Clara didn't sleep.
How could she?
Every time she closed her eyes, the council chamber returned—those cruel stares, the cold accusations, Cedric's smug calm.
But above it all, she kept replaying his voice.
"If they come for you again, Clara—I'll be in their way."
She sat curled on the window seat of her chamber, arms around her knees, watching the sunrise set the palace rooftops on fire. Pale gold bathed the garden paths below, and she found herself wondering—
Did he sleep?
A knock broke her thoughts.
Before she could answer, the door opened quietly.
It was him.
Alaric.
Still in yesterday's coat, his dark hair messier than usual, eyes tired but steady. "You're awake."
Clara's voice came out softer than she meant. "So are you."
He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door behind him. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then, he moved toward her.
Not with urgency.
Not with command.
Just… slow, careful steps like he was afraid she'd vanish.
"I didn't come to talk politics," he said quietly. "Or war. Or bloodlines."
She didn't stop him as he sat on the edge of her window seat, close—too close—but not touching.
"You didn't have to come at all."
"I did," he said simply. "Because when I left that balcony last night, you were still afraid."
Her throat tightened. "I still am."
Alaric reached out—but instead of holding her hand, he just let his fingers rest beside hers.
Not touching. Just near enough that she could feel the heat of it.
A whisper of almost.
"You don't need to be brave with me," he murmured. "You've already carried too much alone."
His words disarmed her more than any sword ever could.
So she turned her palm—just slightly—until their fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
But it was everything.
The kind of soft, dangerous closeness that made her heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with politics.
He smiled—just barely—and let the silence stretch.
"Will you be at the hearing?" she asked.
He nodded. "Right beside you."
"You'll be seen."
"I want to be."
Downstairs, the Council prepared for war.
But in that quiet chamber, with hands half-linked and eyes locked on each other—
Something else had begun.
Not war.
Not duty.
Something warm.
Something real.
[ To be continued…]