Seraya’s POV
I didn’t leave the west wing for three days after that confrontation with Caelum in the stables.
Not to eat. Not to attend the council. Not even for the morning walks I used to take just to remember I was still alive.
I stayed in my chambers or wandered the empty halls in silence. No one stopped me. No one asked if I was all right. Not even the guards—they followed from a distance now, like I might shatter if they got too close.
Maybe I would.
I thought I’d already reached the end of humiliation. I was wrong. Whatever happened between Caelum and me—whatever almost happened—didn’t just crack something open. It stripped everything raw.
And still, it wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was how much Theron still haunted me.
Even now. After everything. After the betrayal, the lies, the rejection. I still thought about the man who once held my face in his hands and whispered, “You are the crown I choose every day.”
He didn’t choose me.
He never really did.
I tried to let it go. Tried to breathe, to think, to move on. But the rage burned deeper than the sadness now. It was quieter, sharper. Like a blade being honed instead of broken.
He abandoned me. After every vow. After every word.
So I started thinking. Not just about grief. But about revenge.
I stood at the tall windows of the west hall that evening. The glass was cold under my fingertips, the night outside darker than ink. I told myself I wouldn’t cry for him again. Not one more time.
I would make myself useful. Sharp. Dangerous.
And yet—no matter how hard I tried to focus on strategy, my thoughts kept drifting sideways to Caelum. It made no sense. I didn’t want it to. But it wouldn’t stop.
By morning, the air had cleared. The rain was gone, leaving the palace washed clean and cold. I told myself a walk would clear my head.
I left my chambers quietly, trailing the edge of the west gardens before cutting toward the council tower. Fresh air helped. It reminded me I was still here. Still real.
My guards followed at a respectful distance, their footsteps muffled against the stone floors.
I turned the corner toward the south corridor—and stopped short.
Elowen stood in front of me. She looked calmer than she should’ve. Her hands folded neatly in front of her skirts. Like she’d been waiting.
“Do you love my brother?” she asked.
I blinked. “No.” But my voice cracked.
She tilted her head slightly. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
I said nothing. The hallway felt too narrow. Too exposed.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” she continued. “It’s not hatred.”
I stepped back, just slightly. Enough to make her expression sharpen into something harder.
“My brother doesn’t love easily,” she said. “But when he does, it consumes him.”
I crossed my arms tightly against my chest. “Then he should be more careful.”
Her gaze narrowed, cutting right through me.
“Just make sure,” she said, voice dropping lower, “he isn’t the one who bleeds for it.”
Then she turned and walked away, her footsteps fading quickly into the long, empty corridor.
I stood there for a long time. Long enough for the light slanting through the windows to shift, painting long shadows across the marble floor.
The weight of her warning clung to me all the way back to my chambers.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The moon hung low outside my window, casting thin, silver lines across the floor. I sat at the edge of my bed, unmoving, until the restlessness became unbearable.
I pulled out the original treaty from my trunk—tucked beneath old letters and pieces of a life that didn’t belong to me anymore.
The parchment crackled as I unrolled it. My fingers traced the words even before I read them.
“Upon the crowning of Princess Elowen as Queen of Virelia, the ceremonial dowry lands of the previous consort shall return to the crown.”
I read it three times. My hands clenched tighter with each pass.
He took everything. And now he would sleep peacefully beside a new queen while I was expected to vanish.
That wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t need to beg. I didn’t need to cry. I needed to break something.
Something he couldn’t ignore. The thought came quietly, uninvited. But once it arrived, it didn’t leave.
A fake pregnancy. Not out of desperation. Out of control. If they wanted to ruin me quietly, I would burn the room on my way out.
30
