Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks I should have been in Kahz'Morr, not here playing the convalescent.

  The scar on my stomach screams with every one of Azel's movements, but I grit my teeth. Pain I can manage. It's the inaction that's killing me.

  I pass through the western gates of Ephesia. The dusty road winds ahead between olive groves. Behind me, above the ramparts, the imperial palace rises with its fluted columns. A permanent reminder of Taran's power.

  I should be patrolling the borders of the Saiynah Empire. Hunting centaurs. Serving. Instead, I'm running errands at the agora and heading home to my mother like a good little soldier.

  I pull my linen scarf up over my nose. A sharp, automatic gesture. The beige fabric filters the dust kicked up by Azel's hooves. The air is warm for spring. Too warm. Between the olive trees, the earth is already cracking. The smell of raw fiber and sweat fills my nostrils.

  Screams tear through the silence.

  Instinct roars. My hand tightens on the reins. The commotion is coming from the east, near the stables. I press my heels into my stallion's flanks. He surges forward.

  Mariana's stables appear between the cypress trees. The pale stone buildings with their clean lines and columns echo those of the palace, but without the crushing opulence. The outdoor arena stretches to my left, a circle of golden sand enclosed by rough wooden fences.

  A white mare rears, clears the arena fence in one powerful leap. Her rider clings to her mane, body dangerously tilted to one side.

  I spur Azel on. Wind whistles past my ears. The distance closes, but not fast enough. The mare charges straight toward the forest, her rider tossed like a ragdoll.

  The first trees swallow them. Holm oaks with gnarled trunks, stone pines casting dense shadows. The air turns sharply cooler beneath the canopy. The morning heat doesn't reach here.

  A low branch catches the young woman full in the face. The impact is brutal.

  Her body hits the ground hard. The mare vanishes between the trees, her frantic whinnying fading into the undergrowth.

  I pull on the reins. Azel skids, his hooves sinking into the slick moss. Before he's even stopped, I'm already on the ground.

  My legs protest. The scar sends a hot slash of pain along my side.

  Not now.

  I run toward the motionless shape lying between the roots. The smell of damp earth and dead leaves fills the air. I drop to my knees beside her, press two fingers to the hollow of her throat.

  There. Faint but steady.

  My breath releases.

  With infinite care, I slide one hand behind her neck, the other beneath her shoulders. She's lying on her side, curled in on herself. I roll her gently onto her back.

  My fingers move across her skull with the methodical thoroughness learned on battlefields. A purplish bruise on her right temple, already swelling. No open wound. No visible blood.

  But head trauma is treacherous. I've seen enough men die hours after taking a blow to the head.

  No immediate danger. I should look away.

  I don't.

  Her hair, copper with hints of honey and early dawn, fans out across the moss. A contrast against the dirt smudging her cheeks. A shaft of light breaks through the branches, catches the strands, sets them ablaze.

  Her eyelids flutter. Open slowly. A grimace twists her delicate features as she tries to raise her hand to her injury. I intercept the gesture. Close my fingers around hers.

  "Easy. You took a hit. Better not to move too quickly."

  She turns her head toward me. Her gaze locks onto mine.

  Blue. Deep as mountain lakes, clear and unfathomable at once. Eyes that spell trouble.

  The linen of my scarf presses against my mouth with each breath. I can feel the warmth of my own breath against my skin. To her, I'm nothing but a pair of pale irises above a dusty strip of fabric.

  Time stalls. My heart rate climbs a little higher, and it has nothing to do with the effort.

  Several seconds pass before she fully comes back to herself. Still disoriented, she blinks a few times. I think I catch a flicker of fascination in her eyes as she looks at mine, that same unsettling pull I feel washing over me.

  My pulse pounds at my temples. I run a hand over the back of my neck, fingers lingering on warm skin.

  Focus.

  I pull back sharply. Put distance between us. Too close. This proximity, this unexpected intimacy...

  "You're conscious. That's what matters."

  My voice comes out clipped, stripped of any warmth.

  "Can you stand?"

  She nods, tries to push herself up on her own. Ignores the hand I offer. Her legs give out immediately.

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  I catch her by the shoulders.

  "Let go of me!"

  She struggles weakly.

  "Of course."

  I release my grip. She sways.

  My arms close around her waist before she can fall, pulling her against my chest.

  Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  "You seem to be having trouble assessing your own condition."

  She bites her lower lip. The gesture catches my attention despite myself.

  I look away.

  "You can let go now."

  "No."

  I click my tongue, call Azel with a sharp sound. My stallion trots over, dust clinging to his dark coat.

  "This way."

  I help her into the saddle. She winces as she settles, one hand pressed to her temple. I swing up behind her.

  "This isn't necessary. I can ride on my own."

  "I'm sure you can. I've seen the evidence."

  The irony slips out before I can stop it. I take the reins, wrap one arm around her to keep her steady in the saddle. Practical necessity. Nothing more.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  "Anything broken?" I ask, pressing my heels into my horse's sides.

  "I don't think so."

  She tests her elbow, wincing slightly.

  "But this fall is going to leave a mark."

  "You were lucky. I've seen riders die for less."

  The air thickens. The steady rhythm of hoofbeats fills the space between us. Her closeness unsettles me more than it should.

  Stop.

  I reach for something to say. Anything to break the silence.

  "The commemorative parade is coming up. Will you be attending?"

  My voice sounds oddly strained.

  A long pause. Then:

  "I'll be participating, actually."

  I frown.

  "Really?"

  "Let's just say my role will be a little different from the spectators'."

  She doesn't elaborate. A hint of mystery in her voice.

  "I see. You're involved in the organization?"

  "Not exactly."

  Neither of us speaks. The awkwardness thickens.

  Why won't she just answer directly?

  "What about you?" she asks. "Will you be there?"

  "My presence will be required, yes."

  I leave it at that. The medal ceremony waiting for me. Recognition I couldn't care less about, but that means everything to my mother. She doesn't need to know. We all keep our little secrets.

  She breathes in slowly. I hear her exhale, slightly unsteady. Then:

  "Well. Thank you for bringing me back in one piece. More or less."

  The seconds stretch. I can't find anything worth saying to keep the conversation alive. I feel ridiculous.

  "Maybe I should work this into the parade," she murmurs after a moment. "The spectacle would be... memorable."

  A trace of bitterness beneath the words. Sarcasm. Unexpected from someone who just came close to dying.

  Despite myself, the corner of my mouth curves.

  "I'm confident you'll manage to stand out without risking your life this time."

  She turns slightly.

  "Don't worry. I save my stunts for special occasions."

  We emerge from the trees. Sunlight blinds us. Heat settles heavily on our shoulders. She winces, presses her hand to her temple again.

  "And here I was imagining my first shared ride would be more... romantic. Less pain, more flowers. Maybe even a sunset."

  I go still.

  Romantic.

  The word reverberates through me. Dangerous. Impossible.

  But it's not just the word. It's her back against my chest. Her warmth. The smell of cinnamon in her hair.

  My body betrays every ounce of soldier's discipline I have. A burning wave rises from deep in my core, spreading lower still.

  Get off the horse. Now.

  I drop to the ground in one sharp movement. Grab the reins. Walk without looking at her.

  Every second feels like lead as we make our way back to the stables.

  The arena appears at last between the columns, a perfect circle under the spring sun.

  As we arrive, Mariana rushes toward us, arms raised to the sky.

  "By Gaia! Elianor, Leandris, my darlings, are you alright?"

  The world tilts.

  Elianor.

  The name rings through my head like a death knell.

  Elianor Thalear.

  The crown princess.

  Daughter of the merciless Taran.

  The sweat turns to ice beneath my linen mask. My breath crushes against the fabric. A trap. I feel like I'm suffocating.

  My gut twists with panic.

  Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

  I held her against me. I looked into her eyes. I felt the warmth of her body. I...

  No.

  "Nothing serious, Mother. Don't worry."

  My voice comes out harder than I intended. Mariana raises a surprised eyebrow.

  "She was thrown by her horse."

  I gesture toward Elianor with a sharp nod, turning away at the same time. I can't meet her eyes now. Not after realizing who she is.

  "The animal bolted into the woods."

  "Leria will come back," Mariana says, already helping the young woman down.

  Her practiced hands examine the bruised temple.

  "My salve will take care of that. Come, sweetheart."

  She turns to me, eyes warm with that maternal concern that always makes me uncomfortable.

  "And your scar? Did it hold up?"

  The pain still pulses, dull and relentless. But it's nothing compared to the chaos in my head.

  "It held."

  A lie.

  As Mariana begins guiding Elianor toward the buildings, I seize the reins, fists clenched. Carefully avoid any eye contact with the princess. My hands are trembling slightly.

  The crown princess. You touched the crown princess. You found her desirable.

  You absolute idiot.

  "Thank you, Leandris," my mother adds.

  The words reach me through a fog. My mouth forms an automatic response:

  "It was only my duty."

  My own voice sounds distant. Foreign.

  I mount up. Break into a gallop, eyes fixed on the trees ahead.

  I run.

  Because staying one second longer near her would be a mistake. The worst mistake I could make.

  She is untouchable. Out of reach. Dangerous.

  I am invisible.

  Insignificant.

  And royally fucked.