The Princess' Harem
Chapter 53: Eryndor’s Seduction

Chapter 53: Eryndor’s Seduction

The library’s charged silence lingered in Viana’s mind as she left Arden and the ledgers behind, the weight of their unexpected fall replaying in her thoughts.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of court duties—greeting a minor noble, reviewing a festival proposal—but her heart wasn’t in it.

Rayne’s teasing grin, Arden’s steadying hands, and the looming threat of Arin’s schemes tangled together, leaving her restless. By evening, she retreated to her chambers, craving solitude.

Her bedroom in the Elysia Palace was a haven of soft blues and golds, its wide balcony overlooking the city’s twinkling lights. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens below.

Viana changed into a simple silk nightgown, its fabric light against her skin, and let her blonde hair fall loose, the braid undone. She left her circlet on a velvet cushion, feeling unburdened without its weight.

Settling onto a cushioned chair by the balcony, she opened a book—a romance novel, a guilty pleasure—but her eyes skimmed the words without focus.

The moon hung high, casting silver across the room, when a soft rustle broke her reverie. She froze, her hand inching toward the dagger hidden beneath her chair.

The sound came again, a faint scrape from the balcony. She rose, silent, and peered through the gauzy curtains.

A figure stood in the moonlight, tall and lithe, his silver hair shimmering like spun starlight.

Eryndor, the elven emissary who had arrived in court only days ago, leaned casually against the balcony railing, his emerald eyes catching the light.

His attire was elegant yet understated—a fitted tunic of deep green, embroidered with silver vines, and trousers that hugged his graceful form.

He was beauty incarnate, every line of his face sculpted as if by divine hands, and Viana’s breath caught despite herself.

"Princess Viana," he said, his voice a melodic caress, low and warm. "I hope I’m not intruding."

She clutched the dagger’s hilt, her pulse quickening. "You’re on my balcony, unannounced, at midnight. That’s the definition of intruding."

He smiled, a slow, disarming curve of his lips that made her grip falter.

"Forgive me. Elves prefer the night—it’s when the world feels alive. I saw your light and thought... perhaps you’d welcome company."

Viana hesitated, her instincts warring with curiosity. Eryndor’s presence in court had been brief but memorable—his sharp wit and effortless charm had turned heads, though he’d kept his distance from most.

She stepped onto the balcony, keeping the dagger hidden behind her but lowering it slightly. "What do you want, Eryndor?"

He straightened, his movements fluid, and gestured to the city below. "To talk. To share a moment with Elysia’s future queen. Is that so bold?"

She arched an eyebrow, but his sincerity—or the illusion of it—softened her guard. "Fine. Talk. But stay where you are."

He chuckled, a sound like wind through leaves, and leaned back against the railing, respecting her space. "As you wish. Shall I start with my home? The Verdant Glade, where elves dwell among trees older than your kingdom."

Viana settled onto the balcony’s stone bench, tucking her legs beneath her. "Go on. I’ve read about elven realms, but books don’t capture the truth."

His eyes lit with approval, and he began, his voice weaving a vivid tapestry. "The Glade is a living city, its homes carved into ancient oaks that hum with magic. Bioluminescent vines light our paths, and the air tastes of dew and starlight. We dance under moons, our music echoing through canopies. It’s... freedom, bound to nature’s rhythm."

She leaned forward, drawn in despite herself. "It sounds beautiful. Do you miss it?"

"Every day," he said, his gaze distant. "But duty calls me here. Elysia is... intriguing. As are you."

His eyes flicked to hers, a spark of intent in them.

Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, focusing on the city’s lights. "Don’t flatter me. I’m not some courtier to be swayed."

"I don’t flatter," he said, stepping closer, though still at a respectful distance. "I observe. You carry a weight, Viana—duty, secrets, perhaps a past life. Yet you shine, even in shadow."

Her breath hitched. The mention of a past life stung, a reminder of memories she kept buried. How did he know?

She tightened her grip on the dagger, but his gaze held no malice, only a knowing warmth that made her heart stutter. "You’re bold," she said, her voice softer than intended.

"Elves are," he replied, his smile teasing now.

"May I sit?" He gestured to the bench’s edge.

She nodded, against her better judgment, and he sat, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and moss on him.

His presence was magnetic, and she hated how it stirred her. The Love Percentage bar didn’t appear, but its absence only heightened her awareness of him.

They talked for hours, the night deepening around them. Eryndor spoke of elven customs—feasts under starlight, duels settled with song, bonds forged through shared dreams.

Viana shared fragments of her own world, careful not to reveal too much: the pressure of the crown, her love for the palace gardens, her struggle with ledgers.

He listened intently, his eyes never leaving her, and his responses were laced with a subtle flirtation that made her pulse race

"You’re not what I expected," he said at one point, his voice low. "A princess, yes, but... there’s fire in you. A spark that could rival the Glade’s magic."

She laughed, a nervous sound. "You’re laying it on thick now."

"Am I?" He leaned closer, his silver hair brushing his cheek. "Tell me, Viana, do you ever let yourself feel that fire? Or do you keep it locked away, like your kingdom’s gold?"

Her throat tightened. His words cut too close, stirring memories of her former life—love lost, choices regretted.

She met his gaze, and the intensity there nearly undid her. His beauty was a weapon, and he wielded it expertly, each glance and smile pulling her closer to a dangerous edge.

"I... I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I have to be careful."

"Careful is safe," he murmured, his hand brushing hers on the bench, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through her. "But fire needs air to burn."

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