the timid bride

Chapter 32 – Fire Beneath the Surface

The days that followed were a quiet storm.

Whispers still floated through the palace halls like dust in sunlight — hard to catch, impossible to ignore. But now, when she passed, the servants bowed. Not all of them, but enough to notice. Enough to show something had changed.

Her silence was no longer seen as weakness. It had become something else. Something dangerous.

The prince had not returned to her chambers after that night, but he had not gone anywhere else either. The noblewomen were growing restless. Their mothers pressed for answers in court, and the queen mother remained silent — though her sharp gaze followed every move the bride made.

It was at the weekly court assembly that the shift became public.

The bride was not usually summoned to such affairs. They were formal gatherings of advisors, nobles, and ministers. She had expected to spend her morning in the gardens as usual. But instead, a servant brought word:

"His Highness requests your presence in the royal court."

It was the first time he had requested her personally in front of the council.

Marah helped her dress in muted gold — not too bright to provoke, not too plain to look small. She tied her hair back in a low, traditional knot, with a single pin made of carved ebony. A gift from her grandmother years ago. A reminder of who she had been before the palace swallowed her.

When she entered the great hall, the nobles turned as one. The prince was already seated on the high platform, crown resting beside him, not on his head. A rare move. A dangerous one.

She walked slowly, every step echoing on the polished floor, and stopped beside his throne. He looked at her — not as a possession or a shadow — but as an equal.

Or at least, someone he was choosing to stand beside.

The issue on the floor was a dispute between landowners, but no one in that room cared about farmland.

They were watching her. Waiting for her to speak out of turn. Waiting for a slip of the tongue. Waiting to catch the witch in her.

She said nothing. She stood, silent and still, while the prince ruled.

And when he did, he ruled with a calm no one had seen before.

At one point, Lord Senjin, one of the elder nobles, muttered just loud enough for a few others to hear: "Seems even the lion is learning to purr under her spell."

She heard it. She didn't react. Neither did the prince.

But the next day, Lord Senjin's estate guards were reassigned to a far post near the borders. And his son's marriage to a noblewoman was quietly dissolved by royal order.

No one mentioned "witchcraft" in the prince's presence again.

That evening, she found herself back in the garden, barefoot on cool stone. Not hiding — not chanting — just walking.

The moon was half-full. The scent of roses clung to the air like smoke.

She reached the edge of the sacred pond and stared at her reflection. The face that looked back at her was still hers — still soft, still quiet — but now it carried something steady behind the eyes. A fire no longer afraid to burn.

She knelt slowly and dipped her fingers into the water. It was cool and clear, yet the moment her skin touched it, ripples spread wider than they should've.

She froze.

The pond was still. She moved again — the ripple followed, and then stopped.

Nothing unusual.

But deep in her chest, she felt the stir of something. Like breath in a sleeping creature.

"You feel it, don't you?" came a voice behind her.

She turned swiftly.

An old palace guard stood a few feet away — one she barely noticed before. His name was Joro, if she remembered correctly. He bowed his head low.

"I was once stationed near the Southern Provinces," he said quietly. "Your grandmother used to heal my people."

The bride said nothing.

"She had a gift," Joro continued, still not meeting her eyes. "She was careful. Gentle. But powerful."

"I'm not her," she replied.

"No," he agreed. "You're something else entirely."

Then he walked away, leaving her heart pounding and her fingers trembling above the still water.

Later that night, the queen mother summoned the prince.

She poured him wine herself, a rare gesture that usually meant trouble.

"You are unmaking what I spent years building," she said coolly.

"I'm only allowing her to exist. That shouldn't threaten anyone," he replied.

"You think this girl is harmless?"

"No," he said, and sipped the wine. "That's the point."

The queen mother stared at him. "You love her?"

He didn't answer. She didn't need him to.

"Then you'd better hope she chooses not to destroy you when she realizes what she is."

---

That same night, the prince returned to the bride's chambers.

This time, he didn't knock. He entered with a quiet breath, closed the door, and stood by it as if unsure whether to stay.

She didn't rise from her seat. She was seated near the window, writing. A journal she had started keeping, with thoughts too sharp for speech.

"I saw you today," he said.

She nodded once.

"You didn't flinch. Even when they mocked you."

"There's no use flinching anymore," she answered softly.

He stepped closer. "I don't know what's happening to me," he said again, as he had once before. "But I know it started when I met you."

She closed her journal.

"I think… you unsettle me," he confessed. "And maybe that's what I need."

She stood. Not too close, not too far. "And what do I need, my prince?"

He hesitated. "Freedom," he said. "Choice. Safety."

She didn't smile. But something eased in her shoulders.

"Then give me that," she said. "And I'll decide the rest for myself."

There was silence. Then, almost as if pulled from somewhere distant, he asked, "What is your name?"

She blinked. No one had asked that since her wedding day. They had always called her 'the girl,' 'the bride,' 'my lady.'

"Zara," she said, her voice calm. "My name is Zara."

He repeated it. "Zara."

It felt real. Spoken. Acknowledged.

Then he stepped back, toward the door.

"I'll make sure you're not summoned again without my word."

And then he left.

When she lay in bed that night, the ripples in her dreams returned — but this time, they didn't frighten her.

They felt like a promise.

A future where her voice would no longer be borrowed.

Where her power would no longer be feared.

Where she would not be a bride given, but a woman becoming.

And that future was coming fast.