CHAPTER 59: THE PRAYER UNHEARD

It was raining.

The morning downpour came steady and soft, pattering against the tall windows until the glass looked like it was weeping. Ilaria walked without direction, the hem of her gown whispering against the marble floor while Melyn trailed a step behind with her hands folded neatly before her.

The scent of wet earth and lavender drifted faintly through the open arches, carried by the breeze. Somewhere far below, the rain pooled over the courtyards and roofs like melted glass. The two women had been circling the same corridor for nearly ten minutes.

The handmaiden watched the princess carefully, feeling something off with her quietness. Ilaria would never be quiet when she has someone around her.

"Do you want to stop by the kitchens?" Melyn asked at last, testing the waters. "There’s fresh bread, I heard. You could bake with them, perhaps try those with the honey jam you like?"

Ilaria shook her head. "No."

"Alright. Then maybe the greenhouse? You’ve been meaning to check the hydrangeas. They like this kind of weather."

Another small shake. "Not today."

Melyn sighed under her breath, lengthening her stride to keep up with her until she was by her side. "The library, then? You said you wanted to finish that book Lord Lysander teased you for abandoning."

A faint sound escaped Ilaria like she just got betrayed, pouting, "He’d only mock me for still being on page twelve."

"That’s better than none," Melyn offered, trying to cheer. "I’ll fetch you a coffee so you can pretend you’re studying very hard."

"No," Ilaria murmured again, soft but final. "I don’t feel like reading."

They turned down a long corridor where rainlight dappled the marble, shifting like ripples across water. The palace servants passed them quietly, arms full of linens and trays, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of rain on stone.

Melyn, still sceptical at the princess’ behaviour, tried again. "You could bake something, at least. Or we could visit the music room. You’ve barely touched the harp since last month."

"There’s no reason to bake. My husband’s away," Ilaria said absently, eyes following the rain streaking down the glass.

Melyn slowed her pace at that, pressing her lips together. "You could still bake for yourself."

Ilaria only hummed, not committing.

They paused at an archway where the rain’s sound deepened, echoing through the open courtyard beyond. The world outside was a blur of grey and green, the trees bending under the weight of it. Ilaria reached out to touch the cool stone of the railing, watching the droplets gather and fell like small, patient sighs.

Melyn frowned faintly, studying the back of Ilaria’s head. The only time the princess will close her mouth was when she was sleeping, so it was hauntingly unusual for her to not even speak of cinnamon rolls or the pleasant dream she had last night. She wondered if something happened, or if the crown prince has truly broken her now.

She said, "You’ve been quiet since earlier."

"I’m just tired," Ilaria replied too quickly, too gently to be convincing.

"Tired," Melyn repeated, lowering her voice as if afraid to startle her. "Or troubled?"

Ilaria turned to her then, her eyes reflecting the faint shimmer of rainlight. For a heartbeat, her gaze seemed distant, like she was caught somewhere else entirely. Then she smiled, the kind of smile that could almost pass for calm if one did not look too closely.

"You worry too much," she said lightly.

Melyn studied her for a beat. The trouble in her eyes did not go unnoticed by her. Shifting closer, she then asked carefully. "Do you want to go somewhere quiet then?"

Ilaria blinked, thinking for a moment. She glanced at the sky, the rain, and a sense of unease laced in her heart. "Actually..." she murmured before looking back at Melyn expectantly. "...Is there a closed space here that nobody uses?"

Melyn raised a brow, wondering why she would ask such a thing. But she nodded and said, "There’s the Dawn Gallery. It used to be an art room, I think. No one’s painted there in years. The eastern wall is all glass, though."

Ilaria brightened at the description. "Ah, that’s perfect then. An open space with a wide glass wall facing the sunrise," she nodded to herself like she was checking a checklist in her head.

"Please bring me two candles and a white bowl with clear water. The kind the kitchens keep for the sanctum." Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, an old habit that always came back when she wanted comfort. "I want to pray. It has been a while since I did so."

In Caelwyn, every home, from the humblest cottage to royal palaces, has a ’corner of light.’ It is usually placed near a window or beneath an open beam where sunlight can fall freely. On the small altar is a white bowl of clear water and two candles on each side of the bowl.

The royal family maintains Hall of First Light, which is a great, circular chamber open to the sky with a huge pool at its center that catches rain and sunlight alike with candles surrounding the walls. But no matter the stature, all families recite the same prayers.

Since Noctharis do not practice the same ritual, they do not have the corner here, so Ilaria would need to adapt to a different method.

Melyn’s brow softened at the way Ilaria was fidgeting, then she nodded. "Two candles and a white bowl, then. Will that be all, princess?"

"Yes," Ilaria said, surprising them both by the steadiness in her voice.

They walked through the palace with measured quiet. Melyn carried the bowl between both palms, careful as if it held more than water, and the candles were tucked beneath her arm. While Ilaria walked beside her, hugging the linen veil she always used for praying.

When they reached their destination, the Dawn Gallery smelled faintly of cold stone and damp wood; the eastern panes wore the rain’s memory in trembling droplets. Beyond the glass, the first pale thread of light threaded the cloudline, though the rain has yet to fully subside.

Ilaria took in the sight of the room, it was old, as she had expected. But the huge wall made of glass made her stare in awe. She could almost see the whole city from this view. Not wanting to waste time, she arranged the candles and set the white bowl on the low table. Then she struck the flint with a practiced hand and watched the tiny flames lift into two small, steady beacons.

The two flames were meant to call the White Dragon’s blessing. One for guidance, the other for protection, while the bowl of clear water is to remind the heart of cleansing and oath. It was a ritual where they ’feed the light.’ Because in Caelwynians’ culture, to feed the light is to remind the world that darkness was never permanent.

Ilaria sank to her knees before the wide pane of glass, where the rain drummed soft and constant. The pale light shifted across the marble floor, touching the edge of her gown. She reached for the folded linen and draped the veil over her head, the fabric whispering as it slid down to rest around her shoulders.

For a moment, she adjusted its edge, folding it neatly under her chin. It was an old habit from home, a movement learned by heart.

Before she starts, she closed her eyes and prayed for an ease of heart throughout the next ritual. Then, she opened her eyes again.

"Melyn," she called, "you don’t have to wait here for me. I’ll return when I’m ready."

Melyn hesitated by the archway. "Are you sure, Your Highness? It’s—"

"I’ll be fine," Ilaria interrupted gently, turning just enough to offer her a small smile. "I’m only going to pray for a while."

The handmaiden lingered for a heartbeat longer, reluctant still, before bowing her head. "Alright then. I’ll be nearby if you need me."

When her footsteps faded down the corridor, only the sound of rain remained. Ilaria exhaled slowly, her hands folding together in her lap, and the soft tremor that had lived in her since morning finally began to ease.

Looking down at the bowl, she cupped her hands over the water, letting its coolness run between her fingers, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved in the old litany her mother taught her, words not loud enough to be heard outside the glass but exact enough to settle the rising tremor inside her.

The prayer left her lips like a thread of light, woven from words she had not spoken in too long. It felt like the room was holding its breath. Even the rain outside seemed to pause, its rhythm softening until she could hear only her own heartbeat.

She waited for the sign she had always known. The Dragon’s breath will snuff the flame when a prayer was heard. But when she opened her eyes...

...both candles still burned.

Ilaria froze.

Their flames were tall and unwavering, too steady for the draft that ghosted through the cracks of the glass wall. For a heartbeat, she told herself she must have done it wrong, that perhaps her tongue had forgotten the right order of the words.

But as she watched, the right candle that symbolised guidance wavered, not as if a breath had passed, but as if something had leaned close to watch her instead. Her breath stuttered and the beats of her heart quickened, but she forced herself still.

The priests at the Temple had warned of such things before, that when the veil between realms thinned, restless spirits might slip through and meddle with the sacred rites, borrowing the Dragon’s silence to make themselves heard. But no matter what, one should never be afraid.

Ilaria’s hands stayed folded in her lap, gripping her fingers tightly in hopes to lessen the fear that threatened to crawl out of her mind. Every teaching from the temple had told her never to invite a voice unproven. Because the ritual was meant for supplication, not conversation. Even her husband warned her to never listen to the Blithe.

Yet she had seen her father do it once, kneeling before the shrine of the White Dragon, his voice low and his eyes faraway as he spoke to the unknown. She had seen her sister, too, answering the unseen with perfect calm and steadiness as if the world beyond light was nothing to fear.

She had not inherited that steadiness, nor the courage. But the restlessness had been gnawing at her ever since that day.

So despite the tremor, she forced herself to be brave.

"I only want to know...If you mean to harm me, or if you mean to warn me," she whispered into her palms, her voice small, breaking apart at the end. And when she finally raised her head, she let her hands fall open in her lap like an unspoken permission.

The moment she did, the flame immediately blew out. And the voice that answered her was not divine.