For all his orders and sneers, his commanding presence, and his intimidating always all-black ensemble, Vhalla saw something different. She simply saw someone who was lonely, someone who could likely count their friends on one hand, and perhaps wanted to one day use two hands. He was nothing like the man she first met, the man who wore a mask to meet palace expectations.

She hadn’t forgiven him, not quite yet. But perhaps Larel was right, and Vhalla felt a little sorry for him too.

The prince looked away from her, distracting himself with the flowers. But now he held her gaze. The silence fell between them. He stared at her, and she at him.

In time she realized he was waiting for her to pass judgment. He stood, uncomfortably folding and unfolding his hands, and simply waited.

Vhalla took a deep breath, trying to find the courage to speak. It was easy to be mad, resentful, and argumentative. It was harder to take one step toward him, and then another. She clutched her bag and crossed the space between them, standing before him, and trying with all her might not to fidget.

“I came here to read. If that’s all right?” she asked quietly.

“It is.” His voice was soft and low, no longer making her grit her teeth at the sound.

She moved around him and sat on one side of the bench. He looked at her like a lost child.

“You were here first. You’re welcome to stay,” she offered, pulling out her book from her satchel.

He sat down next to her, situating his ledger back on his lap. Vhalla had forgotten the warmth the prince exuded, and she shrugged off her robes, letting them fall over the bench. He glanced at the leggings and tunic that she wore beneath, but spared her any Southern mention of it being inappropriate dress for a woman. Leaning against the wall behind them, she settled with the book in her lap, thumbing to the first page.

“My prince,” she murmured. He looked at her. “I’m sorry, also, for the nasty things I said to you.” She looked up from the book.

He smiled, and for the first time she felt like it was sincere, that there was no motive, no pretense, and no other hidden emotions behind it. It was little more than the corners of his mouth curling up, but it lit his eyes in a way that Vhalla had yet to see. It made her wonder if she had ever really seen him before. It made her wonder if anyone had ever really seen him before. It quieted the voice in her mind whispering that all of this was the start of some elaborate grander scheme.

“Call me Aldrik,” he said very matter-of-factly before turning back to his ledgers. “At least in private.” Vhalla felt her jaw drop as his pen began to scratch against the page once more, a familiar slanted script left in its wake. “And you are not a little worm, Vhalla.”

VHALLA CONTINUED TO struggle with her situation. She sat, pretending to read, mulling over the confounding and infuriating man next to her. A thousand questions ran through her head, but she found none worth breaking the silence.

She attempted to read between his words, to find any hidden meanings or motives. But the more she thought of the Bond, the less convinced she felt that he was toying with her. Why else would he have kept her in the palace? If he did not share a connection with her that he deemed important, wouldn’t she be gone? Especially after her outburst?

Vhalla glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. She noticed a small bump on the bridge of his nose, as though it had been broken and reset poorly. His pronounced cheekbones shaded the sides of his face in the sunlight.

He lifted his eyes from his work to catch hers. Vhalla looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. Just act normal, she scolded herself. But what was normal for an apprentice and a prince?

Shifting slightly, she began to read with intent, pushing the oddity of their situation from her mind. There was something relaxing about this place, the smell and the muffled sounds of the outside world. Her reading was not very dense, and it was actually interesting to learn more about what her magic could do. Vhalla took her time with the pages, committing the points that interested her to memory.

The book was about the applications of air-based magic in a practical setting. Flipping the page, she wondered if she would be able to actually perform any of the seemingly impossible feats contained within. Perhaps, with the right teacher, she may be able to...

Vhalla flipped the page, putting the difficult decisions in the back of her mind.

They continued on like this for a while. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually she became aware of the weight of his stare on her.

“What?” She peered at the prince’s strange expression.

The prince—Aldrik, she mentally corrected herself—opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again, thinking over his words another moment. “What are you reading?” He put his quill down in the open ledger, leaning slightly toward her to inspect the book.

“It’s something Fritz gave me, or rather, lent me. It’s called the Art of Air.” She turned back to the first page, showing him the written title.

“Fritz?” His eyes met hers briefly.

“Yes, from the Tower. The Southern boy in the library.” Vhalla wondered how much he knew of the Tower.

“Ah,” the prince leaned back. “That incompetent nitwit.” Now he was back to sounding more like himself.

“Be nice,” she chided gently, and he glanced over at her through the corners of his eyes.