Chapter CLXI: A basket of linen
Kira quickly tired of her personal stage plays, her interests shifting instead to wooden dolls carved and painted with care. Talia felt a wave of relief wash over her—no longer would she need to participate in the elaborate reenactments that brought her too close to Prince Ikkar. The prince with emerald eyes that seemed to gleam with mischief, framed by dark curls that fell just above his brows. His presence unsettled her, a confusing mix of warmth and nervous energy coiling within her whenever he was near.
There was something about the way he watched her, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, making her skin tingle as if she’d been touched. Every time he grasped her hand in the play, an electric anticipation bloomed in her chest. She found herself yearning for that brief touch, those moments when he would meet her eyes with an intensity that made her feel like more than just a caretaker. For fleeting seconds, she was a princess, and he was the king who would face any peril to reach her.
But when the play ended and the illusion shattered, reality struck with the weight of responsibility. Talia knew she was only there to care for Princess Kira, entrusted with that sacred duty by the queen herself. She reminded herself that anything beyond that was dangerous folly, a step toward heartache. It was easier, safer even, to avoid Prince Ikkar and the feelings that his presence stirred in her. She couldn’t afford to lose focus, not for something as elusive as a longing glance or the echo of a touch.
Meanwhile, Ikkar was devastated. The excuse to hold Talia’s hand, to be near her, was gone, leaving him restless and yearning. Every detail about her was perfect: the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled, the gentle way she moved, her laughter that chimed like a melody only he could hear. She was perfect, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—like an angel on earth.
His sketchbooks were filled with countless drawings of her, each stroke an attempt to capture the softness of her expression, the curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brows. He had memorized every feature of her face, tracing them in his mind as he lay awake at night. Talia was the first woman to ever truly capture his attention, to make his heart beat faster with a mere glance. And yet, the cruel truth gnawed at him: he could not court her. He was the crown prince, bound by duty and expectation, and she was a servant, her station leagues below his own.
But why couldn’t he speak to her, even just to share a few words? Why did the weight of his title make the distance between them feel insurmountable? Ikkar ached to know her, to hear her voice say more than polite formalities, to learn what made her smile and what dreams filled her heart. Yet each time he thought to approach her, the words caught in his throat, tangled with doubt and fear of what it might mean—for her, for him, for everything they could never be.
He sighed, staring out at the golden horizon, the sketch of her face still cradled in his hands.
The hallway was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon light streaming through the arched windows. Ikkar, seeking a moment of solitude, turned a corner and almost collided with someone smaller and more delicate than himself.
Talia.
The surprise in her wide eyes made her gasp as she nearly lost her hold on the basket of linens in her arms. The golden strands of her hair glimmered in the light, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
“Your Highness,” she said quickly, dipping into a flustered curtsy and looking away. The basket pressed against her chest, a barrier between them. She gripped it tightly, knuckles pale, as if its weight were the only thing keeping her steady.
“Talia,” Ikkar said, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. The sound of her name in his voice sent warmth through him, making the formal corridors feel almost intimate. His gaze flicked to the basket in her arms, noticing how it made her shoulders strain. “That looks heavy,” he said. “Let me help you with it.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly. “No, Your Highness. It’s my job, and I couldn’t possibly accept your help.”
He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of cedar and leather. “It seems heavy,” he insisted, a playful note slipping into his tone.
Talia stood a little straighter, fighting the shiver of nerves that danced along her spine. “It’s really not, Your Highness,” she said, forcing calm into her voice.
Ikkar's smirk deepened, the challenge clear in his eyes. “Are you saying that I’m not strong enough to carry it?”
Her breath caught, and she blinked, eyes darting up to his face for a moment before lowering again. “I would never say that,” she stammered, the heat rising to her cheeks.
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and easy. “Then you should let me help,” he said, reaching out and taking the basket from her hands before she could protest. His fingers brushed hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her, but there was something in his eyes—a glimmer of amusement, a softness—that made her exhale the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. He wasn’t being serious, not really.
As they began to walk side by side down the corridor, an unfamiliar silence settled between them. Talia’s heart raced, but she focused on keeping her steps even, conscious of the prince's presence beside her. The basket seemed light in his hands, yet the simple act of him carrying it shifted something between them, as if for a moment, the lines of their stations were blurred.
“Where are we headed?” Ikkar asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.
“To the children’s room, Your Highness,” Talia replied, glancing up briefly to see the hint of a smile still on his face. The way the light softened his features made her chest tighten, but she looked away before he could notice.
“Tell me,” he said after a moment, a teasing lilt in his voice, “is it that you don’t think I should be helping, or that you don’t want me to?”
She hesitated, the question catching her off-guard. “I… I just don’t want to cause any trouble, Your Highness,” she answered honestly, a trace of worry in her voice.
Ikkar’s gaze softened as they continued walking. “I’m the crown prince, I do what I want. And if I wish to help a lady carry a basket of linens, I will,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
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