Chapter 3: The Weight of Apples and Ashes
After Evander is dismissed, the heavy door clicks shut, leaving Elowen and Gareth alone in the charged silence.
The absence of her brother was a physical relief, but the air remained thick, stagnant with his poison. Gareth stood rigid, his jaw tight, as if carved from the same stone as the walls. Elowen—still trembling from the phantom pain in her shoulders—forced herself to meet his eyes. She saw the shadows under them, deep and purplish. She saw the way his shoulders carried an invisible burden, a weight that had nothing to do with muscle or sword.
“You look tired,” she said.
The words were soft, but they hit the quiet like a stone dropped in a well. He flinched as if struck. A ripple of something raw—surprise, annoyance, recognition—crossed his face. Then he let out a bitter, hollow laugh that held no humor at all.
“Observation is a dangerous hobby, Princess,” he said, but his voice lacked its earlier steel. He moved to the head of the table and pulled out her chair with a rough, efficient motion. The legs scraped against the flagstones. He gestured for her to sit.
She did, the green silk of her gown whispering around her. He took his own seat at the opposite end, a vast expanse of polished oak and gleaming silver between them. Servants materialized from hidden doors, presenting a first course of spiced pear soup. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the clink of spoons.
“The weather has been unseasonably mild,” Elowen said, the courtly inanity feeling like ash on her tongue.
“Yes.”
“The venison smells excellent.”
“It does.”
She took a small, deliberate bite of a bread roll. It was perfectly baked, soft inside, crusty out. She watched him. He hadn’t touched his soup. He was staring at his wine goblet as if it contained the answers to a question he dreaded asking.
“How many horses do you have in your personal stable?” she asked, abandoning the pretense.
His eyes flicked up. “Twenty-seven. At last count.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“That’s like asking a father to name his favorite child.” He picked up his spoon, finally, and stirred the soup without eating. “A bay gelding named Torren. He’s stubborn. Thinks he’s clever.”
“Is he?”
A flicker, almost. “He is. He opens his own stall gate if he thinks I’m late with his oats.”
The servant came to clear the untouched soup. A platter of roast venison, glazed root vegetables, and a small bowl of perfect, red apples was set between them. Elowen watched Gareth serve himself with mechanical movements. Then she picked up a small fruit knife and selected an apple.
She cut it in half. Then into quarters. Then, meticulously, into eighths.
She felt his gaze on her hands. When she looked up, he was watching her, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “Why eighths?” he asked. His voice was quieter.
“Smaller pieces last longer. You can savor it. And it’s less messy.” She didn’t mention that she’d noticed her horse preferred them that way. That felt like a card held too close.
He was silent for a long moment, then he asked, “And your home? What is it like?” It was grudging, as if the words were physically pulled from him.
She set the knife down. “Colder. All gray stone and sea mist. The libraries are damp, so the books always smell a bit like mushrooms and salt.” She took a breath. “My favorite book is a volume of Aldorian love poetry. The one with the blue cover, translated from the old tongue.”
He almost smiled. It was a wry, fragile thing. “Romantic poetry? I’d have pegged you for military histories.”
“I read those too. But the poetry… it’s about love. it’s about the human experience, isn’t it? Having it. Not having it. Having it and then losing it. All the strategy in the world can’t map that terrain.”
The air between them shifted. The ghost of Evander’s words—a monster wearing a prince’s skin—seemed to rustle in the tapestry behind Gareth, but Elowen focused on the man in front of her. On the ink stain smudged near his thumb. On the weary intelligence in his eyes.
He was looking at her, really looking, not through her. The armor had a crack.
She picked up a perfect, slender slice of apple. She held it out across the vast table, an offering in her fingertips.
He didn’t move for a heartbeat. Then he pushed back his chair. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He didn’t walk the long way around. He simply stood and walked the few paces to her end of the table, his shadow falling over her. He took the apple slice from her hand. His fingers, calloused and rough, brushed against hers. The contact was brief, electric.
He ate it. He stood there, chewing slowly, looking down at her.
For a moment, his eyes softened.