Chapter 22: The Chair
Morning light filtered through the latticed windows of Aldenmere's eastern wing, accompanied by the occasional crisp chirping of birds. A sparrow landed on the windowsill, peering curiously into the room.
Rendell woke in the chair.
A deep, bone-penetrating ache radiated from his neck, spreading slowly from his cervical spine toward his shoulders and the base of his skull—the kind that only came from spending an entire night slumped in the wrong position. He jerked upright, startling the sparrow from its perch, but dizziness forced him back down with a groan.
His gaze fell on the table before him.
The teacup was still there.
A faint ring of tea stain marked the rim; the cup itself was empty, drained by his own hand the night before. He stared at it for a long while.
For some reason, his mind drifted back to the first time he had seen her.
Before the ceremony, waiting in the antechamber, she had stood among the crowd, barely reaching the waists of the adults around her. He had been dressed in formal attire so stiff it made him feel rigid, positioned in a corner of the hall. Her posture had been remarkably composed for a child, her eyes roaming the room, glancing at each person without betraying much interest.
But his eyes had never left her.
Mia. The kingdom's princess. His princess.
Later, he had naturally become her knight, always standing behind her, and when necessary, in front of her.
He had stood by her side for thirteen years.
During those thirteen years, there was one thing they had never spoken of.
She knew what it was, and both of them had buried it in the deepest recesses of their minds. This unspoken matter made the logic behind his choice of position fundamentally different from that of other court knights: his loyalty belonged to the seven-year-old girl he had first seen at the ceremony. That single conviction had remained unshaken throughout those thirteen years.
The moment he had lifted the teacup last night, he had understood what Mia intended to do.
He recognized the tone in which she had suggested tea—he had heard it before. She only used that tone when she needed someone to stop. Before departing, she would typically fall silent, methodically fastening the clasps of her satchel one by one, retrieving her notebook from the desk and tucking it into an inner pocket. She had asked him to prepare tea because she needed him to stop, to remain in that chair until she was far beyond the palace gates.
So he had lifted the cup and drained it.
He had let it happen. If given the chance to choose again, his decision would be the same.
Even so.
Sadness came first, earlier and heavier than he had anticipated. She had planned it in advance. She had known he would follow, so she had "dealt with him" one step before her departure. This meant she had made a judgment about whether he should be involved. The reasoning behind that judgment—he could think of three possibilities. She might have been protecting him. Or perhaps she believed his involvement would make it harder for her to accomplish what she needed to do. Or it was something in between. Whichever it was, he found it difficult to accept.
She did not accept his protection—or rather, did not trust that he could protect her.
He had spent thirteen years standing in the corridor to her left. She had taken away the meaning of his position there.
Anger came after sadness, settling on that cup of tea and on the fact that she had executed her plan completely in front of him while he had cooperated step by step. What he found hardest to digest was the precision with which she had predicted that even if he saw through her scheme, he would still drink the tea.
But this emotion did not last long.
The next thought that came to him was that if their positions were reversed, he would have done the same thing.
This realization repeated itself in his mind, and with each repetition, it became harder to blame her. He knew her well enough to predict her decisions a second before she made them. She had always placed judgment before emotion—he had noticed this from the moment they first met.
So she had made the judgment she should have made.
The one to blame was himself.
This thought weighed on him for a long time. The ache in his neck gradually spread to his shoulders as he remained still. He raised a hand to rub the side of his neck, letting blood flow back into the area, then finally stood from the chair once more.
He moved mechanically to the washbasin, glancing at himself in the mirror. His hair was disheveled, his eyes somewhat downcast, and the stubble on his jaw longer than usual. He shaved, dried his face, and began donning his armor. Throughout the entire process, he maintained his usual pace. These motions, committed to muscle memory, brought him a sense of calm and prevented his mind from wandering.
He needed to see the king first. His plans after that would require more time to consider.
As for pursuit—he was uncertain. She had wanted him to remain in that chair, and he had. This morning, rising from it, he still honored that pause. What she had taken was his position at her left side. She could take that position, but she could not take away the other things he could do as a knight.
Protection could take different forms. Even when not by her side, there were other ways to guard her back, to pave her path from an unseen direction. She was out there now; he would remain here, pursuing the things she temporarily could not.
He left the teacup on the table and walked out of the room.
The corridor was quiet at this hour. From the eastern wing came only the distant, rhythmic sound of changing guards, muffled and regular. He walked toward the southern wing, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor with the same resonance as the countless times he had walked this corridor over the past thirteen years.
Except this time, the space three steps ahead of him was empty.
Edran's study was located in the southern wing of the palace, facing the inner courtyard. Now that autumn had arrived, the white maples in the courtyard had begun shedding their leaves.
Morning wind swept through the open latticed windows, pushing the curtains inward an inch before releasing them. The desk was large, made of dark oak, covered with documents stacked in organized piles, each weighted down by a small stone. Edran sat behind the desk, facing the inner courtyard through the window, turning a quill between his fingers without writing.
When Rendell entered, the king did not look up, but he knew who had come. In the palace, at this hour, there was only one person who would walk into the southern wing study like this.
"Speak."
"Her Highness the Princess left the palace last night," Rendell said, standing before the desk with the same rigid posture he always maintained when reporting, his gaze fixed on a neutral point behind the desk. "She departed alone. I was unable to prevent her actions. Her movements before departure indicate she traveled east, and I judge her destination to be Elarin. I cannot confirm where she will go afterward."
Edran listened, set down his quill, and looked up.
That expression—Rendell had seen it before. It was the look the king wore when hearing news he had long anticipated. It carried more weight and less of the surprise one would expect.
"Was she safe when she left?"
"Yes."
Edran gave a slight nod.
Then came silence.
That silence was absolutely beyond Rendell's expectations. Under normal circumstances, even an ordinary father learning that his daughter's whereabouts were unknown should feel anxious, should he not? Let alone when the daughter in question was a princess.
Edran seemed to sense Rendell's incomprehension and finally spoke.
"Let her go."
When Rendell heard those three words, he forgot to breathe.
This was an order. No pursuit party, no cavalry, no support or protection of any kind. Aldenmere's princess had left the royal city alone with a satchel, and her father had chosen to let her go.
His jaw tightened for a moment, just once, then relaxed.
"Yes." His voice maintained the same steadiness as during his report.
Edran looked at him. In that gaze, Rendell detected something he had not expected to see on the king's face. It was not the afterglow of a command, nor was it an explanation. It was closer to a heavy acknowledgment.
"The council had already confirmed the timing and scale of the military force to be sent to the Rift," Edran said, pausing, each word carefully placed. "But she went herself. So this is her own choice. If what the prophecy says is true, she will not need any army. This is her own destiny."
Rendell bowed slightly. He asked nothing more. In thirteen years, he had learned one thing: not to expect wooden doors to open from stone.
He turned and left the study.
The corridor in the southern wing was wider than that of the eastern wing, lined with portraits of past royal family members. Light slanted in through floor-to-ceiling windows, pressing the outlines of the portraits against the walls. As Rendell passed Mia's portrait, he stopped for a second, not looking at the painting but at the silhouettes of the white maples swaying in the wind outside the window.
Her destiny. But she had never believed in such things.
He continued forward, toward the palace exit.
In the study, after Rendell left, Edran remained seated behind his desk for a long time. The documents remained untouched.
Finally, he withdrew his gaze from the inner courtyard and retrieved something from the bottom drawer.
It was a painting on a small wooden board, its edges worn—evidence that it had been taken out and put away many times, handled frequently. The painting depicted an infant, eyes closed, sleeping deeply, appearing completely peaceful from the outside.
The painting was too simple to be the work of a court artist.
Edran placed the painting on the desk and looked at it for a long time.
Outside, the wind in the inner courtyard rose again, blowing a white maple leaf into the study. It landed on the corner of the desk; he did not reach for it. In that instant, the resolute king seemed to age ten years.
Finally, he spoke.
It was a very short phrase, his voice pressed almost against the surface of the desk. There was no one else in the study, so no one heard what he said.
"I'm sorry."