened, and you're trying to make that my problem.”

He flinched.

She regretted the words almost immediately.

Almost.

Because she was frightened too, and she refused to let his fear swallow hers.

She walked to the door.

“Nimara.”

She stopped but didn't turn around.

His voice was quieter now.

“If you stay near me, I may lose you.”

She closed her eyes.

“And if you keep pushing me away, you'll lose me anyway.”

Then she left.

---

The eastern wing was colder than the western tower.

Perrin had found her a guest chamber overlooking the moonlit gardens, complete with a comfortable bed, a wardrobe, and a tray of food that Nimara was too upset to touch.

She sat by the window, staring at the silver mark on her palm.

She had kissed a prince.

Not just any prince, either.

A beautiful, infuriating, emotionally constipated prince with a death curse and the communication skills of a brick wall.

And somehow, the worst part was that she wanted to kiss him again.

“Absolutely ridiculous,” she muttered.

The candle flickered.

Nimara looked up.

A woman stood on the other side of the window.

Nimara screamed.

The woman was dressed in a white gown, her long hair floating around her face as though she stood underwater. Her skin was almost translucent, and her eyes were the pale grey of a winter sky.

Nimara scrambled backwards.

The woman lifted one finger to her lips.

“Quiet, child.”

“Who are you?”

The woman glanced towards the door.

“The prince is listening for your footsteps. He cannot hear me.”

Nimara's blood ran cold.

“Are you the dead woman?”

The ghost's expression crumpled.

“I was once.”

“Then why did you tell him not to trust me?”

“Because the thing beneath this palace knows your name.”

Nimara stared at her.

“What thing?”

The ghost pressed her palm against the glass.

Silver light spread beneath her fingers.

“The creature that cursed Vaelorin was never trying to kill the people he loved.”

“Then what was it trying to do?”

“To teach him that love was dangerous. To make him believe he was the monster everyone feared.”

Nimara thought of Vaelorin's scar.

His lonely tower.

The way he had looked at her after their kiss, as though hope itself were a weapon.

“Why?”

“Because a prince who believes himself cursed will never willingly claim the throne that can destroy the creature.”

A chill swept through Nimara.

“Claim what throne?”

The ghost's eyes widened.

Behind Nimara, the silver mark began to glow.

“Oh, no.”

The woman's face twisted with terror.

“What is it?” Nimara whispered.

The ghost pressed harder against the glass.

“Child, listen to me. The key chose you because it knew that only you can save Vaelorin.

Suddenly

The candle went out.

From somewhere deep beneath the earth came the sound of a chain snapping.

Then a voice rose through the floorboards.

A voice that made the glass tremble.

At last.

The ghost began to scream.

And every door in the eastern wing slammed shut.

End of Chapter Three