Francis disappeared into the depths of Charles's study, the heavy oak door closing with a sound that felt final. Colden stood in the foyer for a moment, the silence of the manor pressing against his ears. He had done what he came to do—secured the alliance, paid the price. But the transaction left a hollow feeling in his chest.
With Francis occupied and the "minimal task" underway, Colden found himself with spare time—a dangerous thing for a King carrying as much guilt as he did. He didn't want to go back to the inn and stare at the ceiling. He didn't want to walk the streets of Velloria where the ghosts of his past engagement haunted every corner.
He wanted to see a friend.
It had been six months. Six months since the escape from Velloria, six months since the coronation disaster, six months since he had really spoken to Elaine. He ordered the carriage to be prepared.
As the horses clip-clopped through the winding roads toward the Alice Dome, Colden's mind began to drift. It went back to the moment in Austin's hall—June. The woman who had taken a spear for Isabelle. The woman who knew his father's secrets.
He remembered her dying words, the way she had exposed the truth about the bombing of the Merchant's Guild. *How could she have known him this deeply?* Colden thought, his brow furrowing. Dean Everhart was a man of math and maps, not secrets. Yet June spoke of him with an intimacy that chilled Colden to the bone.
And why didn't my mother feel a little curious at that? Isabelle had been there. She had heard the same accusations, the same terrible truth about her husband's murder. Yet she had never asked Colden about it. She never questioned the narrative. She simply moved forward, scheming for the crown.
It all felt a little unknowingly weird.
Then, the darker thought crept in—the echo of June's voice, raspy and final.
"You are not fit to be a king."
Colden gripped the edge of the carriage window. He looked at his hands—the hands that had just offered up Francis's time, the hands that had tried to bribe a killer with gold to solve his problems. *I guess she was right,* he thought bitterly. *I'm not fit. I was about to offer any gold, jewelry, everything, just to kill a mere man like Clamptous. A king should be better than this.*
The carriage rattled on, carrying the weight of his doubt.
The Alice Dome loomed ahead, a sprawling estate of grey stone and manicured gardens. It was big enough to rival the Windmere palace, imposing and cold. The carriage rolled to a stop at the main gate.
Colden stepped out, adjusting his coat. Standing at the entrance was a man built like a fortress. He wore the heavy armor of the Royal Guard, his face stern and weathered. His eyes were determined, blocking the path like a stone wall.
"Welcome, King of Windmere," the man said, his voice a low rumble. "I am Arthur, the Royal Guard of Elaine. I did get your message beforehand, but I wasn't able to reach you about one issue."
Colden nodded, looking past Arthur's shoulder, expecting to see a welcoming party, or at least a servant. The courtyard was empty.
"Where is she?" Colden asked, his voice tight.
Arthur didn't move. He crossed his arms. "Well, about that..."
Colden's heart began to race. *Why isn't she coming out? Is she hurt? Did the brothers do something?* Panic, hot and sharp, spiked in his chest. He took a step forward, craning his neck to look up at the manor windows.
Suddenly, he saw her.
Through a high window on the second floor, a flash of red hair. Elaine was standing there, her silhouette framed against the glass. She wasn't lying in a sickbed; she wasn't chained. She was just standing there, watching.
*Thank God she is okay,* Colden thought, the relief washing over him.
He turned back to Arthur, his expression hardening. "She is there. Let me in."
"I am afraid she won't talk to you in this moment," Arthur said, his gaze flicking to the window. "She is... processing."
"She will talk to me," Colden insisted, his royal persona snapping into place. "I am her friend."
"I am afraid we will have issues at that point," Arthur said, his hand drifting casually to the hilt of his sword. "The Lady Elaine gave specific orders. She is not to be disturbed by... political visitors."
"I am not leaving," Colden snapped. He stepped closer, challenging the guard. "Why don't we let her decide that? She knows me, Arthur."
Arthur stepped forward, his shadow falling over Colden. "I am the one who decides who steps through this gate right now. And I am telling you—"
"ENOUGH!"
The shout came from above, sharp and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Colden and Arthur looked up.
Elaine was leaning out of the window. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red, but her voice was steady. She looked down at the standoff in the courtyard.
"It's okay, Arthur," she shouted, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet air. "Let the crying prince in."
Arthur paused, his jaw tightening. He looked from the window back to Colden. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his sword, stepping aside.
Colden let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. *Dammit, you little—* he thought, hearing the nickname Elaine had thrown at him. *Crying prince. She hasn't changed.*
Arthur gestured toward the open door, his expression grim. "Fine. But if I sense even a little argument in your tone—if you upset her—you better run. Do you understand me, Your Majesty?"
Colden met the guard's glare. He didn't have the energy to fight. He just wanted to see his friend.
"I understand," Colden said softly.
He walked past the guard and into the lion's den.
To be continued.