Elara’s POV
Breakfast was quiet in the way only impending separation could make it.
The long table was set with more food than either of us touched. Steam rose from porcelain cups, bread lay untouched, fruit dulled beneath the morning light. Across from me, Caden sat straight-backed, already half elsewhere, his mind pacing ahead of his body the way it always did when duty called.
“I’ll leave before noon,” he said calmly, as if announcing a routine inspection rather than a journey into unrest.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “West Verloren,” I repeated. “That’s where the protests are strongest.”
“Yes.”
“And Alexander’s influence is spreading there.”
“Yes,” he said again, softer this time.
I pushed my chair back slightly, the scrape loud in the stillness. “You don’t have to go,” I said. “You could send envoys. Generals. Anyone else.”
Caden finally looked at me then, truly looked, his eyes steady but warm. “If I don’t go,” he said, “they’ll say the King hides while the Queen bleeds for peace.”
I swallowed. “Let them talk.”
“They already are,” he replied gently.
Fear pressed against my ribs, sharp and familiar. The last time a man I loved had left to face Alexander’s shadow, I had been a child, powerless and lied to for my own safety. I refused to let history repeat itself so easily.
“How long?” I asked.
“A few days,” he said. “I’ll move fast.”
“You always do,” I murmured.
He reached across the table then, covering my hand with his. “Elara.”
I met his gaze, my throat tight. “I don’t want us apart,” I said honestly. “Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s tearing at the seams.”
He squeezed my hand. “We won’t fall apart,” he said. “Not us.”
I wanted to believe that. I did believe it—most days. But war had a way of testing even the strongest truths.
“You’ll be ruling alone while I’m gone,” he added. “You can handle it.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s not what frightens me.”
He leaned closer. “Then what does?”
I hesitated. “That Alexander will take something from me again.”
Caden’s jaw tightened. “He won’t,” he said firmly. “I won’t let him.”
The words were meant to reassure, and they did—but they also reminded me of how dangerous that promise was. No one could control every outcome. We had learned that the hard way.
“I’ll send word constantly,” he said. “And James will be with me.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll keep the capital steady.”
“I know you will,” he said, standing.
I rose with him, pressing my forehead briefly to his chest, breathing him in as if memorizing the moment. He kissed my hair softly, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Come back to me,” I whispered.
“I always do,” he replied.
Watching him leave felt like reopening an old wound I had worked years to heal. I stood at the window long after his horse vanished from the courtyard, the clatter of armor and hooves fading into the morning.
Then I turned back to the table. To duty.
The hours blurred together after that. Council meetings stacked atop petitions, letters arrived in waves, reports demanded answers I didn’t always have. I ruled because I had to, because there was no room for hesitation when a kingdom trembled.
By afternoon, my head ached.
I retreated to Caden’s cabinet for a moment of quiet, intending only to breathe. The room still smelled faintly of him—ink, parchment, steel. I crossed to his desk, fingers trailing along the familiar surface, and that was when I saw it.
A letter.
It lay partially hidden beneath a stack of reports, sealed with dark wax bearing a symbol I didn’t recognize. My pulse quickened as I lifted it, instinct screaming that this was not meant for my eyes.
But I was Queen.
I broke the seal.
The handwriting was sharp, deliberate.
Your Majesty,
If you are reading this, then your husband has already chosen silence over truth.
My breath caught. I did not leave willingly. Alexander did not rescue me—he reclaimed me.
The room seemed to tilt.
He believes blood grants him ownership. He believes I belong to him, just as he believes you belong to Verdana.
My hands trembled as I continued.
I am not writing to ask for mercy. I am writing to ask for understanding.
I was raised to believe pain was purpose. That obedience was survival. That love was a distraction invented by the weak.
Tears burned my eyes.
You showed me something else.
I don’t know what I will become next. I don’t know if I can escape him. But I needed you to know that not all who stand near Alexander do so by choice.
The final lines were shakier, as if written in haste.
If war comes—and it will—remember this: some enemies are forged, not born.
—William of Verdana
The letter slipped from my fingers onto the desk.
William was alive. Not free—but alive.
I sank into Caden’s chair slowly, heart pounding, the weight of everything pressing down at once. Alexander had taken him, yes—but he had not broken him completely. Not yet.
That mattered. It meant there was still a fracture in Alexander’s perfect cruelty. A weakness. A fault line.
And fault lines, if struck correctly, could bring empires down.
I folded the letter carefully and tucked it into my sleeve, standing with renewed resolve. Alone or not, frightened or not, I would rule.
And when Caden returned, I would tell him everything.
Because this war was no longer just about kingdoms.
It was about choice.