The walk back to the palace was silent, thick with tension. Casimir's hand remained on her arm, his grip firm but not bruising. Like he didn't trust her not to run off again.
Caroline barely noticed.
As they strode back toward the palace, Caroline's mind raced. The night's events—the hidden figures, Casimir's fury, the rebellion—were all tangled threads in an ever-growing web of deception.
But then, as the torches lining the palace walls flickered, her gaze flicked downward—and froze.
Embroidered near the edge of Casimir's cloak, barely visible in the dim light, was an insignia.
A single word, stitched in delicate script.
Spring.
Not in the Summerlands' tongue, nor in the common trade language.
But in Winterland script.
Her heart pounded.
Casimir had kept walking, unaware of her sudden halt.
"Caroline?" His voice was sharp.
She forced herself to move, falling into step beside him. But her mind spun with questions.
Why would the King of the Summerlands wear an insignia with Winterland markings? And more than that—why would it say Spring?
It was not his family crest. Not the mark of his kingdom.
Then what was it?
She kept her face carefully neutral, but her pulse quickened. She had spent her life studying courtly secrets, understanding the weight of hidden symbols.
And this—this was something important.
Casimir pushed open the door to a private antechamber, stepping inside and waiting for her to enter before shutting the door behind them.
The flickering candlelight carved shadows across his sharp features.
"You are reckless," he said, voice low.
Caroline met his gaze, her own steadier than she felt. "And you are hiding something."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes.
She took a step forward, letting the tension simmer between them.
"What does Spring mean to you?" she asked.
Casimir went still.
His silence was answer enough.
Caroline lifted her chin. "It was embroidered onto your cloak. In my language."
Casimir exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching. "You notice too much."
She took another step. "Or you hide too poorly."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
Caroline wasn't sure what shocked her more—the insignia itself, or the way it unsettled him.
Then—his mask slid back into place. He reached for a carafe of wine, pouring himself a glass with measured ease. "It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, wife."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then tell me what it means."
He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim.
Then he set the glass down, stepping closer.
"Do you truly wish to know?" His voice was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
Caroline refused to back down.
"Yes."
Casimir studied her.
Then—he smiled.
It was not warm. It was not cruel.
It was the smile of a man holding a secret so vast it could change everything.
"Then earn the truth," he murmured.
And with that, he turned away, leaving her with nothing but more questions—and the chilling certainty that this marriage held more mysteries than she had ever imagined.