The journey to the south took four days.
Four days of rattling carriage wheels, frost giving way to tentative spring, black-and-crimson banners slowly replaced by the golden sunburst of Valmont. Elara spent most of the ride staring out the window, memorizing every mile that brought her closer to home—and every mile that reminded her she was bringing the enemy with her.
Cassian sat opposite, silent for hours at a time. He read dispatches, signed documents with a swift, elegant hand, occasionally glanced at her with that same unreadable green intensity. He never complained about the jolting roads, the plain inns, the lack of servants trailing him like shadows. He simply… existed. A dark statue in motion.
Elara hated how composed he remained.
When the golden spires of Sunspire Palace finally came into view against the late-afternoon sky, something cracked inside her chest. She pressed her palm to the glass, breath fogging the pane.
For Elara it was home.
The gates opened without fanfare—no trumpets, no cheering crowds. Word of their arrival had been kept deliberately quiet. Only the royal guard and immediate family knew.
The carriage rolled into the outer courtyard. Elara stepped out first, inhaling the scent of blooming jasmine and sun-warmed stone. For one heartbeat she was simply Ellie again—the girl who used to race barefoot across these flagstones.
Then Cassian descended behind her.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Guards stiffened. Hands drifted toward sword hilts.
Eyes narrowed towards Cassian.
No one bowed to him.
Elara lifted her chin. "Where is my family?"
Rowan appeared first.
He strode out of the main archway like a storm wearing armor. Twenty-six years old, six-foot-four, shoulders broad enough to block doorways. His auburn beard was longer than she remembered, his blue eyes blazing. Behind him came Thorne—slimmer, sharper, already calculating angles—and Lysander, still boyish, still clutching the neck of his lute like a talisman.
Rowan didn't stop until he was directly in front of Cassian.
He looked the Crown Prince up and down as though appraising meat for the butcher's block.
"You," Rowan said, voice low and dangerous, "have exactly three heartbeats to explain why my sister is still breathing the same air as you."
Cassian met his gaze without blinking.
"Because she is my betrothed," he answered calmly. "And because killing me here would start the war your father spent three decades trying to end."
Rowan's fist clenched. The knuckles cracked audibly.
Thorne stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his older brother's arm. "Not in the courtyard, Ro."
Lysander stared at Cassian with wide, horrified eyes, as though the prince were a demon given human shape.
Elara moved between them. "Enough."
Rowan's glare shifted to her. "Ellie—"
"I said enough." Her voice cracked like a whip. "He is here because I allowed it. Because Father allowed it. Because this is still Valmont soil and we do not murder guests at the gate."
Rowan's jaw worked. He looked like he might argue, might actually draw steel regardless of protocol.
Then Queen Isolde appeared at the top of the steps.
Silver threaded through her auburn hair now, but her posture was as regal as ever. King Aldric stood beside her—still massive, still bearded, though the lines around his eyes had deepened since Elara last saw him.
Isolde descended slowly. When she reached Elara she pulled her into a fierce embrace, uncaring of protocol or watching eyes.
"My sun," she whispered into Elara's hair. "You're home."
Elara clung to her mother for one long moment before stepping back.
Aldric's gaze settled on Cassian.
For several heartbeats no one spoke.
Then the king said, very quietly, "You will behave yourself in my house, boy. Or I will forget that you wear a crown."
Cassian inclined his head. "I understand, Your Majesty."
The words were polite.
That changed nothing.
The welcome feast that evening was the coldest Elara had ever attended in her own home.
The great hall of Sunspire was lit with a hundred candles, tapestries of golden fields and summer festivals glowing warmly. Servants moved like ghosts.
No music was being played.
No laughter rose from anybody.
Cassian sat to Elara's right at the high table.
No one spoke to him.
Rowan sat directly across, eating with deliberate slowness, every bite accompanied by a stare that promised violence. Thorne watched Cassian the way a hawk watches a snake. Lysander kept glancing between them, fingers twitching as though he wanted to write a ballad titled The Monster at My Sister's Table.
Queen Isolde tried once.
"Prince Cassian," she said, voice soft but edged, "how do you find our southern spring?"
"Pleasant," he replied. "The air smells… alive."
Rowan snorted. "Must be a novelty for you."
Cassian's expression didn't change. "It is."
Aldric set his goblet down with enough force to make the table jump.
"Speak plainly, Arcturian. Why are you really here?"
Cassian turned those pale green eyes toward the king.
"To see the land my wife will one day rule beside me. To understand the people who raised her. To…" He paused, as though searching for the correct word. "…honor the alliance."
Rowan barked a laugh without humor. "Honor. That's rich, coming from the man who buried his siblings."
The hall went deathly still.
Cassian regarded Rowan for a long moment.
Then he said, almost gently, "I buried them because they would have buried me first. And you And everyone in this room."
Rowan surged to his feet, chair scraping back violently.
Two dozen Valmont guards tensed.
Elara's hand shot out, closing around Rowan's wrist. "Sit."
He looked down at her, betrayal in every line of his face.
"Ellie—"
"Sit," she repeated, softer.
Rowan sat. But his hands stayed clenched on the table.
Later, after the strained meal ended, Elara led Cassian through the moonlit gardens. She had insisted on showing him the glasshouses—partly to escape the suffocating hall, partly to see if anything could pierce that impenetrable calm.
The jasmine was in full bloom. Moonlight turned the petals silver.
She stopped beside a bed of night-blooming roses.
"Do you feel anything here?" she asked quietly.
Cassian studied the flowers. "They smell sweet."
"That's not what I mean."
He turned to face her. "I feel… curiosity. About why your family hates me so openly when they agreed to this marriage."
"Because they love me," she said simply. "And they know what you are."
"What am I, Elara?"
She met his gaze. "A doll wearing a crown. You move, you speak, you kill when necessary. But nothing touches you."
For the first time something flickered behind those green eyes. There was no anger. Not any intention to hurt somebody.
Perhaps it was recognition.
"Perhaps," he said softly.
They walked on in silence until they reached the old stone bridge over the ornamental stream.
Three figures detached from the shadows.
Rowan.
Thorne.
And—surprisingly—Lysander, clutching a short sword he clearly didn't know how to use properly.
Rowan stepped forward first.
"You don't get to walk these gardens like you belong here," he growled. "You don't get to look at my sister like she's yours."
Cassian stopped. No weapons were visible or anything to harm him with.
"I am not here to take anything that isn't already promised," he said.
Thorne's voice was colder. "Promised by politicians. Not by her."
Lysander's voice cracked. "She cries at night. Did you know that? We hear her through the walls."
Cassian's head tilted slightly. "I did not know."
Rowan drew his sword halfway from the scabbard.
"Leave tonight or I swear on every grave you've filled—"
Elara stepped between them.
"Stop."
"Ellie—"
"No." She turned to her brothers, voice shaking with fury and something close to grief. "You think this helps me? You think threatening him here makes me safer when I have to return with him? You think I want a war because you couldn't keep your tempers?"
Rowan's sword hand trembled.
Thorne's eyes were wet. "We just want you safe."
"I know." She reached out, touched Rowan's cheek. "But this isn't how."
Slowly, reluctantly, Rowan sheathed his blade.
The three of them retreated into the shadows like chastened wolves.
Elara turned back to Cassian.
He hadn't moved.
Hadn't even flinched.
She searched his face for fear, for anger, for anything.
There was nothing.
Just that same quiet, doll-like stillness.
"Are you ever afraid?" she whispered.
He considered the question seriously.
"I was afraid once," he said after a moment. "When I was twelve and realized no one in my family would ever protect me. After that… fear became inefficient."
She stared at him.
"You really are empty."
"Perhaps." He looked past her toward the darkened palace. "But your family isn't. That's interesting to me."
Elara felt something twist painfully behind her ribs.
She turned and walked back toward the lights without another word.
Cassian followed her
Like a shadow trailing the sun it could never feel.