The Prince, the Chains, and Her Eyes
"Lady Veremelle."
The voice was smooth—almost too smooth.
Elira didn't turn immediately.
She was in the library's east wing, reading alone, hidden beneath the shadow of an arched window.
The sun caught the gold trimming of the man's coat before she saw his face.
When she did look up—
It was him.
Crown Prince Auren Valmyr.
She nearly choked on nothing.
"…Your Highness," she said, standing hastily, remembering her place.
But the prince gestured gently.
"No need. I prefer… honesty."
That was new.
And mildly terrifying.
He sat across from her without permission, hands folded, gaze calm.
His eyes were a warm amber, but Elira didn't feel warmth from them.
She felt calculation.
Interest.
Danger.
"You didn't look away," he said.
Elira blinked. "I… wasn't aware I was supposed to."
Auren smiled faintly. "Everyone else does. When they see me."
"Forgive me," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I wasn't aware my gaze would be considered disrespect."
"It wasn't disrespect," he said, leaning forward just slightly. "It was defiance."
She stiffened.
Was it?
Or had he simply decided that?
From the shadows between shelves, two sets of eyes watched them.
Celestienne, fingers clutching a worn poetry book.
Isolde, standing so still she seemed carved from moonlight.
Neither spoke.
But their auras shifted.
Dangerously.
Elira didn't notice.
But Auren did.
His eyes flicked once to the darkened edge of the aisle—then back to Elira.
"You're fascinating," he said simply.
"Then you must not know many people."
He laughed softly.
And then, something changed in his expression. A trace of… hesitation? No. Caution.
"Tell me," he said. "Do you ever feel… watched?"
Elira stared.
Her skin prickled.
"…Yes."
"Good," he said, standing. "Then perhaps you'll survive longer than most."
Later that evening, Elira found something odd on her bed.
A tiny silver bracelet.
Intricately woven.
No note.
No explanation.
She didn't dare put it on.
But it glowed faintly when she touched it.
A spell?
A gift?
A warning?
She opened her drawer, intending to hide it—only to find a pressed violet already there.
Still fresh.
Still whole.
And she hadn't placed it there.
There was a knock at her door.
Not polite.
Not hesitant.
Just two sharp taps.
She opened it to find Celestienne Raventelle, hair down, eyes soft—but too quiet.
"Elira," she said gently. "Walk with me."
"…Now?"
"Now."
There was no room to refuse.
And maybe—part of her didn't want to.
They walked under moonlight, toward the enchanted garden.
Silence stretched between them until Celestienne finally spoke.
"Did you enjoy your conversation with His Highness?"
Elira's throat went dry.
"I didn't seek it."
"But you didn't run."
"…Should I have?"
Celestienne stopped walking.
She turned to Elira slowly, the garden's soft magic casting her features in pale blue.
"No," she whispered. "But you should've looked only at me."
Elira's breath caught.
"Why?" she asked, barely audible.
Celestienne smiled.
Soft.
Possessive.
"I told you," she said. "I collect beautiful things."