Night had deepened, and the lights of the capital seemed to recede into a distant haze. Inside the carriage, silence settled like a blanket—only the soft hum of the machinery broke the stillness. Helya sat by the window, watching the streaks of passing light blur and disappear, her thoughts adrift.
Cael sat beside her, a data terminal in hand, though his gaze had long since lost focus. He occasionally glanced at her, as if about to speak, only to hold back the words.
She had been quiet today—too quiet. Even when faced with the inner sanctums of the Tech Kingdom, even under the unhidden scrutiny of high-ranking officials, she had not once shown fear or uncertainty.
She moved like someone who had long been used to standing in the eye of the storm—silent, composed, untouchable.
"Tired?" Cael finally asked, his voice low and steady.
Helya blinked and turned to him, then shook her head. "Not really."
He nodded but said nothing more. He could feel it—that she was holding something back. Not out of coldness, but a quiet, instinctive self-protection. A wall.
When the car stopped at the estate, the night breeze brushed lightly through the corridor. As Helya stepped down, the hem of her dress lifted slightly, like a petal about to vanish into the darkness.
Cael followed behind her, and just as she reached the entrance of her quarters, he called out, "There's a banquet tomorrow night—for the border cooperation project. I need you there, as my fiancée."
Helya turned, her expression calm and composed. "Of course. It's part of my duty."
Her tone was impeccable, as always.
But something about that response stirred a trace of dissatisfaction in him. He didn't want her to come because of "duty."
He wanted to know if there was a place for him in her heart—beyond obligation.
He met her gaze and spoke again, softer this time. "I'm not asking because of duty. Or appearances."
Helya paused. A flicker of emotion flashed across her eyes—gone in an instant.
Even the wind seemed to still.
They stood in silence, suspended in the quiet of the night. Neither said another word.
She eventually turned, retreating behind the door, which closed with a soft click.
Cael remained at the threshold, unmoving.
His mind replayed what an old statesman had told him earlier that day, in the shadowed halls of the exhibition:
"The more you keep her close, the more others will question your judgment. You cannot afford a single lapse, Cael—not in your position."
He hadn't responded to that. Instead, he had simply said,
"I take responsibility for my choices."
And even now—he still meant it.
Behind the closed door, Helya stood in the dark, unmoving.
Her fingers curled slowly by her side.
His words were dangerous.
Dangerous enough to make her forget, if only for a moment, the mission etched into her bones. The vow that had guided her since that one fateful night.
"Never let emotion interfere."
But deep down, she knew.
She was already starting to falter.