Two days.
That was what the healer had said.
"Two more days of observation, Your Highness. Then she may return to her quarters."
Two days until the infirmary ceased to be a boundary.
Two days until her tutoring resumed.
He told himself that was the source of his anticipation.
The lessons.
The histories.
The measured cadence of her voice tracing truth across centuries.
Caspian had never favored scholarly study. As a boy he endured it. As a prince he respected it. But he preferred steel to parchment. The certainty of impact. The clarity of command. The clean, immediate consequences of action.
Yet now—
He found himself wondering what text she would choose next.
Whether she would begin with the early dynastic fractures or the migrations following the Second Winter. Whether she would angle the page toward him again, closing the space between them under the guise of instruction.
Whether lanternlight would catch in her copper hair like drawn flame.
The anticipation was not for the book.
It was for her voice reading it.
And that realization unsettled him more than any prophecy.
The morning of her release, he was summoned to the queen's private sitting room.
Tea had already been poured when he entered. Steam curled lazily from porcelain cups painted with fine silver stars. The air carried jasmine and something sharper beneath it—mint, perhaps. Clarifying.
Queen Ellena sat near the window, sunlight threading through her pale hair like woven light.
"Caspian," she greeted.
"Mother."
He seated himself opposite her, posture instinctively disciplined.
They spoke first of weather. The coming frost. The grain yields. Lord Merrow's persistence. The Duke of Fen's poorly veiled ambition.
He answered dutifully.
She listened.
Not to the words.
To him.
"You look tired," she said at last.
"I am not."
A faint arch of her brow.
"You are."
He stared into the surface of his tea. His reflection wavered there—crownless, unsettled.
"Something weighs on you."
He had not intended to speak of it.
Had not planned to unravel thoughts he had barely managed to contain.
Yet when he opened his mouth, the restraint slipped.
The first lesson in the gardens.
The way the air had shifted without warning.
The proximity.
The pull he could not categorize.
The second lesson—the Dual Blades, faint but undeniable upon the chart.
The cellar.
The fear—sharp and suffocating—that he had arrived too late.
The nights beside her bed.
The way her fingers had felt in his.
The relief when her fever broke.
The irritation when she worked.
The ache when she slept.
He recounted it all.
Not as prince to queen.
As son to mother.
When he finished, silence filled the room like a held breath.
Then—
She laughed softly.
Not mockery.
Recognition.
His head lifted sharply. "You find this amusing?"
"I find it inevitable," she said gently.
His jaw tightened. "I do not understand."
"No," she agreed. "You do not."
She lifted her cup, studying him over its rim.
"The stars rarely announce themselves in thunder, Caspian. More often they align quietly while we are occupied elsewhere."
His pulse shifted.
"You think this is—"
"I think," she interrupted calmly, "that you are experiencing something you were always meant to."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one I will give."
Frustration flared, quick and sharp.
"Does she feel it?" he asked before he could stop himself.
The question hung between them.
His mother's gaze sharpened—not unkindly.
"That," she said, setting her cup down with deliberate care, "is not something I can see for you."
He exhaled, the sound rougher than intended.
"You speak in riddles."
"I speak in patience."
She rose, smoothing the fall of her gown.
"Be careful, Caspian."
"Of what?"
"Of mistaking fear for wisdom."
The words struck deeper than any reprimand.
And with that, she dismissed him.
He returned to his chambers unsettled.
Inevitable.
Alignment.
Patience.
He crossed to the window overlooking the courtyard—the same vantage he had taken the night after their first lesson.
The stars would not appear until evening.
Yet he imagined them already there, fixed beyond sight.
Was this what his mother meant?
The Dual Blades?
A convergence he had been too distracted to name?
And if so—
Did Alara feel it?
Or was this imbalance his alone?
The possibility unsettled him profoundly.
He had faced physical danger without hesitation. Had ridden into skirmishes with blade drawn and pulse steady.
But this—
The thought of standing alone in something meant to be shared—
It hollowed him.
He had not intended to visit the infirmary that afternoon.
His feet carried him there regardless.
She was sitting upright when he entered, a folded blanket across her lap, sunlight warming the pale curve of her cheek.
Her wrists were no longer bandaged.
The bruises had faded to faint shadows.
"I was released this morning," she said calmly, as though she had anticipated his arrival.
"Yes."
A faint arch of her brow.
"You are aware I was the one released?"
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
The healer entered shortly after, issuing final instructions neither of them fully absorbed.
When at last Alara rose carefully from the bed—steady despite lingering stiffness—something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
She crossed the room without assistance.
He walked beside her anyway.
Not touching.
Close enough to catch her if needed.
The corridors felt altered with her no longer confined to linen and steam. Servants bowed as they passed. Guards straightened. Whispers softened.
When they reached the eastern wing, the familiar scent of parchment greeted them like a threshold.
Her door stood unchanged.
She paused before it.
Her fingers brushed briefly against the frame.
A home reclaimed.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For coming."
The simplicity of it struck harder than gratitude should have.
He inclined his head.
"You will resume tutoring tomorrow evening," he said.
"Yes."
Silence gathered between them.
He should leave.
He did not.
She watched him with that steady, unreadable gaze—the one that saw more than it revealed.
He wanted to ask.
Do you feel it?
The absence when I am not there?
The warmth when I am?
He wanted to ask about the Dual Blades.
About inevitability.
About whether the stars had shifted for her too.
He wanted to tell her what his mother had said, certain she would interpret the cryptic words with surgical clarity.
But something rose in him.
Fear.
Not of battle.
Not of failure.
Of naming something too soon—
And watching it fracture under scrutiny.
For the first time in his life, he hesitated without strategy.
"I will see you tomorrow," he said at last.
"Yes, Your Highness."
The title created distance he did not want.
He turned before he could reconsider.
He had nearly reached the end of the corridor when he stopped, pressing his palm briefly against the cool stone wall.
Scared.
The realization settled slowly.
He was afraid to lose her.
Afraid to stand alone beneath a sky that might never align again.
And that frightened him more than any enemy Rowan had ever recorded.