The garden felt altered once she was gone.
Caspian remained beside the reflecting pool long after the Keeper's footsteps faded beyond the hedges. The water had stilled, the ripples from her passing smoothing into glass. Lanternlight trembled across its surface, fractured by drifting leaves.
The night pressed cool against his skin; the warmth that had existed a moment earlier had dissipated with unsettling speed.
He had stood in this garden countless times. During festivals. During private strategy discussions with his father. Once, years ago, hiding from tutors.
It had never felt like this.
He exhaled and turned toward the western tower.
The walk through the corridors was quiet at that hour. Guards inclined their heads as he passed. Servants stepped aside. The castle felt orderly. Controlled.
He did not.
By the time he reached his chambers, the sensation had settled beneath his ribs—unwelcome, undefined.
His rooms overlooked the inner courtyard. Tall windows framed the sky in careful symmetry, as though the constellations had been arranged specifically for him. The architects had done that deliberately. His father believed in symbolism.
He removed his gloves and placed them precisely on the table. He unfastened his cloak.
He did not disarm.
The sword at his hip felt grounding. Reliable.
Unlike the rest of the evening.
He crossed to the window.
The stars were clear.
He knew their names. He had learned them first as stories at his mother's knee—heroes and beasts drawn in light. Later as strategy—campaigns planned according to seasonal skies. Later still as omen—patterns studied before treaties, before coronations, before war.
Tonight they seemed nearer.
Sharper.
As if they observed him in return.
He braced his hands against the stone sill. Cold seeped into his palms.
Still, he felt colder.
Not from the night.
From absence.
He straightened, jaw tightening.
It had been a lesson. Nothing more. A tradition granted at one-and-twenty. He had expected gravity—the weight of sealed histories, truths withheld from youth.
He had prepared for solemnity.
For revelation.
For myth stripped of polish.
What he had not prepared for—
Was her.
The steadiness of her voice beneath the open sky.
The way she neither fidgeted nor softened her explanations. The way she deferred only as duty required—and no further. She spoke of kings and convergence as though she had stood among them. As though she did not serve the crown so much as stand parallel to it.
And when she had turned the page—
He had leaned closer.
Not for the illustration.
For warmth.
The realization struck him again with humiliating clarity.
He pushed away from the window.
Ridiculous.
He was heir to Rowan. He had drilled with steel since childhood. Had split shields in tournament yards. Negotiated with men twice his age without yielding ground. Presided over disputes in his father's absence while nobles watched for weakness.
And yet the memory of copper-red hair catching lanternlight unsettled him more than any adversary.
He extinguished the lamps.
Sleep did not come easily.
When it came, it was thin and restless, threaded with images of crossing stars.
Court the following morning demanded precision.
He sat at his father's left, posture straight, hands resting lightly on the carved arms of his chair. The great hall was full. The ceiling constellations shimmered faintly in silver leaf above petitioners kneeling in orderly succession.
Grain shortages.
Tax appeals.
A border dispute between minor lords whose grievances were older than either of them.
He listened.
He questioned.
He measured tone and intent.
He performed his duty.
But his gaze betrayed him.
It drifted—controlled, subtle—toward the historian's table.
She sat beside Master Oren Vale, her mantle dark against pale stone. Stacks of parchment rose steadily at her elbow, divided with meticulous order. Her hair was braided today, woven deliberately down her back. Strands had escaped near her temples. They caught the light like flame against night.
She moved with unhurried efficiency. Accepting transcripts. Marking margins. Sorting archive from review.
Unshaken.
Once, as she marked a page, she lifted her head.
Their eyes met.
Brief.
Measured.
There was no surprise in her expression. No fluster.
Only awareness.
She did not look away in haste. Nor did she linger. She returned to her task as though the moment had been catalogued and placed precisely where it belonged.
His focus fractured.
For half a heartbeat, the petitioner's voice blurred into meaningless sound.
His father's gaze shifted.
Caspian forced himself back to attention, asked a pointed question regarding tariff enforcement, and the moment passed.
Foolishness.
Yet it persisted.
When court concluded and nobles dispersed in murmuring clusters, he did not wait for summons or pretense.
He found her in the eastern wing, standing before the concealed passage that led to the restricted archives. She held two volumes against her chest.
She did not startle at his approach.
"Your Highness," she said.
"Keeper."
Nothing beyond the title.
But something passed between them all the same.
They walked to the gardens without further exchange.
The sky that evening was clearer than the last. A wide, unbroken expanse of dark pierced with deliberate light.
Alara placed a rolled parchment upon the stone bench and unfastened its ribbon. When she spread it open, the starlight seemed almost to recognize itself reflected in ink.
A detailed celestial chart filled the page.
"These," she said, tracing a precise line, "are the constellations of Rowan as recorded during the reign of the First Crown."
He stepped closer.
Deliberate.
"The Sword," she continued, indicating a vertical alignment. "Battle. Decisive action. It appears in years of war or territorial expansion."
Her finger shifted.
"The Shield. Protection. Consolidation."
"The Fox. Cunning. Political maneuvering."
"The Ox. Endurance."
"The Rat." Her tone did not change. "Treason. Hidden fracture. It has preceded every recorded betrayal within the royal line."
His gaze flicked to her profile at that.
She remained composed.
"And the Ship," she said. "Journey. Migration. Trade. Sometimes exile."
He absorbed the chart instinctively, mapping it against memory.
"There is another," he said quietly.
Her hand stilled.
"Yes."
She adjusted the parchment slightly, revealing a faint alignment near the Sword's lower edge—two parallel lines crossing at their hilts.
Subtle.
Almost overlooked.
"The Dual Blades."
He leaned closer.
"The symbol of the chosen bond," she said. "The starbond between king and queen."
The word lingered between them.
Chosen.
He repeated it softly. "Chosen."
"The first queen was revealed by convergence," she said. "Since then, the alignment is said to appear when the bond is inevitable. Not arranged. Not negotiated."
Her hand remained near the illustration.
He was acutely aware of the narrow space between them—the warmth radiating from her shoulder, the faint scent of parchment and cedar. The slow rhythm of her breath.
"And if it does not appear?" he asked.
"Then history records an ordinary union."
Ordinary.
The word struck more sharply than he expected.
His gaze did not return to the chart.
It remained on her.
Something beneath conscious thought drew him toward her presence again and again.
Not infatuation.
Not yet.
Something more instinctive.
Recognition without evidence.
He straightened slightly, though he did not step away.
"When were the Dual Blades last seen?"
Her eyes met his.
Steady.
"Two generations ago."
"And was it… accurate?" he pressed.
A fractional pause.
"Yes," she said. "The alignment was recorded three nights before the coronation. Witnessed by the Royal Keeper of that era and confirmed in duplicate charts."
"And the bond?" he asked.
"Endured," she replied. "Despite opposition."
Opposition.
The word settled between them like a third presence.
Silence stretched.
The garden seemed to hold its breath.
Above them, the constellations remained fixed, indifferent.
He could not explain the pull.
Only that distance from her made the air colder.
And proximity—
Warmer.
For a moment longer, neither moved.
Then she rolled the parchment closed with measured care.
"This concludes tonight's instruction," she said.
Formality restored.
But something had shifted.
He felt it as surely as gravity.
Above them, the stars held their silent positions.
Unmoved.
For now.