Sarisa lingered at Lara's bedside after dinner, her hands folded in her lap as she watched Lara finish every last spoonful of soup with the single-minded determination only a convalescent or a stubborn demon could muster.
There was something quietly powerful in the scene: the way Lara held the bowl in her left hand, her movements slow but resolute, as if the simple act of eating was its own kind of victory.
When Lara set the bowl aside, her gaze slid to Sarisa's, a faint smile playing at her lips. "Don't let Aliyah know I finished it. She'll say I owe her for all the honey cakes she brought."
"I'll keep your secret," Sarisa promised, gathering up the tray and the empty cup.
She paused, watching Lara sink back against the pillows, exhaustion painted across her sharp features.
The lines of pain were still there, but softer now—a little less defiant, a little more vulnerable. For a moment, Sarisa felt her own heart crack open, spilling old fears and new tenderness into the hush between them.
"Rest," she said softly. "I'll be back soon."
With the tray balanced carefully, Sarisa slipped out into the corridor. The palace was settling into evening; the air hummed with the distant laughter of children and the clatter of servants clearing the dining halls.
The scent of lavender drifted from freshly-washed floors, mingling with the sharper, homey smells of baked bread and honey.
She didn't make it far before her mother's presence materialized out of the shadows near the grand stair.
The queen was dressed as always in her midnight-blue regalia, golden tattoos luminous on her forearms, her expression imperious and grave.
She looked less like a mother and more like the living embodiment of the Celestian line duty, wisdom, and an iron will braided together.
Sarisa's spine straightened, though she did not bow her head. Her mother's tone was crisp, each word cold as crystal.
"You missed half the council meeting," the queen said, voice pitched for Sarisa alone. "I trust it was worth abandoning your obligations."
Sarisa held her ground, refusing to let guilt worm its way in. "Lara almost died. She needed care. I stayed with her, as any person with a heart would do."
The queen's lips thinned. "There are dozens of healers in this palace. Your presence was not strictly required. You are the future queen, Sarisa. Your kingdom, your people need you at your post, not coddling an injured warrior."
The sting was familiar, a scar traced and retraced over years of instruction, but Sarisa did not flinch.
"With all respect, my people also need to see their future queen show compassion, not just discipline. Lara is not just an 'injured warrior.' She risked her life to save an entire village on our northern border. She is Aliyah's mother. She is family."
The queen's eyes narrowed.
"Family does not give you leave to shirk duty. You are not a healer, Sarisa. You are not a nursemaid. There is a difference between kindness and foolishness. You have a coronation to prepare for. You have treaties to review. There is a council who expects your leadership, not your distraction."
The word "distraction" landed like a slap. Sarisa set the tray on a nearby table, folding her arms to keep from shaking.
"My loyalty to this kingdom is not in question," she said, voice steady. "But I will not apologize for caring about those who serve us, who bleed for us. If I cannot make time for the people I love—even when it is inconvenient—then what is the point of ruling at all?"
A long silence stretched. Somewhere in the distance, the bells chimed for evening prayers. The queen studied her, weighing something old and hard behind her eyes.
"You are too soft, Sarisa," she said at last. "That will be your undoing. Strength is not found in sentiment."
"Strength," Sarisa replied, "is also found in loyalty. In showing up. In love."
The queen sighed, weariness creeping in. "You sound like your father."
Sarisa almost smiled, the ache of old grief twisting inside her chest. "I hope I do."
For a moment, something flickered in the queen's gaze—pride, regret, or simply resignation. "Aliyah's banquet is in a few days. You must look to the future, not the past."
Sarisa inclined her head. "I am looking to the future. That's why I'm here."
Without waiting for further rebuke, Sarisa scooped up the tray and turned down the hall, each step away from her mother a small act of rebellion, a reclaiming of the self she'd nearly lost to the weight of expectation.
Her thoughts stormed with the exchange, heart pounding with the certainty that, just this once, she had said what needed to be said.
She wound her way to the kitchens, a warren of bright lamplight, laughter, and clattering pots.
The warmth was welcome after the coldness of her mother's words. A few of the cooks paused, bowing or nodding as Sarisa slipped in to drop the tray in the wash bin.
"Thank you, Your Highness!" a scullery maid called. "We'll have fresh broth for Lady Lara tomorrow."
Sarisa smiled, feeling the tension begin to ebb from her shoulders. "She'll be grateful. And probably demand honey cakes, too."
"She's not the only one," one of the junior chefs replied, grinning. "Aliyah was here earlier, eyeing the sugar bowl like a dragon guards treasure."
Sarisa's heart softened. "She takes after both her mothers, I suppose."
A burst of laughter followed her out, the sounds of ordinary life wrapping around her like a shield. The palace could be so suffocating—so rigid with tradition and hierarchy—but here, in the everyday, there was still room for kindness.
As she walked the long way back toward Lara's rooms, Sarisa's mind spun with restless thoughts.
She replayed her mother's words: duty, kingdom, leadership. It was not the first time she'd been told to choose between the crown and her heart. But the choice felt more impossible than ever.
Why does compassion have to be a weakness? she wondered. Was it truly so dangerous, to love as fiercely as one ruled?
She had always believed in leading by example, in letting people see her humanity. She would be queen soon. She needed to remember what it was to be ordinary, to care, to bleed.
As she reached the corridor that led to Lara's rooms, she paused, hand resting on the carved banister.
Something practical and mundane crept into her thoughts, chasing out politics and pain. Lara would need to be bathed soon.
Days of fever, sweat, and the grime of battle had left her worn and uncomfortable. The healers would have managed the worst of it, but a real bath would do more for her spirit than any spell.
The idea made Sarisa hesitate. Lara was strong, fiercely independent, and sometimes proud to the point of absurdity.
She wouldn't want to appear weak in front of anyone—not even her oldest friends. But the bath was necessary. And if Sarisa was honest with herself, she didn't want anyone else to do it.
Still, the logistics were daunting. Sarisa was not exactly experienced in helping with the… practicalities of such things.
Should she call for Malvoria? She grimaced at the idea. Malvoria would make a show of it, and it would be a source of jokes for years.
Elysia would be gentler, but she had her own family to look after. The palace maids were discreet but impersonal. None of them would do.
It has to be me, Sarisa decided, surprised by the surge of certainty. She wanted to do this. For Lara. For herself.
She returned to Lara's door, fingers lingering on the polished handle. For a moment, she stood there, bracing herself for whatever came next—awkwardness, laughter, maybe even anger.
But it was all part of the truth she was learning to claim: leadership was about love as much as law, and love was, at its core, about showing up, no matter how inconvenient.
She pushed the door open, stepping into the dim, warm room where Lara rested. The air smelled of lavender and clean linen, and outside, the last light of dusk bathed everything in quiet gold.
I can do this, Sarisa told herself.