"You don't have to stay the entire night," he said quietly, his voice softening just a fraction—a rare, jagged edge of empathy breaking through the ice. "If the crowd becomes... stifling. If you feel uncomfortable, you are permitted to leave."
Elissa blinked, her brow furrowing in genuine, startled confusion. "Huh?"
Alistair's gaze didn't waver, though a small, almost imperceptible line formed between his brows. "The Ball," he clarified, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I am telling you that you are not a prisoner of the dance floor. If the weight of the nobility becomes too much, you may retreat."
A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the garden's draft raced down Elissa's spine. She stared at him, her lips parted in shock. I didn't say it, did I,? She thought.
No.. she realized, her mind racing. I didn't say a single word about being uncomfortable. I only thought it.
How could he know? Was he simply so attuned to the frequency of her fear that he didn't need words to hear her?
"How...?" she whispered, the word finally breaking through the paralysis. "I didn't tell you anything."
Alistair took a single step out of the shadows. The light from the moon hit the high planes of his face, making him look like the ancient prince from the illustration—beautiful, terrifying, and burdened. He didn't answer her directly. He simply looked down at her, his expression unreadable, yet his silence felt like an admission.
Alistair watched the color drain from her face, leaving her looking as fragile as the glass panes above them. He saw the way she shivered—not from the chill of the garden, but from the raw exposure of being seen.
Without a word, he took a slow, deliberate step forward.
The movement was predator-slow, yet there was no malice in it. As he entered her personal space, the scent of the North—cold ozone, ancient cedar, and something faintly metallic—enveloped her. Elissa felt her breath hitch, her gaze locked on the silver buttons of his shirt because looking into his eyes felt like staring directly into the sun.
The heavy charcoal shawl had begun to slip, sliding down her trembling shoulder to reveal the thin linen of her shift beneath.
Alistair reached out.
His hand was large, his fingers long and pale, looking like they were carved from the same marble as the statues in the Great Hall. He didn't grab the fabric; he grazed it, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her collarbone for a fleeting, electric second. Elissa felt a jolt of heat radiate from the contact, a sharp contrast to the biting air.
He caught the edge of the wool and pulled it back up, draping it securely over her shoulder. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contradiction to the man who commanded armies and stared down monsters. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his hand resting near her neck, the heat of his palm seeping through the layers of her clothing.
"I am not a telepath, Elissa," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in the marrow of her bones. "But I know what it is to be a prize in a room full of hunters. "
He finally withdrew his hand, though the ghost of his touch remained, burning against her skin. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, yet for the first time, the "Ice Prince" mask seemed to have a hairline fracture.
"The North is a hard place," he continued, stepping back into the shadows of the silver willow. "But it does not require you to break. Remember that."
He didn't wait for her to find her voice. He turned and vanished into the gloom of the eastern exit, his footsteps silent on the moss.
Elissa stood alone in the Glass Garden, her hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on her shoulder where his fingers had been. The silence of the garden rushed back in, but the air felt different now—thicker, charged with a secret that belonged only to the two of them.
The next morning arrived with the kind of brutal punctuality only D'Valtheron could manage.
A loud, rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the oak door shattered the peaceful remains of Elissa's sleep. "Rise and shine, Little Bird! The sun is technically up, even if it's hiding behind three layers of sleet. We have a war to win, and it starts with silk!"
Elissa groaned, burying her face in the heavy furs. The white pup, far more morning-oriented than its mistress, let out a cheerful yip and began a frantic, tail-wagging dance across her pillows.
"Five more minutes," Elissa mumbled into the fabric.
"Not a second more!" Kestrel shouted through the wood, her laughter echoing down the hallway. "Vane is already downstairs complaining about the lack of bacon, and if we don't beat the merchant caravans, all the good velvet will be gone!"
The door creaked open, and Martha stepped in, carrying a basin of steaming water that smelled of crushed mint—a sharp, bracing scent designed to snap a weary mind into focus.
"Come now, petal," Martha said, her voice a soft rasp that took the sting out of the early hour. She set the basin down and moved to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains. The grey, pale light of a Northern morning flooded the room. "The Princess is right. The markets don't wait for anyone, especially not during the Solstice season."
Elissa sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her mind immediately flicked back to the Glass Garden—to the weight of Alistair's hand on her shawl and the way his eyes had seemed to read the thoughts she hadn't dared to speak. The memory sent a strange, fluttering heat through her chest that the morning chill couldn't touch. Her face flustered with the thought.
"She's very... energetic," Elissa noted, watching Martha lay out a sturdy travel dress of forest-green wool.
"That's one word for it," Martha chuckled, pinning back Elissa's hair with practiced, gentle fingers. "The D'Valtherons don't do anything by halves. If they're going to shop, they're going to do it like they're laying siege to a fortress."
Martha helped her into the layers of wool, her hands moving with motherly efficiency. As she tightened the laces of Elissa's bodice, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard from the kitchen girls that the Crown Prince was seen patrolling the eastern wing late last night. Long after the meeting ended."
Elissa's heart skipped. "The eastern wing? That's near the gardens."
Martha just hummed, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she draped a heavy, fur-lined cloak over Elissa's shoulders. "Must have been a lot on his mind. Or perhaps he was just looking for a bit of fresh air himself. Here, take these gloves. The mountain wind doesn't care about your status."