Aliyah's breathing had finally evened out.
One small arm was flung across Kaelith's shoulder, the other curled under her cheek. Her little mouth parted slightly as she dreamed—quiet, for once.
Kaelith snored softly beside her, her stuffed dragon rising and falling on her chest like a miniature guardian.
Sarisa remained seated beside the bed for a few more moments. The shadows in the room had softened, the final candle burning low in its dish.
She gently stood, smoothed the edge of the blanket where Aliyah had kicked it off, and pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead.
"I love you," she whispered.
Then she stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
Her mother was waiting.
The Queen stood silently in the corridor, arms folded, expression unreadable. Her silver crown had been removed, her hair braided into a simple twist that hung over one shoulder. Without the weight of her formal regalia, she looked older. Not frail—but mortal.
"She's asleep?" the Queen asked quietly.
Sarisa nodded.
"She's strong," her mother said. "She'll survive this."
Sarisa didn't answer.
Instead, she followed as her mother turned down the corridor and led her into one of the palace's many sitting rooms—an intimate space of dark velvet cushions and a low-burning hearth. The scent of dried lavender clung to the air.
Prince Vaelen was already inside.
He stood when they entered, offering a respectful nod. He was dressed down now—no ceremonial robe, just a dark blue tunic and fitted pants, a silver pendant at his throat bearing his family crest.
"Lady Sarisa," he said gently. "Thank you for coming."
She inclined her head. "Prince Vaelen."
Her mother gestured toward the chairs, and the three of them sat—Sarisa in the chair opposite Vaelen, the Queen off to one side, watching.
Vaelen folded his hands in his lap. "I wanted to speak with you… personally. Without the weight of court titles or audience expectations."
Sarisa said nothing, but her eyes remained fixed on his face. Waiting.
"I understand you were surprised by the announcement," he said carefully. "It wasn't meant to cause distress."
"I'm used to surprises," she replied.
There was no bitterness in her tone—just truth.
Vaelen offered a faint smile. "Still, I should have spoken to you directly sooner. It's not the kind of matter that should be delivered in front of an audience."
Sarisa's fingers laced in her lap.
"Why now?" she asked. "Why me?"
He looked at her for a long moment before answering.
"I've admired you for years," he said simply.
Sarisa blinked.
"I first saw you at the Summit of Sevens," he continued.
"You stood beside your mother during the negotiation of the Eastern Accord. I watched you challenge a room of generals—twice your age—and win. And you did it without arrogance. Without cruelty. You were calm. Precise. Composed. I remember thinking, 'That is someone who knows herself.'"
Sarisa was still.
"I thought of speaking then," he said. "But the timing was... delicate. And then, later, I learned you had a child."
He paused, and she tensed slightly—waiting for the polite disapproval.
But instead, he smiled.
"And that only strengthened my decision."
Sarisa blinked, startled.
"I don't care that you have a daughter," he said gently.
"I care that you raised her. That you've held your household together in a court designed to pull you apart. I care that you've protected her, even when it cost you your softness."
His golden eyes were steady.
"If you agree to this marriage," he continued, "I will treat Aliyah as my own. Fully. Without reservation. I would never ask her to call me father—but I will stand beside her. I will support her. And if she burns down three wings of this palace, I will help rebuild them."
Sarisa stared.
He wasn't laughing.
He meant it.
"This isn't a strategy to me," he added, voice softening. "I'm not marrying you for a crown. Or a kingdom. I asked for this union because I love you."
The words landed softly—but their weight was immense.
He leaned back slightly, folding his hands again.
"I don't expect you to say yes tonight. Or even tomorrow. But I wanted you to hear it from me. Not from your mother. Not from a summons. From me."
Sarisa took a long, slow breath.
She hadn't expected this.
Respect.
Gentleness.
The quiet patience of a man who wasn't trying to own her—but simply stand with her.
"You said you love me," she said finally. "But you don't know me."
"I know enough," he replied.
"Enough to marry?"
"Enough to try," he corrected. "That's all I'm asking. That you try. If it doesn't work—if there's nothing there—you'll have my friendship, and my support, and my silence. No demands. No blame. Just the attempt."
Her mother shifted slightly beside the hearth, but said nothing.
Sarisa sat back.
The words didn't repulse her.
They didn't enrage her.
In truth, they were the first kindness she'd been shown in weeks.
Still, she couldn't speak yet. Not without betraying too much.
So instead, she said:
"I appreciate your honesty, Prince."
He inclined his head. "And I appreciate your time, Lady Sarisa."
She rose first.
Her mother didn't stop her.
As she walked back through the corridors, the echo of his voice followed her like the scent of lavender.
I'm asking you to try.
And for the first time since the announcement—
She wasn't entirely sure what her answer would be.
Sarisa didn't return to her chambers right away.
She stood in the corridor just beyond the sitting room, her back resting lightly against the cool marble wall.
The lanterns along the hallway flickered gently, casting ribbons of gold across the floor. Her hands were clasped in front of her, tight, her fingers still tingling from the weight of the conversation.
Try, he'd said.
Not demand. Not command. Just try.
It should've made things simpler. Instead, it felt like another stone dropped into a pond already full of ripples.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Not sharply, just long. Slow. A breath from the center of her chest.
Footsteps approached.
She didn't need to look.
Her mother's presence was unmistakable. Regal even in silence, she stopped beside her daughter, folding her arms with familiar grace.
They stood there for a moment.
Then, softly:
"You see," the Queen said, "I'm not a monster."
Sarisa opened her eyes.
"I care about you. And I love you."
The words didn't come with sharpness or strategy. Not tonight.
Sarisa turned her head, just enough to meet her mother's gaze.
"You have a strange way of showing it."
"I'm learning," her mother admitted. "Slowly. But I am."
Sarisa didn't reply right away.
Then quietly she said, "He's not what I expected."
"No," her mother agreed. "But sometimes we need to be surprised."