She carried herself like she didn't belong to anyone.
That was the first thing he noticed about her.
Not the way her voice trembled, or the stiffness in her shoulders when the priest read the Rite—but the quiet defiance in her spine. She hadn't looked at him once during the ceremony.
And yet… she hadn't looked away either.
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Elias stood in the quiet of the sunroom long after Ilya had gone.
Her teacup still sat on the table, a faint crescent of her lip gloss pressed to its rim. He wasn't sure why he hadn't asked the steward to clear it yet.
He could still smell her perfume. Something soft. Uncomplicated.
She was not what he'd expected.
"She is someone obedient," Count Valenpor had said."She's shy, silent. Easily guided. And very grateful for the opportunity."
The man had smiled when he said it. Grinned like a wolf trying on manners.
Elias had said nothing at the time, only nodded once and ended the meeting. He had expected a quiet girl with cast-down eyes and no fight in her. It wasn't what he wanted but he figured he could at least give her some peace away from this man and at the time, it really didn't matter anymore. The King had issued the decree- he would marry her regardless of her personality.
And yet... the woman he'd received had looked him dead in the face without flinching. Something in that look had unsettled him more than the dragon ever had. It reminded him of...He frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
He removed the iron mask slowly.
Alone, always.
It was ritual more than necessity.
The burn no longer hurt like it once had. Most days it was nothing more than an ache—until he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Then the pain returned in full, not in the flesh, but in memory.
Alura had kissed those scars.
She said they were the only part of him not sculpted by someone else's expectation.
Elias sat on the edge of the window seat, mask in his lap, hands resting on his knees.
Though the pain was mostly mild, he knew it was only because he rarely spoke—or moved more than he had to. The instant he tried to smile or open his mouth just a little too wide the fire returned- and it felt as though the dragon itself was breathing that pain directly under his skin.
It had been two days since he last slept.
There were questions he wanted to ask Ilya. Things he dared not say yet.
How much had they told her? What lies had reached her ears before her feet reached his keep? Did she think him a monster? A tyrant? A king in exile? Some kind of God who swept out his hand to slay dragons?
He hoped not. That was not who he was and surprisingly, she didn't look at him as though she expected that.
He could deal with fear. Fear was familiar.
But hope?
Hope was cruel.
He had seen it die too many times to truly look for it in his house again.
When Alura passed—when the fever took her and the color left her eyes—he had wept. His tears felt like shards of glass running over his face. Yet still he wept. Deeply. Bitterly. He wanted to kill something. Anything. But when he finally emerged from her room, he was poised and well put together- because grief was a luxury men like him could not afford to display for those around them.
He buried her on the edge of the northern grove where the first phoenix egg had hatched. The tree near the water, where she would read and smile to him, waving as he made his way up from the lake with fish in hand.
He poured her favorite wine into the roots of the hawthorn tree after she was under.
And then he didn't speak to another woman for over five years. Until he sat across from the stranger who was also his new wife.
This girl with storm-blue eyes had arrived at his side like an echo of a life he thought burned out.
And something in him stirred.
Not lust. Not yet. That would have been easier.
It was something far worse. Something inconvenient.
Curiosity.
"You carry yourself like someone who's survived many rooms you were never meant to stand in."
He hadn't meant to say it. But it had been true.
She was wounded—but not weak.
And she had listened to him without recoiling. Had stared into the mask without fear. She hadn't reached for him, but she hadn't pulled away either.
That quiet, deliberate stillness.
It was like she had seen too much already, that whatever was to come could not be worse than what was left behind.
He knew the court would come for her.
Not with blades, but with honeyed words and velvet poison. Whispers. Alliances. Expectations. Attempts to tie her in, lure in the wealth of the Ducal house. They had tricked Alura on more than one occasion, and he of course had let it slide.
They would try to use her as they once tried to use his former Duchess.
And perhaps, in time, she would begin to wonder why her husband never slept in her bed.
Why the West Wing remained sealed.
Why the King still called for him—and never received a reply.
But for now… Elias let the silence wrap around him like a second cloak, sitting under Alura's tree and dreaming of a past forever out of reach.
He poured the rest of the tea from her cup into the garden basin and watched it soak into the earth.
Then he picked up her empty cup, and—for reasons he could not explain—set it gently back on the tray.
"I don't know what waits for us after this place, Alura." He said quietly as though whispering into ashes. "But if some part of you can hear me....I did as you asked. I waited until the King forced my hand but I still did it. Though the pain of your passing still rests in my chest...I will honor your wish and try to see past it to what I may have. Rest well."
Then, without another word, he turned from the grave and walked toward the waiting carriage—toward the keep, the crown, and the girl who he'd teach to belong.