Toren summons me like I’m a dog who’s been shitting on the carpet. Private meeting, closed doors, the kind of setup that screams “your life is about to get exponentially worse.”
The peace treaty’s spread across his desk like a fucking contract with the devil. Parchment, seals, fancy lettering that probably cost more than most people’s annual income. All very official. All very permanent.
“Sit,” he says.
I don’t. Because I’m petty like that.
He doesn’t push it. Just launches into his pitch like he’s selling me a timeshare in hell.
“The treaty’s straightforward. Marriage to Lady Vaela. Alliance with the West. Stability for the realm.” He taps the document with one finger. “You will have a queen. Not a slave girl.”
Slave girl.
The words hit like a slap. Because that’s what Lucy is to them—property that changed hands, a commodity that got traded for political convenience.
“Her name,” I say through gritted teeth, “is Lucy.”
“Her name is irrelevant. She’s gone. This is your future.”
“This is your future. I never agreed to any of it.”
“You don’t have to agree. You just have to sign.”
The bond flickers in my chest—weaker than yesterday, stronger than tomorrow. Lucy’s still out there somewhere, probably thinking I’ve already moved on. Probably wondering if I’m planning wedding colors with my new political bride.
“No.”
Simple word. Maximum impact.
Toren’s jaw ticks. “This isn’t a request.”
“And that wasn’t a negotiation.”
“You’re being childish.”
“I’m being honest. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
He stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller. More dangerous. Like I’m trapped in a cage with something that’s deciding whether to eat me or just maul me a little.
“You think this is about love?” he asks. “You think your feelings matter more than the stability of the realm?”
“I think my feelings are the only thing that’s ever mattered to me.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Better a fool than a coward.”
Wrong thing to say. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth.
His expression goes arctic. “You want to call me a coward? Fine. But cowards don’t make the hard choices. Cowards don’t sacrifice personal happiness for the greater good.”
“The greater good? Or your political convenience?”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
The silence stretches between us like a blade. I can hear my own heartbeat, the distant sound of normal people living normal lives beyond these walls. People who don’t have to choose between love and duty, between their heart and their crown.
“Sign the treaty,” he says finally.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Until you agree to this marriage, you’re banned from council chambers. No input on policy. No voice in decisions. You can sit in your room and sulk like the child you’re determined to be.”
“Fine by me.”
“Is it? Because while you’re playing the tragic romantic hero, the realm still needs governing. And I’ll govern it without you.”
The threat’s clear. Sign the treaty or become irrelevant. Marry Vaela or watch from the sidelines while he makes decisions that’ll affect thousands of lives.
“Do what you want,” I say. “But I’m not signing that.”
“You will. Eventually. Because the alternative is watching everything you care about burn while you cling to the memory of a girl who’s already forgotten you.”
That one hits different. Because what if he’s right? What if Lucy’s already moving on, accepting whatever life Valen’s built for her? What if I’m the only one still fighting for something that’s already dead?
The bond pulses—once, weak, desperate.
Still there. Still fighting.
“She hasn’t forgotten me,” I say.
“Prove it. Sign the treaty. Move on. Show everyone that the Dire line can think beyond its own selfish desires.”
“Or what?”
“Or watch me rule without you. Permanently.”
The ultimatum hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Sign the treaty and lose Lucy forever. Refuse and lose everything else.
“I need time to think.”
“You have until tomorrow. Then I announce the engagement with or without your consent.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
“She’s not coming back, Cassian. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start living again.”
“I never stopped living.”
“You stopped living the moment you chose her over your duty.”
“No,” I say, hand on the door handle. “I started living the moment I chose her over your politics.”