Chapter 2: The Silence That Screams

Elara pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the servant’s corridor, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The queen’s words still echoed in her skull—*“If he harms you, I’ll have you hanged for treason.”*—but it was the prince’s eyes that haunted her. Hollow. Feral. A drowning man who’d long since stopped reaching for the surface.

She should run. Beg the head steward to reassign her to the kitchens, the stables, anywhere but the east wing where Prince Kael lived like a ghost in his own palace. But her feet wouldn’t move. Because beneath the terror coiling in her chest, something else stirred—a reckless, foolish thread of pity.

*You’re a pawn,* she reminded herself. *Pawns don’t feel sorry for kings.*

A scream shattered the silence.

Elara jolted, her hand flying to her mouth. It came again—raw, guttural, ripped from a throat that had forgotten how to form words. The sound wasn’t human. It was the noise of a soul being torn apart from the inside.

She knew she should walk away. Instead, she ran.

The prince’s chambers loomed at the end of the corridor, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. Lamplight flickered through the crack, casting jagged shadows that danced like demons. Elara hesitated, her fingers brushing the iron handle. *Turn back. Turn back now.*

Another scream. Louder. Closer.

She pushed the door open.

The room was a wreckage of broken furniture and scattered parchment. A massive four-poster bed dominated the far wall, its silk curtains torn to ribbons. And there, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, was Prince Kael.

He thrashed violently, his head whipping side to side, his lips parted in a silent, endless scream. His hands clawed at the air as if fighting off invisible assailants. Scars crisscrossed his bare torso—some old and silvered, others fresh and angry. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, illuminating the sheen of perspiration on his skin and the tears streaming down his face.

Elara’s heart clenched. *He’s not a monster. He’s a prisoner.*

She stepped closer, her voice barely a whisper. “Your Highness…”

His eyes flew open.

They were the color of a storm-tossed sea—grey and green and utterly wild. For a heartbeat, he stared at her without recognition, his chest heaving. Then his gaze sharpened, and something terrible flickered in its depths. Not anger. Not fear. *Shame.*

He scrambled backward, yanking the sheets up to his chin like a child caught in a nightmare. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—but no sound came. Only a choked, strangled noise that made Elara’s throat ache in sympathy.

“You can’t speak,” she breathed, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. “You haven’t spoken in years.”

He flinched as if she’d struck him. Then, slowly, he nodded.

The confession hung between them, fragile and devastating. Elara took another step forward, her hand outstretched. “What happened to you?”

His eyes blazed. He grabbed a nearby candlestick and hurled it at the wall, missing her by inches. The crash echoed through the chamber, and Elara stumbled back, her pulse roaring in her ears.

*Stupid. Stupid. He’s dangerous.*

But when she looked at him again, he wasn’t glaring. He was trembling, his hands fisted in the sheets, his gaze fixed on the shattered candlestick with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. As if he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” she said slowly, testing the words. “Do you?”

He shook his head violently, then pressed his palms to his temples, rocking back and forth. A low, keening moan escaped his lips—the sound of a man drowning in his own mind.

Elara’s instinct screamed at her to flee. But something stronger—something reckless and defiant—rooted her to the spot. She thought of the queen’s cold, calculating smile. The way the servants whispered about the cursed prince. The way everyone had abandoned him to his nightmares.

*No one should suffer alone.*

She knelt beside the bed, careful to keep her movements slow and visible. “My name is Elara,” she said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to leave.”

His hands lowered. His eyes, still wild, searched her face for the lie he clearly expected to find. When he didn’t find it, his shoulders sagged, and a single tear traced a path down his scarred cheek.

Elara’s fingers itched to wipe it away. She didn’t dare.

“Can you tell me what you dream about?” she asked.

His jaw tightened. He pointed to the window, then to his throat, then made a gesture she didn’t understand—a slicing motion across his chest. Then he mimed a wave, a crash, and pointed at her.

*The sea,* she realized. *He dreams of the sea. And… me?*

A chill skittered down her spine. She thought of the name the servants whispered behind closed doors. *The Siren of the East Wing.* She’d always assumed it was a cruel joke—a reference to the prince’s eerie silence. But what if it was something else? What if the sea had taken something from him? Something he could never get back?

Before she could ask, the door slammed open.

Queen Isolde stood in the doorway, her silk nightgown billowing like a specter’s shroud. Her eyes swept the wrecked room, the shattered candlestick, the servant girl kneeling at her son’s bedside—and her beautiful face twisted into something monstrous.

“You,” she hissed, pointing a trembling finger at Elara. “You were warned.”

Elara scrambled to her feet. “Your Majesty, I heard screaming—”

“Silence!” The queen advanced, her hand snapping out to grab Elara’s wrist with shocking strength. “You think I don’t know what you are? What you’ve done?”

“I don’t—I haven’t—”

“Liar.” The queen’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You’re just like the others. You think you can save him. You think you can break the curse.” She laughed, a brittle, broken sound. “You’ll end up like the rest. Dead. Drowned. Forgotten.”

Elara’s blood turned to ice. “The rest?”

But the queen wasn’t listening. She was staring at her son, who had gone utterly still, his eyes fixed on Elara with an expression she couldn’t read. Desperation? Warning? Or something far more dangerous?

“Guards!” the queen screamed.

Boots thundered in the corridor.

Elara looked at the prince. He looked at her.

And then—for the first time in years—he moved. He lunged off the bed, grabbed Elara’s arm, and yanked her behind him. He stood between her and his mother, his scarred back a wall of silent defiance.

The queen’s face went white. “Kael… don’t.”

He didn’t move.

The guards burst through the door, swords drawn. And Elara realized, with a sickening lurch, that she was no longer just a pawn.

She was the prize.

And the prince—the broken, silent prince—had just declared war.