Chapter 16: Heart's Question

MELIANTHE

The knock comes precisely at the seventh bell. Neither early enough to suggest panic nor late enough to imply casual disregard. Cassian's timing, like everything else about him lately, carries careful diplomatic weight.

"Your Highness." He enters after I call permission, but his usual composed demeanor shows cracks. His riding clothes are dusty, dark hair disheveled from hard travel. The controlled prince I've grown accustomed to seeing in court has been replaced by someone raw with urgency. "Forgive the intrusion, but there's something you need to know. Immediately."

I set down the book of poetry I've been pretending to read; beneath it, hidden, lies the coded message I've been drafting to our northern cells. My fingers brush the concealed papers as I close the volume, ensuring nothing shows. "Prince Cassian. This is unexpected."

"I've just come from an imperial briefing." He closes the door, and I notice how his hand trembles slightly before he controls it. The tremor speaks of more than physical exhaustion. "Melianthe, they're planning arrests. Tonight. Not during the festival as everyone assumed, but within hours."

My heart pounds, but years of training under my father's scrutiny serve me well. I keep my expression merely concerned rather than terrified, allowing only a slight widening of my eyes to suggest alarm. He doesn't know about my involvement. He can't know. "Arrests? Of whom?"

"Anyone they consider a potential security risk. Minor nobles who've spoken too fondly of the old ways. Merchants who've been slow to adopt imperial trade practices. Even..." He pauses, visibly struggling with something. His jaw works as if the words themselves are difficult to form. "Even those whose only crime is maintaining friendships that predate the occupation."

The way he looks at me when he says the last part sends ice through my veins. Does he suspect? Or is he merely worried about guilt by association? I force myself to remain seated, to project the image of a sheltered princess receiving disturbing news rather than a resistance leader watching her carefully constructed network face annihilation.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask carefully, moving away from my desk and its hidden secrets. The distance feels necessary, as if proximity to those documents might somehow reveal their existence.

"Because your name was mentioned." The words emerge rough, as if they pain him. He turns toward the window, ostensibly checking the view but I see the way his shoulders tense. "Not as a target - not yet - but as someone whose connections bear watching. Your friendship with Isabella Cross particularly."

Isabella. My spymaster, though he certainly doesn't know that. The woman who risks her life nightly to coordinate intelligence throughout the city, whose brilliant mind has kept us three steps ahead of imperial forces. Until now.

"Isabella is a venerated member of the weaver’s guild," I say, allowing a note of worry to color my voice. Let him think me a sheltered noble concerned for a friend. "Surely they don't suspect her of... what? Sedition?"

"They suspect everyone who hasn't enthusiastically embraced imperial culture." He begins pacing, his controlled diplomat's facade cracking further with each step. I've never seen him like this, stripped of the polished veneer that usually shields his thoughts. "The intelligence briefing was specific, Melianthe. They have names, addresses, planned routes of escape. Someone has been feeding them information."

My mind races through possibilities. If they have escape routes, then they know more than we thought. We've had security breaches before, but nothing of this magnitude. The escape routes are compartmentalized, known only to cell leaders and-

"How detailed was this intelligence?" I manage to ask, though my throat feels tight.

"Detailed enough that they're confident of success. They mentioned safe houses that have been operating for months. Communication drops that use merchant deliveries as cover. They even-" He stops abruptly, as if realizing how much he's revealing. "Forgive me. I shouldn't burden you with such specifics."

But I need those specifics. Every detail he can provide might save lives. "No, please. If my friends are in danger, I need to understand the scope."

He studies my face, and I see him weighing risks against conscience. Whatever he sees in my expression tips the balance. "They mentioned the old aqueduct system being used for... unsanctioned purposes. Something about messages carried through maintenance tunnels."

My blood chills. The aqueducts are one of our primary message routes, a network we've spent two years developing. If they know about those... I force my expression to remain merely troubled rather than devastated.

"The aqueducts?" I inject just the right note of confusion into my voice. "But those have been sealed since the occupation began. The Empire declared them structurally unsound."

"Apparently not as sealed as they claimed." His smile is bitter. "It seems someone has been using the old maintenance routes for communication. Rather clever, actually."

"I appreciate your concern," I say carefully, rising from my chair with practiced grace. "But I'm not sure what you expect me to do with this information. I'm hardly in a position to warn anyone of anything without drawing suspicion to myself."

He stops pacing, turning to face me fully. The late afternoon light streaming through my windows casts half his face in shadow, making him look older, more careworn. "Warn her. Warn anyone you care about who might be at risk. I can't-" He breaks off, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I shouldn't even be here. If Cordelia knew I was sharing intelligence from a classified briefing..."

"Then why are you?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with more than political calculation. For weeks we've danced around whatever this is between us; conversations that linger too long, shared glances across crowded halls, the way he seems to appear whenever I need an ally in court. The way his presence has begun to feel like safety in a palace full of threats. But this is different. This is him choosing a side, even if he doesn't fully understand what sides exist.

"Because I've spent weeks watching you navigate impossible situations with grace. Because you treat your servants like people rather than furniture. Because when you speak of Ravencrest, you remember what it was rather than accepting what it's become." His voice drops lower, rougher with emotion. "Because I've seen you slip copper coins to the kitchen staff when you think no one's looking. Because you know the names of every guard's children. Because when that stable boy broke his leg, you personally ensured he received proper care rather than dismissal."

Each observation hits me like a physical blow. I hadn't realized he'd been watching so closely, cataloging these small acts that I perform without thinking. They're simply who I am, who my mother raised me to be, but hearing them reflected back through his eyes...

"Those are hardly revolutionary acts," I manage.

"In the Empire, kindness is revolutionary." He steps closer, and I catch the scent of leather and horse from his hard ride. "But it's more than that. It's the way you look when you think no one's watching. The longing in your eyes when the old songs are sung, even with their words changed. The way your hand clenches when Cordelia speaks of 'improving' Ravencrest traditions. You love this kingdom in a way the Empire can never understand or forgive."

"And that makes me dangerous?"

"That makes you extraordinary." The words seem to surprise him as much as they do me. He takes another step closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "And yes, dangerous. Because people like you make others remember what they're fighting for. What they've lost. What might still be saved."

"Cassian-"

"The thought of you being caught up in tonight's violence is... unacceptable." The admission emerges raw, unpolished by diplomatic training. "I've stood by and watched the Empire destroy so much. I've told myself it was necessary, that order must be maintained, that the old ways led only to chaos. But watching you... knowing you..." He struggles for words, this man usually so eloquent. "I can't stand by and watch them destroy you too."

The honesty in his words makes my chest tight. He's risking everything on an instinct, on feelings he probably doesn't fully understand. Part of me wants to trust him completely, to reveal the network he's inadvertently trying to protect. But Talos's training holds me back. This could still be an elaborate trap. The Empire excels at long games, at agents who believe their own cover stories.

"You said they have specific intelligence," I probe carefully. "How specific are we talking about?"

"Too specific." He moves to the window, checking the courtyard below with newfound paranoia. His hand rests on his sword hilt, an unconscious gesture that speaks of hard-earned instincts. "They know about meeting places that should be secret. Communication methods that aren't official. They have a list of names that... Melianthe, some of these people have been careful. Very careful. For the Empire to know what they know, someone close to resistance activities has been providing information."

"You think there's a traitor among the resistance?" I ask, though the word 'resistance' tastes dangerous on my tongue.

"I think someone with access to sensitive information has been compromised. Blackmail, threats to family, promises of clemency… the Empire has many tools for turning loyalty into betrayal." He turns back to me, and his expression is grave. "They mentioned specific individuals by name. Isabella Cross, Cornelius Marsh, Sara the herb seller from the lower market, Thomas the Baker's son, Imogen who runs the boarding house near the docks."

Each name is a knife between my ribs. These are my people, my network, the careful web I've spent so much time mapping. Sara provides medical supplies to those who can't afford imperial physicians. Thomas uses his delivery routes to carry messages. Imogen’s boarding house is one of our primary safe houses.

"What exactly do you expect me to do?" I ask, working to keep my voice steady. The princess mask is slipping; I can feel it. "Even if I wanted to warn Isabella, I have no way of reaching her quickly. And approaching others would only draw suspicion to myself."

He turns from the window, and there's something desperate in his expression now. "I can help. My men…. some of them share my concerns about imperial methods. They could carry messages, create distractions if needed." He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words. "Captain Matthias in particular. He's from Blackmere originally. He's seen what the Empire does to those who resist. He follows orders, but... selectively."

"You're talking about treason," I say quietly.

"I'm talking about conscience." The distinction seems important to him. "About choosing between blind obedience and basic human decency. About deciding which oaths matter more - the ones we swear to institutions or the ones we make to ourselves about who we choose to be."

"And you've made that choice?"

"I'm making it right now." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the genuine fear in his eyes. Not fear for himself, but for me. "But Melianthe... you have to be careful. If they suspect you're involved-"

"I'm a princess under imperial protection," I interrupt, needing to maintain my cover even as my mind catalogs which safe houses need immediate evacuation. "What possible involvement could I have beyond social connections?"

"That's what I keep telling myself." His smile is rueful, self-aware. "Yet here I am, committing treason by warning you about operations I swore to support. Because somehow, over these past weeks, your safety has become more important to me than..." He trails off, shaking his head. "More important than things I've spent my entire life valuing."

The weight of his admission settles between us. He's right; what he's doing is treason by imperial standards. And he's doing it without even knowing if I'm worth the risk. Without knowing that the woman he's trying to protect is the very person organizing what he's trying to save her from.

"Cassian," I say, making a calculated decision. "If - hypothetically - I did know how to reach some of these people, what specific locations should they avoid?"

Relief flashes across his face, quickly followed by renewed concern. "The merchant quarter, primarily. They're planning to seal off the streets between the silversmith's row and the old temple. The garrison district is next, they'll block the three main exits and sweep building by building. But the Weaver's Guild area..." He pauses, pain flickering across his features. "They're planning to seal off the Weaver's Guild area completely. Anyone inside after tenth bell won't be leaving freely."

I file away each piece of intelligence, already revising tonight's operation plans. The merchant quarter evacuation will be complex. We have two supply caches there and a safe house that shelters people passing through the city. The garrison district is less critical, but we have supporters there who provide early warnings. And the Weaver's Guild...

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"And the timing?"

"Coordinated strikes beginning at midnight. But the Weaver's Guild-" He hesitates, then pushes forward. "Your friend Isabella. They plan to take her within the hour. She's priority because of her family name and connections. They believe she's a communication hub for dissatisfied nobles."

An hour. I calculate distances, obstacles, the time needed to encode and send warnings. Isabella is at the safe house now, preparing for tonight's message run. If I can get word to her, she can activate the emergency protocols. But it will be close. So terribly close.

"I need to... I should send some letters," I say, moving toward my desk. "Social invitations that might encourage certain friends to alter their evening plans."

"Melianthe." He catches my arm gently as I pass, and the contact sends unwanted heat through me despite the circumstances. "Please be careful. Whatever you're thinking of doing - and I'm trying very hard not to speculate - please remember that your safety matters too."

"To whom?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

"To me." His thumb brushes against my sleeve, the ghost of a caress. "More than my oath to the Empire, apparently. More than my position or my future or any of the things I was trained to value above personal feelings."

I should pull away. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both safe. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, just for a moment. Allowing myself this single instant of honesty between us.

"Then help me," I whisper. "You said some of your men might carry messages. I need someone trustworthy to deliver a letter to the Weaver's Guild. Immediately."

He studies my face, and I can see him making connections he's been trying not to acknowledge. The princess who cares too much about old traditions. Who maintains friendships with people the Empire considers dangerous. Who knows exactly which locations need warnings and how urgent each one is. But he doesn't ask the questions forming behind his eyes. Instead, he nods.

"Captain Matthias. He'll be discreet." He releases my arm reluctantly. "What else?"

"A distraction near the merchant quarter would be helpful. Something to draw patrols away from certain... social gatherings that might be happening."

"I can arrange that." He's fully complicit now, though we're still maintaining the fiction that this is about social connections rather than organized resistance. "A supply wagon with a broken axle, perhaps. Or a small fire in one of the imperial warehouses. Nothing serious, but enough to require immediate attention. Anything else?"

I think of the other cells that need warning, the supply caches that need moving, the safe houses that need evacuating. But I can't ask for more without revealing too much. Already, I'm trusting him with more than is safe.

"Just time," I say finally. "And perhaps a reason for you to be elsewhere tonight, somewhere with witnesses who can confirm you had no involvement in whatever doesn't happen."

A smile ghosts across his lips. "Concerned for my safety, Princess?"

"It would be inconvenient if my primary source of court intelligence were arrested for treason," I deflect, though we both know it's more than that. The thought of him in imperial custody, subject to their interrogation methods... I push the image away.

"Then I'll make sure to be visibly elsewhere. There's a card game in the officers' quarters that runs late. I'll make sure to lose spectacularly and memorably." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Melianthe... after tonight, things will be different. The Empire doesn't forgive perceived failures. They'll investigate how their targets escaped, who might have warned them. If they suspect-"

"Then we'll deal with that when it comes." I'm already composing messages in my head, calculating which codes to use. "Go, Cassian. Send your captain for the letter. And... thank you."

He lingers a moment longer, something unspoken hanging in the air between us. "Be safe," he says finally, and the simple words carry weight beyond their simplicity.

Then professionalism reasserts itself and he's gone, leaving me alone with the terrible gift of his warning.

I allow myself ten seconds to process what just happened. Ten seconds to acknowledge that Prince Cassian of Blackmere has just committed treason for me. Ten seconds to feel the terror and hope and impossible longing that his presence always evokes. Then I push it all aside and become what my people need me to be.

I have less than an hour to save Isabella and begin the cascade of warnings that might preserve our network. My hands are steady now as I pull out the hidden papers, switching from poetry to the resistance's cipher with practiced ease. The first message is for Isabella, a shopping list that will read as gossip to anyone but her. Silk ribbons from the southern merchant (evacuate immediately). Blue dye no longer fashionable (primary route compromised). Consider rose patterns instead (activate secondary protocols).

As I write, I think about the risk Cassian has taken. He doesn't know he's protecting an actual resistance network. In his mind, he's simply warning an innocent woman about danger to her friends. The irony that his innocent woman leads the very network he's inadvertently protecting would be amusing if lives weren't at stake.

But there's something else, something that makes my chest tight with an emotion I can't afford to examine. He chose to warn me without knowing the truth. Chose to risk his position, his future, possibly his life, based on nothing more than growing feelings and moral instinct. He saw injustice and chose to act, even at personal cost.

When this is over - if we survive - I'll have to decide what to do about Prince Cassian of Blackmere, who commits treason for the right reasons without even knowing how right they are.

But first, I have people to save.

The knock comes quickly. Captain Matthias, looking uncomfortable but determined. I hand him the sealed letter without explanation.

"For Isabella Cross at the Weaver's Guild," I say simply. "As quickly as possible."

He takes it without question, but I see the flash of understanding in his eyes. He knows this is more than a social letter. "Your Highness," he says, and there's weight in the acknowledgment. Then he's gone, moving with the easy stride of someone who knows how to navigate city streets without drawing attention.

As the door closes behind him, I turn to the next phase of my impossible task: warning an entire network without revealing its existence to the man who's made the warning possible.

I gather more paper, more ink, and begin the careful process of coding warnings for each cell. The merchant quarter message goes to Felix through his wine supplier, a complaint about a delayed shipment that will tell him to evacuate immediately. The garrison district warning travels through the laundry service, a request to change the pickup schedule that signals danger. Each message must be perfectly normal on the surface, revealing its true meaning only to those who know the codes.

The work is painstaking, requiring absolute concentration. One misplaced word could mean death for the recipient. But as I write, I find my thoughts returning to Cassian. The way he looked when he spoke of choosing conscience over obedience. The careful restraint in his touch when he caught my arm. The pain in his eyes when he spoke of the Empire destroying things.

He's changing. I've watched it happen over these weeks, the slow erosion of imperial certainty, the growing awareness that order without justice is merely oppression with better documentation. But change is not completion. He still believes in reformation rather than revolution, in adjusting the system rather than replacing it. He doesn't yet understand that the Empire's cruelty isn't an aberration but a feature, designed to break spirits and ensure compliance.

But he understands enough to risk everything warning me. That has to count for something.

A sound in the corridor makes me freeze. Footsteps, measured and deliberate. Not the quick pace of a servant or the martial stride of guards, but the careful walk of someone who expects to find secrets. I have just enough time to shove the coded messages into the hidden compartment and arrange myself at the window with my book of poetry before the knock comes.

"Enter," I call, pleased that my voice sounds merely curious rather than alarmed.

The door opens to reveal Adelaide, my lady's maid, but her usual warm demeanor is replaced by barely controlled fear. "Your Highness, Ambassador Cordelia is in the outer chamber. She insists on speaking with you immediately."

Cordelia. Here. Now. My mind races through possibilities. Has Cassian been discovered already? Did someone see Captain Matthias leave my chambers? Or is this merely unfortunate timing?

"Of course," I say, setting aside the poetry book with apparent reluctance. "Please show her in, Adelaide. And perhaps prepare some tea? The imperial blend she prefers."

Adelaide understands the coded instruction. Tea service will give her an excuse to remain nearby, to intervene if necessary. She curtseys and withdraws, returning moments later with Cordelia and two imperial guards.

"Princess Melianthe. How fortunate to find you in residence." Cordelia's smile could frost glass. She moves through my chamber with deliberate slowness, examining objects with feigned casual interest. "I trust you weren't occupied with anything pressing?"

"Only my correspondence," I gesture toward the innocuous letters on my desk; invitations to various harvest celebrations, replies to noble well-wishers. The mundane detritus of a princess's social obligations. "How may I be of service, Ambassador?"

She picks up one of the letters, scanning it with sharp eyes before setting it down with apparent disappointment. "I came to discuss security arrangements for the upcoming harvest festival. Given recent unrest in certain quarters, the Empire wishes to ensure your safety."

"How thoughtful," I murmur, watching her circle my room like a hunting cat.

"Indeed. We've received intelligence about potential disruptions. Nothing you need concern yourself with, of course, but it would be helpful to know your planned movements for the evening. Who you'll be seeing, where you'll be going." She picks up a book from my side table, a volume of Ravencrest nursery rhymes that predates the occupation. "Such charming verses. Though I believe the Empire has published updated translations that better capture the original meaning?"

The threat is subtle but clear. Even our poetry isn't safe from revision, our words twisted to serve their purposes. But I've learned to play this game too.

"How thoughtful," I reply, voice carrying just the right note of vapid appreciation. "I'm sure the Empire's scholars have worked diligently to improve upon our understanding. As for the festival, I plan to attend the public celebrations in the Merchant’s Quarter, then retire early to pray. The excitement of such events tends to exhaust me."

"Hmm." She sets the book down and moves to examine my desk more closely. Her fingers hover near the drawer where my hidden compartment lies concealed. "And this evening? Any plans worth noting?"

"I thought I might visit the palace gardens before they close for the season. The roses are particularly lovely this year." The lie comes easily, wrapped in enough truth to be believable. I do visit the gardens regularly, though usually to meet contacts rather than admire flowers.

"The gardens. How pastoral." Her pale eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "You haven't seen Prince Cassian recently, have you? He was supposed to brief me on local sentiment, but seems to have been detained."

The question is a trap with teeth. Say no, and she'll know I'm lying. Her intelligence network certainly tracked him to this wing of the palace. Say yes, and I have to explain why an imperial prince was visiting me privately.

"He stopped by earlier," I say, opting for partial truth seasoned with misdirection. "Something about adjusting patrol routes for the harvest festivities. He seemed concerned about ensuring adequate coverage for the merchant quarter particularly."

Let her chew on that. If Cassian's men are creating gaps in patrol coverage right now, my explanation provides plausible cover for their absence.

"How conscientious of him." Her tone suggests she's filing this information for later analysis. "And did he mention anything else of interest? Any particular concerns about local activities?"

"Only that he hoped the festival would proceed without incident." I move to my writing desk, implicitly suggesting this interview is approaching its end. "He seemed rather focused on security arrangements. Very thorough, your Prince Cassian."

"He's not my prince," Cordelia says sharply, then seems to catch herself. "That is, Prince Cassian serves the Empire, not any individual administrator. His loyalty is to the greater good."

"Of course," I agree mildly. "I simply meant that he represents imperial interests with dedication."

Adelaide enters with the tea service, providing a natural break in the conversation. As she arranges the delicate porcelain, I catch the slight tremor in her hands. She knows how dangerous Cordelia is.

"Will you take tea, Ambassador?" I ask, gesturing to the service.

"I think not." Cordelia moves toward the door, apparently satisfied with her fishing expedition. "Do enjoy your evening in the gardens, Princess."

After she leaves, I count slowly to one hundred before allowing myself to breathe properly. Adelaide remains, fussing with the tea things unnecessarily.

"Shall I prepare your walking dress for the gardens, Your Highness?" she asks, and I hear the real question beneath - do I intend to maintain the alibi I've just created?

"Yes," I decide. The fresh air will clear my head and keeping to my word will settle Cordelia’s suspicions. "The green one, I think."

"Of course, Your Highness."

After she leaves, I return to the hidden compartment, extracting the final batch of messages that need to reach our people before midnight. The garden alibi will provide cover for the early evening, but I'll need to find another way to coordinate the later warnings.

As I prepare to slip out through the servant's passages, I think about Cassian's parting words. His hope that after tonight, he would be 'visibly elsewhere' with witnesses. We're both creating alibis now, constructing careful fictions to cover revolutionary truths. The difference is that he's doing it to protect me, while I'm doing it to protect an entire network he doesn't know exists.

The irony doesn't escape me as I make my way through familiar shadows. Cassian thinks he's protecting an innocent princess with unfortunate social connections. Instead, he's just become the unwitting guardian of Ravencrest's rebellion. Every action he takes to keep me safe - the distractions, the warnings, the alibis - serves a cause he hasn't chosen to join. Not yet.

But something tells me that moment is coming. The prince who chose conscience over compliance today will face larger choices tomorrow. When he does, I hope the person he's becoming proves stronger than the person the Empire tried to make him.

If we survive tonight, I'll owe him more than he can possibly imagine. But that's a debt - and a truth - for another day. Tonight, I have a rebellion to save, with the unlikely help of an imperial prince who's choosing conscience over country without fully understanding what choice he's made.

The moon rises over Ravencrest as I disappear into shadows I know better than any palace hall. Somewhere across the city, Cassian is creating distractions for a cause he doesn't know he's joined. Captain Matthias is delivering a message that will save Isabella’s life. And throughout the merchant quarter, the garrison district, and the Weaver's Guild territory, my people are receiving coded warnings that will let them vanish like smoke before imperial forces arrive.

Perhaps trust isn't about complete honesty. Perhaps sometimes it's about protecting each other from truths that would destroy us both, until the moment comes when those truths can finally set us free. Tonight, Cassian and I dance around those truths, each keeping secrets that would shatter the fragile alliance we're building.

But with each choice we make, his to warn me, mine to accept his help, we step closer to the moment when all masks must fall away. When that time comes, I pray we're both strong enough to face what we find beneath.

The resistance has always been about more than simple opposition to the Empire. It's about preserving who we are, protecting the bonds that matter, choosing loyalty to people over institutions. Tonight, an imperial prince risks everything to help us do exactly that, even if he doesn't fully understand the magnitude of what he's protecting.

Tomorrow, we'll face the consequences of tonight's choices. But for now, I have work to do, people to save, and a rebellion to preserve. All thanks to a prince who's learning that sometimes the most treasonous act of all is simple human decency.