Do you really want to marry that man?

"Do you really want to marry that man?"

The question hovered between them, sharp and delicate as spun glass. Lara felt its edges—felt her own nerves braced for an answer she already dreaded.

Sarisa didn't answer right away. She turned slightly in her chair, the sunlight casting a faint shimmer across her moonlit hair. For a heartbeat, she just watched Lara, weighing her words with care.

Outside the window, the gardens hummed with quiet life children's laughter faint in the distance, birds trilling in the hedges but the office itself was heavy, silent, as if the castle held its breath with them.

Finally, Sarisa spoke.

"For now… yes. I do."

Her voice was steady, measured, as if she'd rehearsed it alone a hundred times. "We haven't set a date. There's still plenty of time before any formal vows. But I think—" she paused, choosing honesty over comfort, "—I think I should try. He's kind. He's clever. He makes me laugh, sometimes, and gods know I don't get much laughter in this place. It would be nice, I think, to have someone to share… all this with."

She swept a hand across the mountain of paperwork, the endless petitions and royal duties that Lara had always ducked out of.

"It's hard," Sarisa continued, her voice gentler now, "doing everything alone. Having someone who understands, who wants to help—not just for politics, but because they want to be here—maybe that's something I need."

Lara sat very still, watching her co-parent with a strange, brittle feeling crawling up her spine. She tried to piece together a smile, the kind she used for diplomats and grumpy palace guards, but it felt foreign on her lips. She pressed it anyway.

"Yeah," Lara managed, but her voice was too thin, almost airy. "He seems… decent. I mean, as far as princes go."

Sarisa looked at her then, really looked. Her eyes narrowed—keen, silver, and uncomfortably perceptive. "Are you all right?"

"Me? Yeah. Just… surprised, I guess." Lara forced the smile wider, tried to make it teasing. "Wasn't ready for the competition."

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or regret—passed over Sarisa's face. She didn't answer.

For a moment, the room was filled with the quiet rustle of parchment, the soft clink of cooling tea cups, and the bright, distant peal of laughter from the gardens. Lara wondered if Kaelith and Aliyah were still building their castle, if they'd notice if she vanished for a while.

She stood, suddenly restless. Her hands found her jacket and fidgeted with the buttons—something to do, anything but meet Sarisa's gaze for too long.

"Well. I shouldn't keep you," Lara said. "You've got, what, seventy-three royal cows to bless before dinner?"

Sarisa let out a reluctant, tired breath that might have been a laugh. "Seventy-four, actually. There was a petition from the southern villages. They want theirs gilded."

"Gilded cows." Lara tried to sound amused, but she could feel her face betraying her—feel the smile slipping, the ache underneath. "What a kingdom."

She hesitated in the doorway, wanting—desperately—to say something else. To fix what she'd broken. To reach across the gulf between them and pull Sarisa back to the version of the future she hadn't been brave enough to fight for.

But she couldn't.

So instead, she said, "If you need help… with the paperwork, or anything else, I'm here."

Sarisa's expression softened. "Thank you, Lara. I know you are. I always have."

It was too much. And not enough.

Lara nodded once, tight and sharp, then turned away, heading for the door with quick, silent steps. She didn't trust herself to look back. She didn't trust her voice to hold.

Her hand hovered over the brass handle. She heard Sarisa's pen scrape softly across the paper—dismissing her, or maybe just trying to find something solid to hold on to.

Lara opened the door. Sunlight hit her full in the face, and she blinked, feeling oddly untethered.

She'd thought the worst pain was the fight—the yelling, the accusation, the flash of anger that left both of them raw and unguarded. But this… this was different. Quieter. More precise.

The world outside the office was unchanged: same glittering marble, same sunlight, same distant laughter. But inside Lara, something had shifted. She was angry, yes, but also hollowed out, as if something fragile had been carved away and she hadn't noticed until now.

She didn't go far. She found an empty hallway, leaned her forehead against a cool column, and closed her eyes.

What had she expected? That Sarisa would wait forever? That the vague, unspoken promise between them—the shared jokes, the glances, the late nights with Aliyah—would keep time itself at bay? She'd never said the words. She'd never tried.

Sarisa was right. It was always easier for Lara to leave first, to laugh it off, to disappear behind a mission or a new excuse. She'd always assumed there would be more time.

And now Sarisa was moving on—choosing someone who could give her stability, a partner, a hand to hold in public and private. Someone who wasn't afraid to name what he wanted.

Lara could have done that. She could have tried. She just… hadn't.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and forced herself to breathe, counting the seconds as if order could restore what was unraveling inside.

"Coward," she muttered at herself. "Absolute idiot."

When she finally moved away from the wall, the corridor felt longer, the light sharper. She made her way down to the gardens, letting the sound of Kaelith's and Aliyah's laughter guide her like a thread through the labyrinth.

She wouldn't let the children see her upset. Not now. Maybe not ever.

There was still time, Sarisa had said.

But Lara knew without saying it that time could run out.

And sometimes, what hurt the most was not the choice someone else made, but the one you never found the courage to make yourself.