It's been almost a hundred days.
The east wing was completely change yet Velastra never appeared yet.
Then, it was midday when Cael and his mother stepped out of the palace's eastern gate, their cloaks drawn low against the dusty breeze.
The plant market of Irithiel was a mosaic of green stalls, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs, root oils, and drying blooms. They came in search of hardy roots and healing vines—something to plant in the new garden of the east wing. The place is teemed with life—vendors shouting, and children weaving through stalls.
Among the vibrant chaos of vendors, one voice pulled Cael's attention like a tug to the chest.
"Nirhaleth's mistleaf! Good for breath and broken hearts!"
Cael turned. Behind a modest stall of woven reeds and sun-shaded cloth stood a man, lean and broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled high. His hands were stained green from roots and herb sap, but his face was unmistakable. Elion, once the youngest of Cael's sword trainees, now looked older than his years—scarred, but alive.
"Elion?" Cael stepped forward, brows furrowing.
The man looked up, then froze, recognition striking like lightning. "Your highness." A smile broke across his face, tempered by something heavier. "You're freed."
Cael offered only a nod. Elion's gaze darted to Cael's mother respectfully, then back to him with quiet urgency.
"You still remember Nirhaleth, don't you?" Elion said in a low voice. "Our people? Our brothers who bled while Irithiel watched?"
Cael's jaw tightened.
"I remember everything."
Elion pressed. "There are still those who will follow you. If you raise your voice, your highness, even once—they'll rally."
Cael looked down at the herbs in Elion's hands. Nirhaleth's herbs. Irithiel's soil.
He shook his head slowly.
"Your High—"
"Me and Velastra," he said, quiet but unflinching. "We were made of opposite realms. Pain and power. But we are bound now. Thus, Nirhaleth and Irithiel are no longer enemies. Not in this kingdom. Not in me."
Elion's face darkened, grief and frustration fighting for space.
"Can't you see?" Cael said, voice lowering. "How everything's trying to grow together now. Even things that once bled to kill each other."
Elion nodded once.
"Your highness, to your wife, we have nothing against her." Elion's voice was steady now. "Velastra. To most of us… she's already our princess. She married you. That bond means more than blood ever did."
"However, the king and his followers," Elion said without hesitation. "The chain-makers. The silencer. That crown still drinks our blood, and not even her shadow can protect us forever."
The market buzzed around them, unaware of the quiet war spoken between old soldier and fallen commander. Elion's hand slowly relaxed around the stalks of mistleaf.
Cael looked at him for a long moment.
Then he said, calmly:
"I will come to you one day."
A flicker of hope flashed in Elion's eyes—only to falter at Cael's next words.
"But not for war."
Elion's gaze searched his, and after a long pause… he nodded.
"That's enough," he said. "For now."
Without another word, Cael turned and glanced at the rows of plants. Then he knelt and picked up one stalk of each herb.
"We'll take them all," he said.
Elion raised a brow. "All?"
"Every root, every sprout," Cael said. "We'll plant Nirhaleth in the east."
A soft whistle left Elion's lips—and from behind distant market stalls, several cloaked figures stepped out from the crowd, silent as ghosts. Not soldiers, but old comrades, still watching from the shadows. They moved forward, lifting baskets and crates wordlessly, helping Cael and his mother carry the bounty.
Cael paused only once before leaving. He looked over his shoulder at Elion.
"Keep watching the sky," he said.
Elion grinned faintly. "Always do."
And with that, Cael disappeared into the crowd, roots of his past in his arms, and the weight of a future not yet born stirring behind him.
---
Night had almost fallen over the sanctuary of Orion's place—quiet and high, where stars seemed near enough to touch. The silver-blooming trees rustled with wind that smelled of cold stone and crushed herbs, and the torches lining the outer corridors flickered like watchful eyes.
Within the quiet warmth of her chamber, Velastra sat in silence, her back resting against a silken headrest, one hand toying absently with the bracelet Cael had made. The pain of her wounds pulsed beneath her skin like a dull drumbeat, but it was not what kept her from sleep.
A knock echoed—a soft, deliberate rhythm. One of the mountain guards stepped inside and bowed low.
"Your highness… Lord Cael was seen in the plant market with his mother this afternoon."
Velastra's eyes shifted slightly, alert.
"Was there trouble?"
The soldier hesitated.
"They approached a herb vendor named Elion— a former Nirhaleth soldier. There were…words. No blades, but intent lingered. He offered support for rebellion."
Velastra did not move. Not a muscle in her face changed.
"And Cael..."
A long pause. The soldier continued, as if expecting fury, a demand for punishment, maybe even names.
But Orion, who stood nearby sifting through scrolls of medicine and old Oath-script, looked up with a knowing smile. He saw the small flicker in her expression—not rage, but something far more dangerous.
Concern.
Thus, when Velastra finally spoke, it was not about Elion, nor rebellion.
"You said they were in the market," she murmured. "Did they take a royal escort?"
"No, your highness."
"Were they dressed in house colors? With crest?"
"Plain cloaks. Modest garments. They looked like anyone else."
Velastra's brows furrowed faintly. Her gaze dropped, staring at the pattern in the silken sheets.
"Did anyone… scorn them?" she asked, voice softer now.
The soldier blinked. "No. In fact, they were greeted with warmth. Some even bowed. Children offered flowers to Lady Lirae."
Velastra let out a breath—almost a sigh, but tangled with something like longing.
"He didn't even bring guards," she whispered. " What if someone… will dare to strike!"
Orion moved beside her now, arms crossed, still smiling gently, as he signaled the soldier to leave.
"And here I thought you'd be most concerned with whispers of rebellion. You are really changing."
Velastra looked at him, her voice steady, but her eyes shining faintly in the torchlight.
"They can raise swords against the throne if they like. But if they ever raise voice… or hand… to him—"
She stopped herself. Her jaw tightened. The bracelet around her wrist glinted.
Orion studied her for a moment more, then nodded.
"Noted."
And Velastra… she sat in silence once more.
Only now, her mind did not dwell on rebellion or war. It stayed in that sunlit market—on Cael's quiet steps through the crowd, unseen, unguarded… and utterly beloved.