Seraya’s POV
The storm hit the next day.
No warning. Rain slammed against the stained glass like fists. Lightning cracked the sky and rattled the palace walls. The wind howled through the stone arches, and the lights flickered along the corridors.
Most of the court stayed locked inside their rooms.
I didn’t.
The silence was better near the observatory.
No guards followed me—not during a storm like this. They were too busy sealing doors, checking the flood drains in the lower wings, shouting orders that got swallowed by the howl of the wind.
I moved through the halls alone, my bare footsteps echoing sharp against the cold marble floors.
The observatory sat tucked above the gardens, forgotten by most. Half the torches lining the stairwell had blown out, leaving only patches of dull, flickering light. I didn’t mind. Darkness was better tonight.
The room itself was half-dark, the fire long dead but the stone still holding the memory of heat. Rain battered the tall windows, turning the view outside into a shifting smear of grey and black.
I didn’t expect anyone to be there, but I found Caelum eaning against the far window. His coat soaked through, hair dripping wet near his collar. Water pooled beneath his boots, but he didn’t move.
He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes locked on something far beyond the storm. But he knew I was there.
Neither of us spoke.
I moved toward the center of the room, slow and quiet, each step an effort. My skirts whispered against the stone. I was already turning to leave when his voice cut through the storm.
“Still playing the victim?”
I turned back around, fists clenching at my sides.
“You don’t get to say that,” I said.
He finally looked at me. His eyes were darker than usual. Harder. Like flint ready to spark.
“You’re using your pain like a crown,” he said. “Wearing it for sympathy. Weaponizing it for attention.”
My jaw locked.
“And you’re hiding behind silence while your sister is being carved into a puppet.”
His mouth tightened.
“You still think this is about Elowen?”
“No,” I said. “I think it’s about you.”
He pushed away from the window, slow and deliberate, water dripping from the hem of his coat onto the floor.
“You cling to a crown that’s already slipped through your fingers.”
I stepped forward, chin raised.
“And you think you’re any different? You didn’t fight for her. You didn’t fight for me. You just stand back and watch.”
He moved again. Closer this time. The distance between us narrowed to almost nothing.
I broke it first, brushing past him toward the door, refusing to let him corner me in words too raw to survive.
But he blocked my path. I didn’t slow down. I shoved him. Hard.
He caught me by the arms before I could pass.
His grip was firm, grounding. His breath warmed my cheek, cutting through the chill of the storm leaking in through the stone.
We were too close. Close enough to feel the weight of every word we weren’t saying.
He didn’t let go.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. He leaned in instead. Our lips brushed—once. Light. Hesitant. Hungry.
I pressed my hands against his chest, feeling the heat of him even through the soaked fabric. Closing the distance without even realizing it.
His mouth hovered over mine, close enough to steal breath.
I almost let him. I almost leaned in again.
But at the last second, I pulled away. Sharp. Quick.
My breath hitched painfully in my throat. His hands dropped to his sides, but he didn’t move.
I stood there for a second, heart beating out of rhythm, the storm rattling the windows behind us like a living thing trying to tear through.
And then, before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out:
“I’m going to fake a pregnancy.”
His brows pulled together, confused.
“I’ll delay the annulment. I’ll shift the court’s power. I’ll make them choke on their plans.”
30
