82: The Change in Her Eyes

The weeks after were uneasy days, like a storm gathering upon the horizon. Alden studied Elara closely, trying to fathom the subtle yet undeniable changes in her. What had once emanated warmth and grace now seemed sharper—proud, bordering on condescension.

It was more than just the words she employed; it was in how she held herself. She had once moved through the palace with quiet surety; now, she strode among her subjects as though the very walls were beneath her. The servants noticed it too, stealing worried glances whenever she walked by, her fleeting image collected deeper bows than ever-not out of respect, but of fear.

Alden told himself she was under stress. That she had gone through a lot. That she needed a little time to recompose her life. Then he saw her with their son.

It was late afternoon, and the sun hung low in the sky, sweeping long golden streaks through the palace gardens. Their son, just barely four years old, was down on the grass with his small hands busy handling little wooden soldiers. He laughed uproariously as he knocked them down; he imagined some grand victory after a fierce engagement.

Elara stood watching just a few paces away.

He had moved in softly, caught up in the hopes of reconciling under some shared moment of repose. But with each step toward her, he saw the way Elara's gaze fixed on the boy not with tenderness but with minutely restrained scrutiny.

"Why do you play like that?" she blurted suddenly, her voice devoid of its usual softness.

The boy blinked up at her. "Like what, Mama?"

She stepped forward, her gown scarcely making a sound in the grass. "Like a commoner’s son," she said, kneeling beside him. "A prince does not sit in the dirt. A prince commands from above."

The child frowned, staring at his toy soldiers. "But they need me to fight with them."

Elara sighed, almost as if she were disappointed in the answer. "No," she said, reaching down to grab one wooden figure out of his little hand. "They need to be led. They need to know their place."

Alden sucked in his breath.

"Elara."

She turned, impenetrable expression now brightened with a smile. "Alden. I was just teaching our son about power."

Alden moved closer to her, crouching beside the boy with his hand resting lightly on the child's small back. "He is playing," he said softly. "Let him play."

Once again, Elara tilted her head, mulling over his words, and then placed the toy soldier back down. "Very well," she declared as she stood upright. "But he will have to learn soon. Power is not given to those who do not claim it."

Sensing the tension, the boy flicked his attention back and forth between his parents, pausing to pick up the toy soldier again.

Alden tacitly followed Elara as she left, the golden light shimmering upon her dark strands of hair. The way she carried herself unsettled him, something within him unsettling knowing she no longer looked at the world like him.

That night, he found her in their chambers, draped in silk before the vanity mirror. She had her fingers tracing along the ornate gold trim, and she seemed to be lost in thought for one moment.

“Elara,” he said, audibly closing the door behind him.

Her eyes caught his in the mirror, a slow smile pulling at her lips. “My king,” she purred.

Alden walked across the room, stopping directly behind her. “We need to talk.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Talk? About what?”

“Elara, you’ve changed.” He stared at her reflection, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he once knew. “You speak of power as if it’s the only thing of any significance. Even with our son—”

“He must learn,” she interrupted smoothly.

"He is four," Alden countered. "He needs kindness, not lessons in conquest."

Elara turned now, her silk robe slipping slightly down one shoulder. "You worry too much," she said, stepping closer to him. "Is that how a king behaves?"

Alden stiffened. The playful manner in which she addressed him was etched in a different meaning, as if it were an examination; testing his soft spots, seeing just how far he might bend before breaking.

"Elara, I need you to be honest with me," he said in a steady tone. "What has been happening to you?"

In an instant, the sparkless gaze that annoyed him glimmered, and the next moment she pressed the attack: her lips upon his moving in slow, purposeful transition.

For a moment, Alden's heart stopped; he raised his hands to her waist, believing beyond hope that maybe-the faintest possibility-she was still the same woman he had always loved.

Then she pulled away from him, her own gaze sparkling with a knowing and cruel glimmer.

"There," she whispered, rubbing her thumb over his jaw. "No more talking."

Alden let out a sigh, taking some steps back while running a hand through his hair. "Elara-"

She silenced him, trailing her fingers along his collarbone and to rest on his chest. "You think too much, my love. That is your problem."

"No," he said angrily, seizing her wrist to prevent her escape. "The problem is, I don't know who you are anymore."

Her eyes flashed, amusement dancing just behind. "I am exactly who I've always been," she said, voice now soft yet filled with finality.

Alden stared, his heart heavy with all the words left unasked.

"You don't believe me?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

"I want to." He would have said more but broke off with a slight shake of his head. "But something is different."

Elara dramatically sighed and glided over to the bed before gracefully sitting down. "Alden, you are clinging to a version of me that no longer exists. I have seen the world now. I have seen its truths."

"And what truth is that?"

"That power is the only thing that matters," she said simply. "Without it, we are nothing."

Alden took a deliberate step forward. "And love?" he pressed. "Where does love fit into that truth of yours?"