When afternoon came, Eleanor had to join her tutor for her endless lessons.
Necessary, according to her mother. Essential to shape a future heir.
She found them boring. She would much rather have shown the palace to Naye — or just stayed outside.
What she liked about him was that he never tried to seem perfect. He didn't talk to her as if she were a princess. With him, she didn't feel watched. Just… seen.
The study room was a small space whose walls were crushed under overfilled shelves. Nothing in there seemed to breathe.
A narrow window let in a thin blade of light, unable to brighten anything at all.
Even voices seemed muffled inside, as if the room refused to let anyone make too much noise.
Eleanor thought this place was far better suited to sleeping than to learning.
Her own desk was drowning under open books, scattered sheets, and a half-finished sketch of the palace she had never completed.
Her tutor's, on the other hand, could have served as an illustration in a manual on discipline: straight quill, aligned papers, total absence of life.
Mr. Maric was already seated. He rose and bowed with controlled precision.
"You are three minutes late, Your Highness. Punctuality is a virtue even princesses must learn."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She'd tried once. With him, it was pointless.
He was the sort of man in whom every detail seemed deliberate: perfectly trimmed mustache, immaculate suit, straight posture, measured voice, precision in everything.
Eleanor liked him, in spite of it all. He never scolded her just for the sake of it. He always explained patiently, even when she truly understood nothing.
Even if she would have preferred to be anywhere else.
"Today, we will talk about geopolitics."
Great, she thought inwardly. Exactly what I wanted to hear: war, borders, and probably mines and wheat.
Mr. Maric unrolled a map, carefully smoothing it out with a precise gesture, then laid it on his desk. He cast a disapproving look at the crumpled sheets piling up on hers.
Eleanor recognized the borders. The gray mountains, the blue lines of rivers, and farther to the northeast, the lands of Kaldoran. She knew the name. She did not yet know what it weighed.
The map showed the northern part of the kingdom. The rivers, the mountains in gray strokes, and at the very top, a vast expanse of pale brown land along the sea.
Kaldoran.
"The kingdom of Kaldoran," he began, "attacked Elyndor two months ago. Officially, they speak of trade routes, rights of passage, taxes they deem unfair.
"But that justification is… questionable. Kaldoran is vast, rich, with ports open to the north. They have no real need of our roads.
"So why here?"
He paused.
"Perhaps they underestimated our resistance.
"Or perhaps… they were after something else."
He broke off.
"We thought the attack would be pushed back within a few weeks. It wasn't."
His fingers pointed to the mountains the way one points to a scar.
"The fighting has settled here. Between the two borders. No victory, no defeat.
"A stalemate."
The word hung in the air.
Eleanor traced one of the mountain lines with her finger, without touching the paper.
On this map, she suddenly saw more than lines.
She saw a front — somewhere — with her father on it.
And that thought, simple as it was, hurt.
She asked, almost under her breath:
"So… we don't know when it will end?"
He looked at her — really looked — for the first time since the lesson had started.
"No," he answered. "We don't."
He folded the map back up, carefully, as if it were alive.
"That is why you must understand this world, Your Highness.
"Because one day, this will no longer be a map to you.
"It will be a decision."
They left the palace in the late afternoon, at the hour when the light grows softer, almost golden. Calen walked slightly behind, attentive but silent. Mr. Maric kept his hands clasped behind his back, as if even the city air had no right to disturb him.
The Temple of Solarys stood at the center of Elyndor, on a wide square of pale stone where pigeons wandered among passersby. It did not resemble grand war monuments or statues of kings. It was a broad, calm, almost peaceful building, with a great dome of golden glass that caught the last rays of the sun.
Inside, the silence was not absolute. It was filled with whispers, the rustle of fabrics, prayers murmured under the breath. The air smelled of warm wax and incense.
Eleanor hadn't been here in a long time.
The interior was larger than she remembered. There were no benches, only wide circular slabs where people stood or knelt. Families, old folks, soldiers recovering from wounds, artisans in modest clothes. Some prayed for loved ones at the front. Others for the healing of a child. Many, simply, out of habit.
A woman with calloused hands held a pendant tightly between her fingers. She murmured something, eyes red but resolute.
Eleanor realized that no one here was praying for the same reasons she was.
A priest passed near her, walking slowly between the faithful. He wore an ivory robe edged with golden thread and a high braided belt. His voice was calm, almost gentle.
"May the light keep you on your road," he told a maimed soldier who smiled nervously.
Another approached a group of children learning to recite phrases Eleanor had known all her life without ever really thinking about them:
"Solarys lights the path of just men."
She lifted her gaze to the stained glass windows.
On the largest one, just above the altar, Solarys was depicted not as a man, nor as a bearded god from legend, but as a radiant, indistinct silhouette holding a lance of light in each hand. On the ground, dark forms — half-human, half-hideous — fled toward burning mountains.
Strangely, looking at that window made her think of Naye. So she added a sentence about him to her prayer.
Calen, behind them, prayed in his own way — standing straight, hands clasped behind his back, without a word. But his eyes, fixed on the stained glass, were harder than the others.
Night was slowly falling over the palace gardens. The lanterns had just lit up, one after the other along the paths, and their golden light reflected in the pools already dark.
Eleanor was leaning against the stone balustrade, motionless, arms folded. She was looking out without truly seeing.
She didn't feel like going back inside.
She heard footsteps behind her, calm and steady. She did not move. Calen stopped beside her without a word, at a respectful distance, as always.
They stayed silent for a while.
"You're going to catch a chill," he finally said softly.
She barely lifted her shoulders.
He watched the gardens too.
"You're thinking about your father?" he asked.
She nodded slowly.
"About him. And about Mother."
She paused.
"She doesn't have the right to be wrong. She carries everything, all alone. If she falters, everything falters with her."
Calen remained silent for a few seconds before answering, calmly:
"Fear doesn't make people weak. It reminds them what they have to protect."
Eleanor sighed, not really accepting the idea. Then her voice grew quieter.
"Do you… do you think Naye could be dangerous?"
Calen didn't answer right away. He didn't pull a grave or alarmed face. He simply thought about it.
Then he turned slightly toward her.
"I don't know what he truly is," he said. "But… if he becomes a danger, I'll take care of it. You won't have to worry about it."
It wasn't said as a threat. Nor with harshness.
It was just… a certainty.
Eleanor felt something tighten in her chest.
She didn't know why.
But the thought hurt her heart.