She didn’t pull away, though every instinct scread to. His fingers lingered, warm and deliberate, and she felt the heat of his presence like a tide pulling her under.
"Eryndor," she said, her voice trembling, "what are you doing?"
"Seeing you," he said simply, his eyes locked on hers. "Not the princess, not the queen-to-be. Just Viana. Let ."
Her heart pounded, and for a reckless mont, she wanted to give in—to the night, to his beauty, to the promise of escape in his touch.
He leaned closer, his breath grazing her cheek, and she felt the pull of surrender, her body swaying toward him. The silk of her nightgown felt too thin, her defenses crumbling under his gaze.
But a flicker of mory—Rayne’s grin, Arden’s steady hands—snapped her back. She stood abruptly, stepping to the balcony’s edge, her hands gripping the railing.
"This... this isn’t right," she said, more to herself than him. "I don’t know what you want, but I can’t."
Eryndor rose, his expression unreadable but his voice gentle. "I want nothing you don’t freely give. I see your heart, Viana, and it’s beautiful. But I’ll respect your boundaries."
She turned, her chest tight. His sincerity disard her, but his beauty still felt like a spell. "Why ?" she asked, her voice raw. "You could have anyone."
He smiled, a softer one this ti, less calculated. "Because you’re real. In a world of masks, you shine through. I don’t expect you to trust that yet. But I hope you’ll let prove it."
The night stretched on, and though she kept her distance, they talked until dawn’s first light crept over the horizon.
Eryndor shared more—tales of elven lovers who bound their souls, of forests that whispered secrets. Viana listened, her guard up but her heart softening, drawn to his world despite herself.
As he prepared to leave, slipping toward the balcony’s edge, he paused. "If you ever wish to see the Glade, Viana, I’d show you. No crowns, no duties. Just you."
She didn’t answer, but his words lingered as he vanished into the dawn, as silent as he’d co. Viana sank onto her bed, her mind a storm of guilt, longing, and confusion.
***
The following night, Viana’s chambers felt smaller, the air heavy with the mory of Eryndor’s visit.
She’d spent the day distracted, her court duties—approving a new trade envoy, eting with a guild leader—marred by flashes of his silver hair and disarming smile.
Rayne’s absence left a quiet ache, and Arden’s steady presence during their morning lesson had only deepened her confusion, his reserved deanor now laced with a warmth she couldn’t ignore.
The Love Percentage bar, silent since Rayne’s 35%, lood in her mind, a reminder of the tangled battlefield her heart had beco.
She sat by the balcony, her silk nightgown replaced by a heavier robe of deep blue, its weight a feeble shield against the night’s pull.
The moon was fuller, its silver light pooling across the floor, and the jasmine scent from the gardens below was stronger, almost intoxicating.
Viana clutched a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it would calm her racing thoughts, but her eyes kept drifting to the balcony’s edge, half-expecting, half-dreading his return.
A soft rustle broke the silence, and her pulse spiked. She set the cup down, her hand brushing the dagger beneath her chair as she stood.
The curtains parted, and there he was—Eryndor, his silver hair glowing like liquid moonlight, his erald eyes catching hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
Tonight, his tunic was midnight blue, embroidered with silver stars, and his presence seed to fill the balcony, as if the night itself bent to his will.
"Viana," he said, his voice a velvet caress, warr than the night before. "I hoped you’d be here."
Her grip on the dagger tightened, though her resolve wavered under his gaze.
"You’re making a habit of this," she said, striving for firmness but hearing the tremor in her voice. "What if I’d called the guards?"
He smiled, slow and knowing, leaning against the railing with effortless grace. "You didn’t last night. And I wager you won’t now."
His eyes flickered over her, not predatory but searching, as if peeling back her layers. "Sothing troubles you. Share it, and I’ll listen."
She stepped onto the balcony, keeping distance between them, the robe’s hem brushing her ankles. "You don’t know well enough to ask that."
"Don’t I?" he murmured, his tone shifting, laced with a weight that made her pause. He straightened, his gaze piercing now, like a blade slipping past her guard.
"I know more than you think, Viana. I know you’ve walked this world before. That your soul carries scars from a life lost, a life you’ve buried deep. You’ve regressed, haven’t you?"
Her heart stopped, the air thinning around her. The dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering softly on the stone.
"How..." Her voice cracked, and she took a step back, her hands trembling. "How could you know that?"
Eryndor’s expression softened, but his eyes held a glint of ancient wisdom, as if he’d seen centuries unfold.
"Elves sense echoes of the soul. Yours hums with a past too heavy for one lifeti. I felt it the mont we t—a fracture, a rebirth. You’re not just Elysia’s princess. You’re a wanderer, returned to right old wrongs."
Viana’s knees weakened, and she sank onto the bench, her robe pooling around her. Her forr life—love betrayed, a kingdom fallen—flashed vivid and raw, mories she’d locked away.
No one in Elysia knew, not Rayne, not Arden. Yet Eryndor, a near-stranger, had seen through her. "You’re wrong," she whispered, but the lie tasted bitter.
"I’m not," he said gently, kneeling before her, close enough that she caught the cedar-and-moss scent of him. "You don’t have to hide it from . I’ve known others like you—souls reborn, carrying burdens they didn’t choose. Let help you carry yours."
His words were a balm and a blade, stirring a longing she couldn’t na. She t his gaze, and his beauty—those sculpted features, those endless eyes—felt like a spell, pulling her toward surrender.
He reached for her hand, his touch feather-light, and she didn’t pull away. "Viana," he murmured, his voice a low song, "you’re not alone in this. Let be your refuge."
Her breath hitched, heat flooding her cheeks. His thumb brushed her knuckles, deliberate and warm, and her heart raced, torn between fear and desire.
She wanted to lean into him, to let his beauty and promises erase her pain, but the weight of her past—and the faces of the other candidates—held her back.
"I can’t," she said, her voice breaking. "Not yet."
He nodded, releasing her hand but staying close, his presence a quiet fire.
"Then I’ll wait," he said, his smile soft but certain. "But know this: you’re stronger than your scars, and I see all of you."
They talked until dawn, his tales of elven magic and starlit seas mingling with her hesitant questions about his world.
Before he left, slipping into the fading night, a faint glow flickered in her vision above his head: Love Percentage: 40%.
Alone, Viana curled up on her bed, the robe no shield against the storm within.
Eryndor knew her truth, and his words had cracked her armor. And his Love Percentage was the highest above all.
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