Chapter 9: The Edge of Knowing

Annora

The corridors stretch before me, endless in their silence, cloaked in shadow and stone. My steps are deliberate and steady, but my pulse betrays me, quickening beneath my skin and drumming with the steady rhythm of unease.

Alaric has summoned me.

And I do not know why.

I try to anchor myself in routine. I have answered his summons many times before. I have stood in that chamber, bowed my head, and spoken when spoken to.

But today is different.

Because I saw something I should not have. Something that cannot be explained away.

The Obsidian Guards outside his chamber, still as statues, their dark armor etched with ancient runes, barely acknowledge my presence. One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Olen, gives a sharp nod before stepping aside.

The heavy door groans open.

And I step inside.

The chamber is dimly lit. The curtains remain drawn, casting the space in a cocoon of flickering gold and amber. Candlelight dances across the dark stone walls, chasing shadows that never quite disappear. The air is heavy; not with incense or smoke, but with something unspoken, like a question left unanswered for far too long

Alaric stands near the hearth, his figure half-lit by fire. The flames catch in the weave of his tunic, tracing the sharp lines of his frame in a molten light. He does not move.

But he knows I’m here.

There’s a stillness to him, a coiled ease. Like a predator waiting, not to strike, but to decide if the moment calls for it. And yet, I remember what I saw last night. The slip in his mask. The glimpse of something ancient, terrifying, and not entirely human.

He does not turn. His voice is the first to move.

"You hesitated."

Smooth. Low. Edged with something unreadable.

I straighten. "I came as soon as I was summoned, Your Majesty."

At that, he finally turns. His dark eyes find mine immediately. They are sharp, searching, as though peeling back each layer of me in silence.

"And yet," he repeats, stepping forward slowly, "you hesitated."

The space between us feels smaller than it should.

"I did not expect a summons today," I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral.

A flicker of something, amusement, perhaps, brushes the corners of his mouth. "No?"

He’s toying with me. Testing.

He knows I’m unsettled. And he enjoys it.

There is always weight in the way he watches me. But now, it is heavier. Not just curiosity. Not even desire.

Something else.

Still, I do not look away.

"You have called for me, and I am here," I say. "What would you have me do?"

He does not answer immediately. The silence stretches, long, deliberate. It hums between us like a string pulled taut.

Then he motions with his finger, "Come closer."

I hesitate, not from fear, but because I know he sees it. The shift in my breath, the tension in my shoulders. The subtle signs of restraint.

But I move forward anyway.

I will not show fear.

At least, that is what I tell myself.

My gown whispers against the floor. The flickering firelight spills across the chamber, casting his face in alternating bands of shadow and flame. He watches every step I take, still and unreadable.

When I stop before him, I can feel the heat of the fire… and of him.

His gaze settles on me, quiet and heavy. But not like a man looking at a servant. Or even a queen-in-waiting.

No.

This is something older. Something deeper.

"You’ve been... thoughtful of late," he says, casually.

But his voice is too careful. Too deliberate.

I imagine Lord Tristan must have spoken to him. Or someone else who watched me when they thought I wasn’t looking.

I keep my voice even. “Should I not be?”

He steps closer. A single step, yet it changes everything. It narrows the world to the space between us. A show, a reminder he is in control of the space between us.

"It depends," he murmurs. "What occupies those thoughts?"

I meet his gaze. “Nothing that would concern a king.”

A beat of silence.

"A careful answer," he says softly. "Well measured. Almost... practiced."

"You summoned me," I reply. "And I came. That is all that matters, right?"

His lips curve, not quite a smile. A flicker of something...approval, perhaps, or something darker.

He is still watching me. Not for what I show.

For what I withhold.

"It is rare," he says, voice low, "to meet someone who knows when not to ask a question."

There it is.

The test.

Unspoken, but sharp as a blade sheathed in silk.

"I ask only what you are willing to give," I say, holding his gaze.

He tilts his head slightly, considering me. The intensity in his eyes shifts, less rigid, less distant. There is no warmth in them, but there is… something.

Something ancient. Something aware.

"Good," he says at last, voice low and deliberate. “Some knowledge is best left untouched.”

A warning. Velvet-wrapped. Gentle in tone, sharp beneath.

But I hear it.

I feel it.

His hand lifts, slow, deliberate; as if to touch me.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers hover near my cheek, a breath away from contact. Suspended in the space between desire and discipline.

"Do you fear me, Annora?" he asks.

"No," I whisper the lie.

"Then you are wiser than most," he says. "Or far more dangerous."

His hand falls away, slowly, as though the choice costs him something.

The air between us is still charged. Too full of silence. Too full of meaning.

He watches me longer than necessary. The firelight catches in his eyes, dark and endless.

"I will not ask you again," he says at last. His voice is quiet. Firm. Final.

I hear it as a closing of the moment. A line drawn with care.

But he means something else.

Then so softly I almost miss it he adds, “I have no desire to harm you.”

There is something in his voice I’ve never heard before.

Not power.

Not command.

Ache.

I nod, unsure what to say. The weight of it lingers between us, delicate as glass.

He does not move as I step back.

The distance is a relief.

And a loss.

Still, he does not stop me.

Not with his voice.

Not with his hands.

Not with the truth I do not yet know.