Quiet Conversations

Maerilee

I move toward Brook, a smile on my lips as I approach. The grand ballroom is still buzzing with laughter and conversation, but all of that fades into the background as I focus on him. He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed, his expression detached, almost like he’s observing everything from a distance, like he’s in the room but not really part of it.

He glances up as I approach, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before darting to either side, as if to check if I’m actually heading toward him. The surprise in his gaze is subtle, but it’s there. He wasn’t expecting this. I can’t help but find it a little amusing. Did he really think I wouldn’t notice him, standing off to the side like that?

“Brook,” I say, my voice light, as though we’re simply old friends catching up. “You’re hiding over here like you don’t want to be found.”

I stop a few steps in front of him, my smile widening just a fraction. He straightens, uncrossing his arms, but he still looks a bit stiff, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. I get the sense he’s uncomfortable, and I wonder why. He doesn’t strike me as the type to get flustered, but there’s something about his posture that feels uneasy.

He gives me a nod, but it’s awkward, almost reluctant. “I’m not hiding,” he says, his voice low and measured, as if he’s carefully choosing his words. “Just observing.”

I raise an eyebrow, tilting my head slightly. “And what have you observed so far?”

Brook shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking away from mine for a moment before returning. “That you’re doing a lot of circulating.”

I laugh softly. “Guilty as charged. I suppose I’m doing what’s expected of me.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and I take a step closer, lowering my voice a little. “I hope I’m not interrupting your observation. I thought you might want some company.”

Brook glances at me, and for the briefest moment, I think I see something flicker in his eyes. It’s warm, like he appreciates the gesture, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. He shrugs slightly, but his shoulders remain tense. “It’s fine. You’re not interrupting.”

I search his face, trying to figure out what’s going on in his mind. His responses are clipped, careful, like he’s trying to keep some part of himself hidden.

I wonder if it’s the pressure of the evening getting to him. The ball, the expectations, the constant scrutiny from everyone around us. It’s overwhelming enough for me, and I’m used to this kind of thing. Maybe Brook just isn’t comfortable in these kinds of settings. Maybe he’s nervous, and that thought makes me soften my approach a little.

“I’m not a big fan of all this either,” I say, gesturing vaguely to the ballroom, the pomp and circumstance of it all. “But it’s what we have to do, right? Part of the duty of being who we are.”

He glances at me again, and this time, there’s a hint of understanding in his expression. “I guess so,” he mutters.

There’s a moment of silence between us, and I can’t help but feel a little disheartened. I was hoping for something more. I didn’t expect fireworks, but I thought maybe I’d feel something stronger when I looked at Brook.

Yet again, I feel nothing.

Well, not nothing. I do feel something, a pull, maybe—a sense that Brook is important in some way. But it’s not the all-consuming certainty I was hoping for. It’s not the One feeling. And as much as I try to shake it off, the disappointment is there, lingering at the back of my mind.

Still, I can’t let Brook see how discouraged I am. I keep smiling, determined to make the most of this moment, or at least have a real conversation with him.

“You seem a little tense,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Are you okay?”

He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the floor for a second before meeting mine again.

“I’m fine,” he responds, though the tightness in his voice suggests otherwise. “This is just a little overwhelming.”

I nod, understanding.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” I breathe out. “All these people, all this pressure”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I can see his posture relax, like he appreciates the acknowledgment. I take another step closer, lowering my voice so it’s just the two of us in this moment.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I feel it too. Every eye is on me tonight, everyone just waiting for me to either find my One or fail. It’s exhausting.”

Brook glances at me, and this time, there’s something softer in his gaze. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, but then he stops, his jaw tightening as if he’s holding himself back.

* * *

Brook

Maerilee is talking to me.

I can’t quite wrap my head around it. Her voice is soft, sure, and when she speaks, it’s like every word is carried on a gentle breeze, light but impossible to ignore. I glance around the grand ballroom, half-expecting to see someone watching with a smug grin on their face, like this is some elaborate joke. Someone dared her, surely, to talk to the lesser prince, the one who lurks in the shadows while the rest of the court dances in the light.

But there’s no one else. No one behind her giggling, no secret looks being exchanged across the room. It’s just her. Maerilee, the princess of Altinna, with her long whitish hair that shimmers with lavender in the candlelight and those silver eyes that are looking straight at me, like I matter.

“So, Brook,” she says, her voice cutting through the noise of the ball, “what do you think of Altinna?”

I blink, thrown by the question. What do I think of Altinna? What kind of question is that? I’ve barely seen the place. We’re only here for the ball, and it hasn’t left much time for forming opinions.

I clear my throat, trying to come up with something that sounds halfway intelligent.

“It’s beautiful,” I manage, which feels both true and terribly inadequate. “The architecture especially. The way the palace blends into the landscape. It’s like it’s a part of the mountains.”

She smiles, and for a moment, I’m stunned by how genuine it looks. Not the practiced, polite smile royalty tends to wear at these events, but something warmer.

“That’s what I think, too,” she answers with excitement. “I love that about the palace. It’s like the stones themselves are alive, holding up the walls, protecting us.” She pauses, looking a little wistful. “They’ve been doing that for a long time.”

Her words hang in the air, and I get the sense she’s talking about more than just the stones. There’s a heaviness behind her eyes that I hadn’t noticed before, a weight of responsibility that feels far too great for someone as young as she is. It’s strange. She’s a princess, destined to rule, yet in this moment, she seems lonely.

I’m not used to this, to conversations like this. People don’t talk to me. Not like this. Not as if what I think matters. My brother, River, is usually the one who gets all the attention. He’s the handsome one, the charismatic one. He’s also arrogant as hell. I glance over at him now, and sure enough, he’s in his element, flirting with one of the Altinnaen noblewomen, making her laugh with whatever charming nonsense he’s spouting. I don’t know how he does it.

When I look back at Maerilee, she’s still watching me, her eyes curious.

We start talking about art, my favorite subject, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel awkward or out of place. Maerilee listens to everything I say, really listens, and asks questions that show she’s genuinely interested. It’s not just polite small talk. She’s engaged, thoughtful, and kind.

Then I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that River has been watching us. At first, I think it’s just because he’s bored, but then I see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes narrow every time I make Maerilee laugh.

Is he jealous?

The thought is almost laughable. River, the golden prince, jealous of me, the shadow. It doesn’t make sense. But I can see it in his expression, the frustration, the simmering anger. He can’t stand that I’m talking to her, that she’s paying attention to me and not him.

I try to ignore it, focusing instead on Maerilee’s next question about water magic and how it can be used to enhance art. I’m halfway through explaining a technique I’ve been working on when I see it.

A thin layer of ice forms on the floor just behind a servant who’s carrying a tray of spring wine.

River.

I don’t know if he meant it as a prank or if he’s just lashing out, but it’s clear what’s about to happen. The servant steps onto the ice, his feet slipping out from under him. The tray flies into the air, and an entire bottle’s worth of wine heads straight for Maerilee.

Time slows. Without thinking, I reach out with my magic, feeling the water in the wine, the way it moves through the air. I focus, guiding it, redirecting it. The wine curves away from Maerilee at the last second, swirling through the air like a ribbon.

And then it dumps itself over River’s head.