CHAPTER 76: ALMOST...

The convoy was nearly ready by the time Levan guided her toward the horses. The knights moved with quiet efficiency, their armours faintly gleaming beneath the dull light as they checked the packs and tightened the reins.

Levan’s hand was warm against her back as he led her to his stallion, a broad-chested dark bay that pawed at the ground restlessly. Without a word, he steadied her by the waist and lifted her up effortlessly. Ilaria grasped the front of the saddle, settling in uncertainly as her cloak brushed against the horse’s flank.

He did not mount immediately, instead he lingered for a moment, speaking with the Captain a few steps away about managing the village, his voice half-lost in the wind. Ilaria watched the exchange absently, and her gaze soon wandered over the village once more.

Charred roofs. Wilted gardens. Children clutching worn blankets that were far too thin for the coming rain. A woman knelt by what was once her home, sifting through the ashes with trembling fingers...

It should not have been so quiet. Not after all that had happened.

Her chest ached.

She wondered how many times this scene had played out before, how many lives were erased and rebuilt in silence while she, far away in her palace, had laughed without knowing; without needing to suffer in poverty. The thought hollowed her.

She did not realize Levan had returned until she felt the warmth of him behind her. His arm brushed hers briefly as he settled onto the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. The sudden steadiness of his presence drew her back from the ache in her chest.

The wind tugged at her hair as the stallion shifted beneath them. Levan’s arm came around her, steadying her when the saddle dipped slightly with the motion. His hand found hers where it rested on the reins, his touch warm and sure.

"Hold on," he said softly, guiding her hands with his. "If you’re tired, just rest. I’ll keep us steady."

The words were not an order but an offer, spoken in that calm, unhurried way of his.

Ilaria hesitated for a moment, her fingers flexing beneath his before finally leaning back against him. The tension in her shoulders eased. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing behind her, and she let it anchor her as the convoy began to move.

As they move through the forest once again, exhaustion tugged at the corners of her eyes. Her fingers loosened around the reins as the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait lulled her until everything else became blurry.

Levan’s arm stayed firm around her, guiding both her and the stallion with practiced ease. When her head finally came to rest against his chest, he adjusted his hold just slightly and tugged her hood down, enough to keep her steady, enough to let her breathe.

He lowered his chin, murmuring something she was too far gone to hear — a promise, maybe, or just her name.

And before the first drop of rain fell, she was already asleep in his arms.

~×~

Ilaria blinked awake to the muted rustle of canvas and the faint scent of herbs. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, before her vision steadied on the soft golden glow of lanterns suspended along the tent’s polished frame.

The interior was far from austere. The royal insignia stitched in silver thread across the drapes, the floor lined with thick woven rugs to soften the chill, a polished oak table stacked neatly with documents and a single vase of wildflowers someone had clearly placed there for her.

She found herself resting on a broad cot layered with fine linens and fur throws, and a blanket drawn carefully to her chin. Her mantle, still dusted with soot from the village, had been folded neatly over the back of a carved chair nearby.

She stretched with a little hum, arms arching above her head like a sleepy kitten before slipping off the bed. Her bare feet touched the cool ground, and she padded toward the tent’s entrance with the soft, unsteady grace of someone caught between sleep and waking.

Outside, the air was crisp. The storm had rinsed the world clean. A few guards exchanged quiet words near the campfire. The forest edge loomed dark and immense, yet there was a fragile calm to it all. The kind that only came after surviving something terrible.

"Princess?" Alonzo’s voice carried first, quickly followed by Maelon’s sharp intake of breath. Both knights straightened immediately when they saw her, rumpled and yawning yet glowing all the same.

"Ah, there you are," Ilaria greeted brightly, rubbing her eyes. "Good morning... or is it evening already?"

Alonzo smiled. "The sun hasn’t up yet, princess. You rested for a long time, it’s already night."

"Oh, I see~" she chirped, clasping her hands behind her back as she wandered closer. "Where’s my husband?"

"His Highness is in a meeting with the Captain," Maelon explained, bowing slightly. "He ordered us to stay with you... and to ensure you eat properly."

Ilaria tilted her head. "Eat?"

"Yes, princess." Alonzo nodded, gesturing to the tent on the right. "Dinner is already prepared for you in the mess tent."

Her nose wrinkled as she rocked on her heels, thinking. "Alone?"

The two exchanged glances, unsure how to answer.

Then Ilaria huffed softly, puffing her cheeks. "I don’t want to eat alone. Come with me."

"Princess, I don’t think—" Maelon began, but faltered under her expectant gaze.

"Please?" She pressed her palms together in an exaggerated plea, eyes sparkling. "You’ll get hungry if you keep standing around me all the time anyway!"

"...But that wouldn’t be appropriate, Your Highness," Maelon said quickly. "We’re on duty."

"And it’s not fitting for us to dine with you," Alonzo added, though his tone wavered the tiniest bit under her gaze.

"But you’ll make me look lonely," Ilaria countered with an innocent pout, clasping her hands dramatically to her chest. "Do you want people to think the knights abandoned their poor princess to eat all by herself?"

Maelon visibly panicked. "N-no, of course not!"

"Then sit with me!"

The two exchanged a helpless glance. Alonzo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth like a man resigned to fate.

"...As you wish, princess."

Ilaria beamed triumphantly, already skipping ahead toward the mess tent while the flustered knights followed in defeated silence.

Moments later, the three of them sat together on rough benches, bowls of stew steaming before them. Ilaria clasped her spoon with delight, chattering cheerfully about the flavours while the knights found themselves eating slower, listening, and even smiling.

The princess did not care that her hair was messy or that her cheeks were still pink from sleep. She laughed, she shared bites, she even nudged bread across the table toward them as if they were childhood friends instead of the knights assigned to her.

And though they would never say it aloud, Alonzo and Maelon both thought the same thing: no wonder the crown prince adored her. She was lovely, and charming in her own, adorable way.

The dinner lasted longer than any of them expected.

The stew bowls had long been emptied, yet none seemed eager to leave. Ilaria sat cross-legged on the bench, sleeves half rolled and eyes bright with mischief as she spoke, hands flying animatedly.

"...And then," she whispered with theatrical seriousness, "the kitchen maid swore she saw Lord Albrecht trip over his own cape during the last banquet. Right in front of the foreign envoy! Can you imagine?"

Alonzo choked on his drink. "What?! That pompous— he always acts as if his boots are made of gold!"

Maelon slammed his cup on the table, scandalized. "He’s the one who lectures us about posture!"

"It’s true!" Ilaria insisted solemnly, then broke into laughter. "The maid said he fell so hard his wig nearly slipped!"

Both knights lost it completely, roaring with laughter and cups knocking against the table. It was impossible to tell who looked more entertained, the princess gleefully feeding them palace gossip, or the two hardened soldiers who suddenly resembled gossiping aunties at the market.

But the moment did not last.

A hand emerged from the flap of the tent before the fabric was pushed aside, making the conversation die instantly.

Both Alonzo and Maelon froze mid-laugh. Their hands shot to their knees as they straightened in an instant, the same men who had just been cackling like tavern regulars now suddenly statues of discipline.

Ilaria blinked at them, confused at the sudden silence. "Hm? What’s wrong?" She asked lightly, still smiling until she followed their gaze and turned around.

Levan stood just a few steps away, cloak draped over one arm, expression unreadable save for the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

Ilaria’s face brightened, her smile returning in full bloom. "Husband!" she exclaimed, as if the tension in the room did not exist at all.

Both knights straightened even further, trying not to look like they had been laughing like fools moments ago.

Levan’s gaze flicked briefly to them, then softened as it returned to her. He stepped forward, the flap falling shut behind him as the faintest of sigh left his lips, a sound closer to fondness than reproach.

The knights scrambled to their feet the moment Levan moved. Bowls were gathered in a clatter of nervous haste, benches creaked, and before Ilaria could ask what on earth they were doing, both men had already bowed and all but fled through the tent flap.

"H-huh? Alonzo? Maelon?" she called, blinking after them, but they were already gone.

Levan did not so much as glance their way. His steps were unhurried as he moved past her, the brush of his cloak stirring the faint scent of rain and steel in the air. As he passed behind her, his fingers grazed her jaw, a touch so brief and habitual that it barely registered as deliberate.

Then he sat down beside her, not properly at the table like she was, but opposite, his back resting against the edge of the wooden table, one arm propped lazily on the surface. The posture was relaxed, almost casual, though there was still an unmistakable weight in his presence that made the small space feel even smaller.

Ilaria tilted her head up at him, still half lost between confusion and delight. "You scared them away."

He merely shrugged, a tiny pout on his lips before he smiled at her, saying, "They’ll survive."

"You say that as if they’re off to battle," she teased, the corners of her eyes glinting with laughter.

"In some ways, dining with you might’ve been harder."

Her eyes widened, affronted for a moment before she realized the jest. "Are you implying I’m difficult to eat with?"

He gave a quiet hum, not answering immediately, simply watching her as the lamplight flickered over her face. "Not difficult. Just distracting."

The words hung between them, quiet and honest. Ilaria blinked, her lips parting slightly before she looked down, shyly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Levan let her linger in that silence for a moment, noticing how flustered she got before he shifted, hand brushing against her jaw to make her look at him, his thumb tracing the faint warmth of her chin.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked then, his eyes searching hers tentatively.

"I did," she said after a pause, voice small. "Better than I thought I would. I didn’t mean to... fall asleep while we were riding. But thank you for carrying me anyway."

"You needed it. You looked exhausted."

She smiled. "But you must have been uncomfortable."

"Hardly," he said, raising a brow. "You were quiet for once."

Her mouth fell open. "Excuse me? I do not talk that much."

He hummed noncommittally. "Mhm. Of course not."

"Husband!" Ilaria whined.

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and rare, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that day. "Alright, alright," he said, lifting a hand in surrender. "Maybe only a little."

"Thank you," she said with exaggerated primness, crossing her arms.

Levan only shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Her laugh was soft, her eyes so bright and so alive it hurt.

For a moment, he simply looked at her.

The flickering lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, and then she was talking again, something about the stew and how it needed more salt, but he barely heard her. His gaze lingered on the movement of her lips, the way her smile softened whenever she glanced at him.

But then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, her laughter faded too.

Her eyes slowly met his.

And the air between them seemed to still — so completely that even the flame between them dared not flicker.

Levan’s gaze dipped, almost absently, to her lips before lifting again to meet her eyes. He had not meant to look. Had not meant for the warmth curling low in his chest to give him away. But it was too late.

She already saw it.

Ilaria’s breath caught, her fingers frozen where they brushed the edge of his hand. She could feel the faint heat radiating from him, the kind that pulled her closer without a word.

He did not look away like she thought he would. Instead, he leaned in slowly, so deliberately until she could feel the whisper of his breath against her cheek, making her rigid where she sat with her heart pounding.

"You’re staring," he murmured, voice low enough that it trembled in her bones.

"...You started it," she whispered back, smiling faintly, though it quivered at the edges as if the effort of pretending not to tremble might undo her completely.

His lips curved, almost sinfully. His eyes flicked down once more to her mouth and lingered — too long — before slowly rising again, softer now, making her clench the edge of the bench.

"...Maybe," he said.

And the distance between them vanished to a breath.