It had been a fortnight since Aldric began his quiet campaign of devotion. Each morning, fresh blooms arrived at Aurora's chamber—lilies, magnolias, and once, a rare white camellia that bloomed only once a year. He remembered every flower she had ever noticed.
He had sent her books in old Velmoran tongue, hand-stitched dresses from northern weavers, a harp from Thaleria carved with silver leaves, and rare inkstones for her writings. The gifts always came with no note — just her name etched delicately on the ribbon. The palace whispered with awe. The maids began to say the king was in love.
Yet Aurora remained unmoved.
She accepted the gifts with grace, thanked the servants who brought them, and placed them carefully in her chest — untouched. Not out of pride, nor bitterness — but a quiet fear she could not name.
One evening, after the palace council had ended, Aldric took the longer hallway, knowing she would be returning from the east gardens. And as if fate permitted, he saw her.
"Aurora," he called gently.
She paused. Her posture froze, not from fear, but uncertainty. Still, she turned and bowed.
"Your Majesty."
"I hoped to see you tonight," Aldric said as he stepped closer. "Have the roses not pleased you?"
"They are beautiful," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips, her eyes lowered. "All the gifts are."
"Yet your heart is not in them," he said.
Aurora released a slow breath.
"You are a king, Your Majesty," she answered gently. "You are not familiar with rejection."
Aldric gave a small nod.
"And you are a queen," he said. "Yet one who walks my halls unseen. Like mist. Like a quiet ghost."
That struck something in her, but she kept her expression even. "Perhaps because I was never meant to be here."
He moved closer. "You are meant to be here. You were always meant to be more than what Elareth made of you."
Aurora's brows lifted slightly at the mention of Elareth, but she gave no answer.
"I do not ask for love at this moment," he said. "Only this—allow me near."
Aurora lifted her gaze,
"Do you ask me to lie to my own heart, Your Majesty?" she said. "To pretend the past never was? That the quiet chamber of isolation you placed me in never existed? That hurt has melted into air? That pain has faded without trace? That it has simply… vanished?"
Aldric inhaled. Slowly.
"No," he said, jaw tense. "I ask only that you feel secure enough to start again."
For the briefest breath of time, Aurora's expression gentled.
"I try to feel… anything at all, Your Majesty," she whispered. "Yet I do not know its shape. You speak of love as though it is a door one may open by will. I have never seen its face. I cannot teach what I do not know. I cannot name what I have never learned."
Aldric swallowed. "Then let me show you."
There was silence between them, heavy and deep.
Aurora turned her face aside.
"You should cease this pursuit, Your Majesty."
Aldric halted. "For what reason?"
"Because each kindness you extend only deepens the weight in my chest," she said, eyes distant, voice quieter now. "The harder you reach, the heavier my guilt becomes. And guilt is no soil for love to grow."
She gave a low, polite bow, and turned.
Aldric did not stop her. He watched her figure disappear around the curve of the hallway, like water slipping through his fingers.
Still, he would not relent.
He went back to his chamber, sat in his chair, thinking. The gifts had failed. Not because they were not grand enough — they were the finest gold, the rarest silks, the softest pearls — but because they were not him.
And that was the difference. Aurora did not want riches nor luxuries. She needed sincerity — and he had been offering everything but himself.
He stood alone in his study late into the night, the logs in the hearth crackling. On his desk sat a sealed scroll — a formal invitation to the royal hunt the coming week. The other queens had already been informed. But he had not yet told Aurora.
This time, there would be no elegant horse, no royal cloak, no special gift waiting.
Only a letter. In his own hand.
He dipped his quill in ink, the words coming slowly — hesitantly, like his own pride being stripped away.
Aurora,
I do not ask for your affection. I ask for a moment.
At dawn, I ride into the woods for the Midsummer Hunt. If you would walk beside me—only for a while—I would take it as mercy.
Not as your king, but as a man who longs to understand the woman who sleeps near me, yet feels distant still.
—Aldric
He folded it, sealed it, and had it delivered that night with no embellishment — not even a single flower. Only the letter.
No gesture had ever made him feel so bare.
-
Aurora found the letter nestled on her pillow when she returned from her bath, her wet hair trailing down her back. Her maids had not noticed it until she picked it up.
She sat on her bed in silence, the edges of the letter slightly damp from her fingers. The phrasing. The vulnerability. It was not grand. It was honest. And that was far more dangerous.
She leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
Could she go?
Should she?
It was not about hunting. It was not even about Aldric. It was about her — and how she felt like she was made of ice inside, and she did not know how to melt.
She turned her face to the pillow, her chest ached.
She thought of Elareth again. Of the box. Of Miri's voice. Of the dream that still haunted her.
She closed her eyes.
-
The next day, the sun rose slowly behind silver clouds, stretching its light across the palace walls like fingers hesitant to touch. But within the Queen's Wing, all was still and silent — save for the rustle of linens as Aurora sat at her window, the letter from the king now worn at the edges from how often she had read it.
Her expression was unreadable, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes distant — lost in thoughts she would not share.
Her maids watched her from a careful distance. Lira, exchanged a knowing glance with Faye, who stood nervously beside the wardrobe, clutching the silver comb she had forgotten to use on the Aurora's hair.
None of them speak until Lira finally took a breath and approached quietly.
"Your Majesty… the king's horses have been saddled since sunrise," she said gently, folding her hands. "He has already ridden out toward the pines."
Aurora did not respond at first. Her gaze lingered outside the window, where the courtyard below was empty.
"He asked for no guards to follow," Faye whispered from behind, eyes wide. "Not even Commander Kael."
A silence followed. Then Aurora finally stirred, reaching up to tuck a stray white strand of hair behind her ear. "He went alone?" she asked, not turning around.
Lira nodded. "Yes, My lady. And… the servants whisper that he has not eaten."
That made Aurora pause.
She rose slowly, gliding across the chamber like moonlight moving across still water. She stopped before her wardrobe.
"My lady," Lira said carefully, "His Majesty never asks. But he asked this time. Just for a walk."
"He did not demand. He invited," Faye added.
Aurora turned toward them, her expression unreadable. "I do not wish to give him hope where there is none."
Lira bowed slightly. "It is only a walk, Your Majesty. Not a vow."
A beat passed.
Aurora finally exhaled, quietly. "Prepare my cloak."
-
When Aurora emerged from the palace gates, the servants who saw her held their breath.
She rode a soft white mare, her cloak fluttering in the wind. Her silver circlet caught the light. She looked like something from legend — a snow-born queen untouched by time.
The sun was higher by the time she arrived — dressed in her simple white riding gown, a grey velvet cloak around her shoulders, her hair pinned back with an amethyst comb.
Only two of her maids had come, and they remained far behind once they reached the edge of the woods.
The forest around them was still — solemn. The scent of pine and earth lingered thick in the air.
Aldric looked up when he heard hooves. For a moment, he stared at her as though unsure she were real — as if he had conjured her and was afraid to blink.
Aldric's horse shifted beneath him, sensing its rider's tension.
He did not smile. But something in his shoulders relaxed — like a knot slowly loosening after years of strain.
Aurora dismounted with practiced grace, her boots crunching softly against the forest floor. She stopped a few paces away from him and bowed slightly. "Your Majesty," she greeted.
There was a pause before Aldric nodded in return. "You came."
"I was told Your Majesty came unguarded. I thought it unwise."
His lip twitched in a faint smile. "So you came for safety."
"I came to ensure my conscience remained clear," she said simply. "If Your Majesty were to be attacked by a boar in the woods and I ignored it, I might never sleep well again."
A quiet chuckle escaped him — genuine, warm. Aurora averted her gaze immediately.
They began to walk side by side. No horses. No guards. Just two figures drifting into the tall trees.
Silence stretched between them. Aldric said nothing for several minutes, only glancing at her every so often.
She glanced at him. "You are watching again. Your Majesty."
"I always do," he said simply.
They walked in silence for a time, the sound of the woods wrapping around them — wind in the leaves, a distant call of a hawk, and a distant voices behind them.
Aldric finally spoke. "You despise the palace."
She hesitated. "I do not. I only… do not belong."
He studied her. "What if you could?"
She shook her head. "It was not built for me."
A silence stretched between them.
"Then I will alter it," he said, voice low and sincere.
She turned sharply, breath stilling in her chest.
He met her gaze—quiet, resolute.
"I will alter it… if it is the price of your staying."
The weight of his words settled between them.
She did not smile. But her fingers, gloved in soft fabric, curled slightly at her sides — a quiet tremble that even she did not notice.
"I should return," she said finally.
"I will ride with you," he offered.
She shook her head. "No. Your Majesty. I came alone. I will return alone."
He did not push.
She turned, walking back the way she came, her grey cloak billowing like mist in motion.
And behind her, Aldric stood watching — still. Patient. And for the first time in a long while, hopeful.
-
The palace was buzzing before noon.
Servants carried whispers like petals caught in the wind: Queen Aurora rode with the king. She left the palace walls.
By the time the sun had fully climbed the sky, the news had reached both Queen Selene and Queen Virelda — separately, of course.
Queen Selene's Chamber….
Selene stood before her mirror, her long hair being braided by two servants with trembling hands. Her expression was carefully blank, but her fingers gripped the edge of the marble dresser.
"She went?" she asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," the servant replied, voice subdued. "She rode a white mare. She departed shortly after His Majesty. No escort. No guard."
Selene's brows arched faintly. "Alone?"
The servant nodded.
Selene tilted her head slightly. Her lips curled — not in a smile, but in something sharper. "What is happening."
She turned suddenly. "Fetch my emerald riding cloak. And tell the stablehands I will ride this evening."
The servant hesitated. "But…"
"Do it," Selene snapped.
She would not sit quietly while the girl with white hair turned her silence into power.
Queen Virelda's Chamber…
Virelda was lounging on a silk-lined divan, her long legs crossed, sipping wine with a lazy flick of her wrist. But her eyes — sharp as daggers — locked on the maid before her.
"She what?" Virelda asked, voice low.
"She went riding, my lady. With His Majesty."
"With His Majesty," she repeated. "She who flinches at sunlight now strolls through the forest on a whim?"
Virelda stared into her cup. Her smile was venomous. "Let her walk, then. Let her walk into his heart, and let him one day turn cold again. We all know how this ends."
But when the maid left, Virelda hurled the goblet at the door, shattering the glass in a burst of red.
-
Aurora returned just before dusk.
The ride back had been quiet, and she'd declined any further company. Her maids helped her out of her cloak and boots in silence, sensing her strange stillness.
She said little during supper. Ate only a few bites of the roasted squash and berries. Then she dismissed them early and sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the pale moon rising outside her window.
The woods still echoed in her ears — the rustle of leaves, the steady rhythm of footsteps beside hers, the calm weight of Aldric's presence.
He had not tried to touch her. But his words…
"I will alter it… if it is the price of your staying."
Her chest rose, then fell.
She did not know what it was. All she knew was that something inside her had begun to stir. Not love—not yet—but something. And it frightened her.