The mist in the Neutral Zone didn't just obscure the trees; it felt like it was trying to erase existence itself. Elian adjusted the heavy wool of his cloak, the silver embroidery of the Aethelgard crest feeling like a lead weight against his chest.
He was three miles past the legal limit. If the Royal Guard found him, it was a scandal. If the Oakhaven wardens found him, it was an execution.
"You're late," a voice drifted through the fog—sharp, melodic, and dangerously calm.
Elian turned. Isadora stood near the edge of a frozen creek, her green cloak blending into the dying moss. She didn't look like a lady of the court; she looked like a storm held in human form.
"The border patrols have doubled," Elian said, his voice low. "My father suspects a breach. Not of the border, but of my loyalty."
Isadora stepped into the small circle of clarity between them. She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from his hand—close enough to feel the warmth, but far enough to maintain the lie that they were still enemies.
"And are you?" she asked, her eyes searching his. "Breaching your loyalty?"
"Every time I breathe your name in my prayers, Isadora, I am a traitor to the throne." Elian finally closed the gap, his fingers brushing hers. "And yet, I have never felt more like a King."