Cold Hearts In Love.

King Stephen lifted Aurora gently into his steady arms, her body limp and yielding to his embrace. Without hesitation, he made his way toward his bedchamber, pushing the heavy wooden door open with a spare hand. 

He laid Aurora carefully upon the bed—a place she had visited twice before. Her pale face looked fragile against the deep crimson of the silken sheets. 

"Summon the Royal Physician right now," Stephen ordered sharply, his tone tinged with urgency. A nearby guard bowed and hurried off.

As he waited, Stephen prepared a basin with water and clothes, he took a damp cloth from a basin and began to clean the dirt from her delicate features, his touch tender. The door creaked open, and Bathsheba, his grandmother, entered with her usual air of authority.

Her sharp eyes softened as they fell on Aurora's battered form. 

"Good heavens… She is gravely hurt, Sapphire informed of what had transpired." Bathsheba murmured, her voice filled with rare concern. 

"She was trying to flee," Stephen said, his voice heavy with a mix of frustration and sorrow. 

"What?" Bathsheba's gaze snapped to him, her eyebrow arched. "I know," he sighed, his broad shoulders slumping slightly.

"After this, I will let her go. I must." The words seemed to weigh on him, and for once, Bathsheba was at a loss for words.

Though she often held her tongue about his decisions, she felt a pang of regret. Aurora brought a light to her grandson's eyes that had been missing for years.

Even so, she knew his resolve would not be easily shaken. "At this point, you should let her go," Bathsheba said softly, though her tone soon grew more pointed.

"Yet, shall you truly cast away the years you have spent seeking her?" 

Stephen turned sharply, his gaze narrowing upon her. "What is it you mean by that, Grandmother? You saw with your own eyes how grievously hurt she is—how desperately she sought to escape me." His voice wavered as he raked his fingers through his unruly hair, weariness evident in his posture. 

Bathsheba regarded him with a steady, inscrutable gaze. At last, she spoke with quiet certainty. "I trust you will act rightly, Stephen. I shall leave you to it." With those parting words, Bathsheba turned and departed, her steps steady as the Royal Physician entered with haste.

"My Queen," the Physician murmured, bowing respectfully as he passed Bathsheba. She acknowledged him with a slight wave of her hand before continuing on her way.

"Your Majesty," the Physician said as he stepped further into the chamber. But Stephen, his mind weighed with turmoil, had no patience for formalities.

"See to it that she lives," Stephen commanded as he stepped aside to give the physician space. 

The physician, a wizened man with an air of his occupation authority, placed his fingers on Aurora's wrist to check her pulse. After a moment, he nodded.

"Her pulse is weak but steady. She lives, but she has lost a significant amount of blood. Immediate care is necessary." He leaned closer, opening her eyelids to inspect her pupils before moving to her injured foot.

As he pressed near the wound, Aurora cried out faintly in pain before slipping back into unconsciousness. 

"This wound is grave and likely infected," the physician muttered grimly.

"I shall perform an immediate procedure to relieve her suffering. Eric!" he called, and his apprentice, a young lad carrying a wooden case, stepped forward, before bowing his head. 

"This is Eric, my new apprentice," the physician said offhandedly to Stephen, who barely acknowledged him.

"He has much to prove, but I pray he lasts longer than his predecessors." 

Eric handed over a needle, and the physician skillfully inserted it into a point near the wound.

"This is acupuncture, Your Majesty, to lessen the pain while I prepare further remedies. I shall need the Royal Cook to prepare strengthening broths to aid her recovery." 

The physician then placed a bundle of herbs on the bedside table.

"These must be steeped into a tonic. Eric will oversee their preparation and deliver them. For now, my work here is done." 

The physician and his apprentice bowed deeply before departing, leaving Stephen alone with Aurora once more. He studied her face, still beautiful despite the slight dirt that marred it.

Stephen rose and left the chamber, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"No one is to enter or leave without my permission," he ordered the guards stationed outside.

They bowed low as he strode down the hall, rolling up his sleeves as he made his way to the Royal Kitchen. 

The servants within froze at the sight of their king entering the domain unannounced, hastily bowing their heads. 

"Where is the Royal Chef?" Stephen asked a maid who seemed less flustered than the others. 

"H-he left to gather ingredients, Your Majesty," she stammered. 

"Does he not have servants for such errands?" 

"He said he preferred to select them himself," she replied cautiously. 

"Summon him at once," Stephen commanded. 

Whispers rippled through the maids as he waited. 

"The King in the kitchen? Has the world turned upside down?" one murmured, wide-eyed. 

"I heard the maids in the bedchambers see him every day," another said wistfully. "Oh, how lucky they are," she sighed wishfully. 

"Why is he here, though?" 

"Perhaps someone has been poisoned again!" gasped a younger maid, clutching her apron as their hushed speculations continued. 

Royal Chef Trent entered the grand, sunlit kitchen, a woven basket in hand brimming with fresh, earthy carrots and vibrant red tomatoes.

His satisfied smile lit up his angular, weathered face as he approached King Stephen, who stood leaning against the marble counter.

The kitchen, now devoid of its usual bustling staff, was eerily silent—emptied in deference to the King's presence. 

"What brings you here, Your Majesty?" Trent asked casually, setting the basket down on the polished wooden countertop. 

"What a way to address your king," Stephen replied dryly, arching a brow. "Feeling bold today, are we?"

"I am quite occupied, as you can plainly see," Trent replied, his angelic, boyish charm a stark contrast to Stephen's chiseled and commanding presence.

"But truly, what brings you here? It is not everyday you grace me with your presence in the kitchen." 

"I am here to cook," Stephen answered curtly. 

Trent let out a knowing chuckle. "The last time you attempted such a feat, it was for Aubree. She proclaimed you the finest cook in the world, did she not?" His smirk faded as a thought struck him.

"Now, who is the fortunate soul to partake in your efforts this time?" 

When Stephen did not respond, Trent's eyes narrowed before widening in realization.

"Ah, keeping secrets, are we?" he taunted. "Very well, have it your way." 

"It is her," Stephen said at last, his voice heavy. 

"Her?" Trent's brow arched in disbelief.

"What are you saying? Did you dream of her again, or are you jesting?" 

"I found her," Stephen murmured. 

Trent's playful air dissipated in an instant. "What do you mean—you found her? And yet, you did not deem it necessary to tell me? Does Zayd know of this?" 

Stephen sighed, his hand brushing the countertop. "I did find her, but she remembers nothing—nothing of me, nothing of us. Worse still, she believes I am the one who destroyed her family. It defies all reason. She even sought to flee from me and injured herself in the process. So yes, I am here to prepare a meal for her, for who else knows her tastes as I do?" 

"And Zayd? Did he know?" 

Stephen's gaze met Trent's, his tone quiet but firm. "Yes." 

"Oh, I see. So he knew, and I did not. She is my friend as much as she is yours. I had every right to know. Or was your intention to keep this from me entirely? If she had not injured herself, and you had no cause to enter the kitchen, would you have told me at all?"

"I would have," Stephen answered, his voice tight with frustration.

"But I was preoccupied. I was... uncertain. I had to be sure she was truly the one." 

Trent's lips thinned into a grim line.

"And yet, Zayd knew. Only I did not." 

Stephen ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, letting out a weary sigh. "Listen, Trent, there's no need for theatrics. I had my own troubles to manage. Besides, you didn't seem overly concerned whether I found her or not and I just told you now." 

"So now the fault is mine, is that it? I didn't seem concerned? What would you have me do? Weep? WAIL? Damn you, Stephen."

Trent spun on his heel and strode out of the kitchen.Neither man noticed the shadow lingering near the doorway, listening intently to every word. They had always been a close-knit circle—the four of them: Stephen, Aurora, Zayd, and Trent.

But hearing now of Aubree's ordeal, and of the secrecy surrounding it, filled Trent with a bitter sense of regret. That Zayd and Stephen had kept him in the dark was a wound that stung deeper than he cared to admit, thinking in fact that Aubree didn't matter that much to him. 

The last thing Stephen needed was a quarrel with Trent. He resolved to set the matter right later; surely, Trent would eventually come around, he just liked being dramatic. 

With practiced ease, Stephen prepared the black chicken soup. He chopped red dates finely, combined them with fragrant herbs, and placed them in a large clay pot filled with water, while the maids fancied from the windows. 

One by one, he added the goji berries, ginger, and Angelica root, their scents mingling as the pot simmered over the fire. One of the maids brought the silken cleaned chicken, "Your Majesty," she meekly said, as she placed it on a tray beside him. 

Stephen let out a quiet sigh of relief, giving her a curt nod before focusing back on the broth. After seasoning it lightly to balance the medicinal flavors, he poured the steaming soup into a silver bowl, the rich aroma filling the room. 

The maids whispered in hushed awe as Stephen strode through the corridors, the silver bowl balanced steadily in his hands.

Their murmurs about his commanding presence and striking visage reached his ears, though he paid them no mind, he was used to it. Reaching his chambers, he opened the door quietly.

Aurora lay on the bed, her face serene in sleep. He hates to disrupt her peaceful rest, but he needed to. He approached and set the bowl on a nearby table, gently shaking her shoulder, to wake her up, as she needed to take the broth to help her recover properly. 

After a few moments of shaking, her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, they widened, as though startled to see him. She made to sit up, but winced in pain, and he wouldn't lie, he hated seeing her sick. 

"How are you feeling?" Stephen asked gently, lifting the bowl of chicken soup from the tray beside the bed. He took a spoonful, blowing on it softly before bringing it to Aurora's lips. 

"You should have some of this, it will help you regain your energy," He gestured to the steaming broth, its warmth filling the space between them. Aurora shook her head faintly. "I shall take it myself." 

Stephen inclined his head, not pressing her further, and placed the small bowl before her. She took hold of the spoon, dipping it into the stew before raising it to her mouth.

For a time, silence lingered between them, disturbed only by the gentle clink of the spoon against the bowl. 

"May I ask you something?" Aurora spoke suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Stephen met her gaze, his steady eyes grounding her. She inhaled sharply, caught off guard by his closeness, and choked on the soup.

She coughed, her breath intake sharp, Stephen quickly handed her a cup of water, his movements fluid yet urgent. Aurora quickly downed the cup of water into her throat, catching her breath. 

"You may," he said once she'd caught her breath. "Why are you being kind to me?" she asked, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve.

The innocence of her gesture, so unaware of courtly decorum, nearly coaxed a smile from him. 

"We are still dwelling on this, are we?" he said, his tone calm yet resolute. "No matter what I say, it will sound false. Simply consider it my way of expressing gratitude for you saving my life."

Aurora's eyes narrowed slightly. "That does sound false." she murmured, earning a slight glare from Stephen. 

Before she could press further, the door burst open with a loud crash, and there stood Queen Genevieve, her elegant frame trembling with fury.

 "She is leaving this palace. At once," Genevieve declared, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air.