25 April, 1369. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
It had so far been a day of tense endurance and mounting dread. Celia had barely spoken two words to anyone in her retinue.
She'd pulled open the carriage curtains an hour ago and had been watching the distant silhouette of the royal palace slowly draw closer.
There was little point in denying the truth any longer.
She was almost back in her prison again, like a bird plucked from freedom and being forced into a golden cage.
Lucas pulled his steed up alongside her window. "Is everything alright, Your Grace?"
So we're back to polite conversation and royal titles again, are we? "I'm fine and dandy, thank you." Celia replied shortly.
He held her gaze for a moment, eyes sad, before quickly mouthing I love you and urging his stallion forward.