CHAPTER 51: THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE (PART 1)

Her sniffles were quiet, muffled into her palms as she walked with her head bowed. She did not want the guards, the maids, or anyone at all to see her unraveling, so she purposely took a different path. Every step along the torchlit corridor felt heavier, the silence pressing in until she thought her breath might betray her.

The laughter she had imagined tonight still rang in her ears. The music, the dance, the lively atmosphere of the banquet she thought she would finally taste after months of staying in the palace still clung stubbornly in her head. But alas, there was only the hollow echo of her heels against the same marble floor.

She could not bring herself to return to her chamber, not when her maids had worked so tirelessly to help her prepare only for her to end up nowhere at all. The thought of their gentle smiles and eager questions twisted inside her chest. She did not wish to feel it, but shame pricked at her all the same.

Perhaps it had all been only in her head. Perhaps her own excitement had made her foolish, too willing to believe that his agreement meant more than a passing word; too quick to mistake it for a promise. Maybe he had only agreed because he does not want to entertain her ridiculous request further.

Still...why had he never told her plainly that he did not want her there? The question burned through her like a fever that could not he smothered . Every small morning; every warm bun she had crept in with; every breathless, silly recounting of what she had read or baked suddenly lay bare.

Maybe his quiet company had been nothing more than tolerance, and his nods a courtesy given to a novelty he could set aside when duty called. Ilaria suddenly felt like shrinking into a corner and never resurface; she felt exposed, as if she had been performing for an audience that had already left the hall.

She told herself that it was only a banquet, but the thought gnawed at her until it bled. Because she knew that at least to her, it was not a mere banquet. It was everything she had ever wished for, that is to stand beside him, to be seen as his wife, and for her care to be acknowledged, even if only for a fleeting night.

You’re so mean...

The thought flickered unbidden, and she quickly shook it away, refusing to let sadness twist her heart against him. No, she would not think ill of her husband. Not when she can help it. Maybe if she talk to him after he return, he would tell her the reason why he left her behind. He always had a valid reason when he did something.

Maybe...

Ilaria stopped when she reached the great stone railing, the corridor opened into a vast balcony at the rear of the palace. The night air rushed in, cool and briny, carrying with it the restless breath of the sea below. From here, the view was endless. Dark waters stretching so far they seemed to merge with the sky, waves flickering with the lanternlight thrown down from the cliffs.

The balcony was round and sweeping, its marble floor gleaming pale under the glow of countless lamps that burned along the balustrades. At its center, towering and severe, rose the mighty statue of the Black Dragon. The divine creature that overseeded the Land of Darkness.

Its seven heads arched in different directions as if surveying land, sky, and sea alike, its stone scales catching the lanternlight that for an instant they seemed to glisten like wet hide. Its wings curled protectively toward the heart of the balcony, casting jagged silhouettes across the floor.

It looked even more menacing than the one she had seen in painters’ illustrations. Still, Ilaria found herself standing beneath its gaze, the flicker of the flames dancing over her silks. She pressed trembling fingers to the railing, staring down into the ocean’s abyss that for a moment, she almost envied its endlessness.

Her lips quivered as she drew in a sharp breath, blinking quickly, forcing back the sting at her lashes. She would not cry. Not here. Not where even the dragon seemed to leer down at her sorrow as if mocking her for daring to dream.

"It’s too beautiful of a night to waste on tears, don’t you think, princess?"

The unfamiliar voice startled her. Ilaria turned quickly, the lanternlight catching the faint shimmer of tears she had yet to brush away. Her eyes widened when they landed on the figure approaching from where she had came from earlier. It was the eldest prince.

Her hands tightened around the railing even more, caught between instinctive courtesy and the echo of vulnerability she did not wish him to see. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and fall into a graceful curtsy despite her otherwise saddened countenance.

"Your Highness," she greeted, her tone respectful, as befitted the first prince of Noctharis.

When she rose, she found him watching her with a quiet curiosity. Prince Neven exuded the same cold, imperious air that clung to her husband, yet it was sharper somehow, like it was less contained, less softened by familiarity. Perhaps because she seldom saw him. It rattled her, though she tried not to keep the feeling.

Now that she thought about it, Prince Melvin might as well be the only peculiar one in their family.

Prince Neven’s resemblance to the King was undeniable. His features bore the same stern lines, though youth had not yet surrendered his face to time. Dark hair framed a countenance carved in austerity, his bearing carrying a maturity far beyond his years, as if he had been shaped not by ease but by centuries of unyielding rule.

He wore a simple dark robe, loosely tied at the waist. The sleeves falling carelessly as though he had only just risen from his bath and ready for nothing more than rest. His hair was slightly disheveled, and yet the ease with which he carried himself lent him a presence more arresting than any jewel-studded garment.

Ilaria cautiously lowered her gaze while mentally measuring the distance between them.

"I have heard of your return, brother-in-law, but I had not yet had the honour of greeting you until now," Ilaria said softly, smoothing her skirts in her weak attempt to anchor her wavering poise. "I hope Noctharis has been kind to you since your return."

Neven acknowledged her with a rise of his hand as he stepped further into the circle of lanterns. "It had," he replied, his voice was deep and smooth, and just a little amused. Then he spoke again in quite wonder, "I had not expected to see my brother’s wife to be here, alone beneath the dragon’s gaze."

His gaze swept past her, lingering for a moment on the statue of the black dragon before returning to her with an appraising calm that made her pulse quicken. "If I may ask, what brings you at this balcony at such an hour?"

Ilaria straightened. "...I could not return to my chamber," she admitted sheepishly, choosing her words with care. "It seemed more peaceful here."

Neven studied her silently for a long moment, making her shift uncomfortably. The way his gaze dropped down to her face, perhaps scrutinizing the trace of tears did not go unnoticed by Ilaria.

"Peaceful, yes," he said, his tone almost gentle like the breeze that moved past his slightly wavy hair. "Though it seems to me that something has disturbed that peace."

Ilaria pressed the back of her hand lightly to her cheek, hiding the faint moisture. "I am well," she said quickly, offering a small, polite smile. "Thank you for the concern."

He inclined his head, as though accepting her words at face value, yet his gaze lingered just a moment before he glanced beyond the railings. "If you say so," he murmured. "But you should be mindful, quiet night here can hold unforeseen perils."

"So as I’ve heard."

A wave of silence passed in the balcony, only the gentle breeze and the sound of the swaying lanterns could be heard, sending unbridle chill down her spine. Her gaze flicked to the prince, standing perilously close to the railings that, for a fleeting moment she feared a single step might send him over.

Her emotions still warred within her after discovering that Levan had unknowingly left her behind, so she wanted nothing more than to be alone. And besides, the balcony seemed to be occupied already.

Lifting her gown, she lowered into a polite curtsy, "Your Highness, I—"

But before she could so much as dismiss herself, Prince Neven spoke again, his gaze still fixed on the sea beyond. "Ever wonder how the Black Dragon chose its heir?"

Ilaria hesitantly looked up at him upon the question. It was unexpected as much as it was absurd. Of course, she knew. The ceremony was sacred, a rite every kingdom in the realm was bound to honour and uphold.

Heirs were chosen through The Coronation of Wings — a rite in which every next in line to the throne must stand before the divine dragon itself. One by one, they were presented at dawn, stripped of finery, carrying nothing but their vow, their token of lineage, and the fragile offering of their spirit.

In Caelwyn, the Coronation was held in The Sanctum of Lumina, the most hallowed temple in the land where every stone gleamed with the kingdom’s devotion to light.

It is not the court nor the crown that decides the sovereign. It is the dragon itself, whose signs are read and sanctified by the Kingdom of Aurathis royalties, the bloodline of The Golden Dragon whose gift is sight beyond sight. Without their sanction, no succession could ever be considered true.

Ilaria had been in the situation when she was much younger. She had faced the divine patron of Caelwyn, the White Dragon; the Guardian. She still remember how terrified and amazed she has been. Its scales had shimmered like snow caught beneath sunlight, blinding in their purity, its breath heavy with a power older than any kingdoms.

It was not cruelty that emanated from it, nor was it warmth, but a vast and unshakable stillness. The kind that made her realize how fragile mortals were against eternity. The dragon spoke no word to her, and though she felt the bond of bloodline stir, there was nothing special in it. Because it had chosen Serenya.

Every ceremony, no matter the kingdoms, followed the same tradition. So she thought, there was no reason for him to ask the question.

"Of course, I do," Ilaria replied. "I’ve been a part of the ceremony itself."

Neven did not so much as moved, only nodded at her answer, like he had asked the question only to fill the silence. But his actions did not match his words, making her wonder if it was merely curiosity that prompted him to ask or excuses for judgement.

"And so was I," he said quietly, slowly turning to look at her.

The motion made her flinched in an instant, causing the sadness that gnawed in her chest to halt its pulse. The golden orbs of the Noctharian royalties should have been familiar to her by now, but when he looked at her, she could not help but notice how eerily empty his eyes were.

There was no warmth in them, only a depth like a well inked with winter that was so dark it stole her breath.