CHAPTER 72: A QUIET CONFESSION

The rest of the day went by in a blur.

Ilaria had been far too excited to keep her composure. Well, not that she tried to. The moment she left the throne room, she practically floated through the corridors, humming under her breath with a smile so bright that servants paused mid-step to bow, whispering confused greetings as she passed.

Even the guards posted outside the chambers were not spared the gentle whirlwind that was their princess. Because for the first time in weeks, her mind was not weighed down by worry or longing. For tomorrow, she would finally be by his side. Not waiting behind stone walls, but there, where he was.

And of course, Melyn heard about it first.

The poor handmaiden barely had the door shut before Ilaria launched herself onto the bed, words tumbling out faster than she could breathe. She told her everything. About how she had marched into the throne room, how the knights looked ready to faint, how her husband had tried and failed to deny her all while waving her hands and grinning like a child recounting a grand adventure.

Melyn could only listen in stunned silence, alternating between horror and reluctant amusement as the princess proudly reenacted her own audacity. And by the time night fell, Ilaria was still wide awake, staring at the canopy with a soft, dreamy smile that refused to fade.

When the morning light finally streamed through the tall windows of the western corridor, the convoys for the expedition were already awake, preparing supplies and equipment for the journey. The scent of steel and parchment hung faintly in the air — the familiar mark of departure day.

Levan stood by the table, already dressed in a dark coat fitted neatly against his frame, the silver embroidery catching just enough light to make him look far too regal for someone who claimed he was not vain. The leather gloves slipped easily over his hands, his movements precise and disciplined.

But there was tension in the set of his shoulders, the kind that came from conceding a battle he never meant to fight. He drew in a breath, fastening the last of his gloves before pausing, his eyes closing like a general mourning the cost of a gentle defeat as he let out an exhausted sigh.

He still could not believe he had said yes.

Shaking his head, he flexed his fingers once, testing the gloves before reaching for the dark sash at his belt. His reflection on the polished window stared back. Every inch the composed crown prince of Noctharis, except for the faint crease between his brows that betrayed his thoughts.

He should not have allowed her to come.

And yet, when she had looked at him with those hopeful eyes, all logic had gone straight to hell.

"...Saints help me," he muttered, rubbing at his temple, voice low enough that the nearby attendants wisely pretended not to hear.

He already agreed, and she had been so eager that she could not even fall asleep last night. She was really glowing. He could not possibly back out on his words now, right? Unless he wanted her to cry and label him as a mean husband again. That was something he could not afford.

He already made that mistake once.

Behind him, faint footsteps echoed from the other side of the chamber. It was light, almost bouncing with poorly contained excitement. Levan did not need to turn to know who it was. At this point, the whole palace knew who these steps belonged to.

Sure enough, when he finally glanced over his shoulder, Ilaria emerged from the adjoining door — the one he had allowed to be built between their chambers after she transferred from her old one right beside his.

It was a small request she had made, and one he had told himself was harmless; a quiet indulgence he had agreed to weeks ago and pretended not to regret. Yet lately, he was not so sure if the ease of her nearness was harmless at all.

She was swaddled in enough layers to rival a snowdrift. Her mantle hung askew, her scarf slipping from one shoulder, her hood crooked and half-covering her eyes.

Clearly, she had taken the news about the North’s cold a little too seriously.

Levan’s brain short-circuited. Of all the things he expected to see that morning, his wife buried beneath enough fabric to outfit an entire regiment was not one of them. Is she that excited?

"What," he said, already striding toward her, "are you wearing?"

It wa ridiculous, the way she looked. "Do you plan to fight the cold or smother it to death?"

Ilaria blinked up at him from beneath the lopsided hood. "I heard that the North can be freezing this time of year," she said defensively, tugging at her slipping scarf. "So I came prepared."

"Where did you heard that?"

"From King Agrathen’s chronicles," she said without a hint of irony, lifting a finger like she was about to lecture him. "He wrote that half his men froze before they even reached the foothills, so I thought better to be safe than sorry."

Right, of course.

A quiet sigh left him, one that somehow carried both disbelief and affection. With impossible gentless and efficiency of a soldier, he tugged her mantle straight, secured the clasps, and drew the hood into place. His gloved fingers lingered as they brushed her chin, tying the fastening properly.

"Prepared," he murmured, more to himself than to her, though his lips quirked faintly. "You’ll trip over all this before the cold even touches you. It looked heavy enough."

Ilaria beamed up at him, her cheeks flushed pink from the weight of his attention. "But I was right, wasn’t I?"

Levan nodded. "You were," he admitted, his thumb brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. "It’s just... you’re a little too prepared. I was not expecting it."

Ilaria laughed, the sound light and unguarded, her breath clouding faintly in the morning chill. "No~ You’ll be grateful when you see how cold it really is," she teased, tilting her head just slightly into his touch before he could pull away, as though he was not an expert when it comes to the weather in the North already.

Levan froze at the motion. It was subtle, but it was enough to make his composure falter for a fraction of a second. His thumb stilled against her cheek, and for that small, quiet moment, neither of them moved.

What was wrong with him? He thought to himself. It was not like this is the first time he had touched her face...

Then, with a breath that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he smoothed his glove down the side of her face, fingers grazing the soft edge of her jaw before dropping his hand completely. "If you catch a chill anyway, it won’t be because I didn’t warn you to just stay here."

She smiled up at him, eyes bright with mischief and something gentler beneath it. "And if you catch one, husband, I’ll be there to heal you."

That earned her a huff. "I’m beginning to think you’re starting to enjoy tormenting me."

"Maybe a little," she admitted cheekily, her smile tugging wider when his brow lifted in quiet warning. "I like it when you indulge me. It feels like I really am your wife."

Levan was not sure how to respond to that.

Indulge her? Had he?

The word lingered in his mind longer than it should have. Once, he would have dismissed it outright. A wife had been nothing more than a political title to him then. A bond of duty, not affection. Something necessary for their kingdoms, not something that would one day laugh in his throne room or smile at him like he had hung the moon.

But looking at her now, with her scarf crooked and cheeks flushed pink, with that unshakable light in her eyes that always managed to find him no matter how dark the day, he could not quite summon that same detachment. Somewhere between her stubborn smiles and her quiet persistence, the boundaries he built began to blur.

Maybe it was when he first noticed her pure intention to get closer to him. Or when she insisted on accompanying him despite the late hours. Or maybe... it was when he could not help but feel an overwhelming guilt towards her, because all she had ever done was try to reach him, in her own awkward, endearing ways.

He did not want to acknowledge it. He did not want to admit that her warmth had started to matter, that her happiness somehow weighed heavier on him than all the battles he had fought. But there it was... unmistakable and unrelenting, curling in his chest every time she smiled at him like he was something more than duty.

Kathryn had been right all along. Her contentment was indeed his responsibility, not out of duty, but out of something far more dangerous. Because the quiet satisfaction her smile stirred in him felt like a reward carved for a better man. And he, who had long since traded gentleness for command, did not deserve it.

So yes, perhaps he had indulged her. Again and again.

Before he could stop himself, the words fell from his lips. It was so gentle, so unguarded, and so achingly sincere it startled even him.

"What are you saying?" His voice was barely above a breath, his eyes tracing her face like he meant to memorize every line. It was not the look of a prince or a commander, but of a man undone by the very person before him.

"You are my wife."

The world seemed to hold its breath, and Ilaria did too. Her lips parted, her breath catching as if the moment itself was too delicate to move through. Her eyes shimmered, not with triumph, but with something fragile and warm.

Because for all the tenderness he had shown her lately, she never imagined he would say something like this. She never imagined that such simple words could feel like a vow. It was absurd how such a factual thing could stir her whole system, but then again maybe because it was him who said it.

The husband she thought was so far from her reach.

Levan exhaled, smiling softly as he extended his arm to her. "Come then," he said quietly. "Before I start rethinking this entire decision."

She hesitated only for a breath before sliding her hand through his arm. His sleeve was cold beneath her fingers, but the quiet strength beneath it was not. While Levan’s gaze flicked down to her, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.

For once, he did not hide the softness in his eyes. And as they stepped toward the doors, Ilaria felt something achingly familiar yet entirely new blooming in her chest. Because she had loved him quietly for so long, content with the distance between them.

But now... with his warmth brushing against her arm and his words still echoing in her heart, it no longer felt one-sided.

For the first time, it felt like he was walking toward her, too.