Third-Person POV
The door closed behind Theron with a dull thud, the iron latch dropping into place. The chamber was cold. Not from lack of fire, but from something quieter—older.
Theron stood near the wide table of maps, his shoulders rigid, one hand clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. The doors had been bolted behind him. No guards. No advisors. No curious witnesses.
Across from him, Caelum waited in silence, posture unflinching. He had not reached for a weapon. He had not stepped back.
Theron paced a slow arc, the click of his boots loud on the stone. His expression was tight, controlled—but the kind of control that lives seconds from fracture. His hands were empty, but clenched.
“I want you to say it,” he began, voice low and steady. “I want to hear it from your mouth.”
Theron’s voice broke through the quiet, brittle and low. It carried no theatrics. No royal pretense. Just the raw edge of something long buried and violently unearthed.
Caelum didn’t respond. He didn’t flinch.
Theron’s voice dropped further. “No, of course not. You didn’t just touch her.” He stepped forward slowly. “You fucked her.”
Still, Caelum said nothing.
His gaze never left Theron’s. Cold. Flat.
Caelum’s silence spoke louder than any confession. He didn’t blink. He didn’t drop his gaze.
Theron’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark with fury. A single blow—clean, practiced, thrown with the weight of weeks held in restraint. The sound of the punch cracked across the chamber—flesh meeting bone with brutal force.
Caelum’s head snapped sideways. His body turned with the blow but didn’t fall.
Blood trickled from his split lip. He drew a sleeve across his mouth, wiped it clean with slow precision, then looked back at Theron—expression unreadable.
Theron’s breath was uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast.
He turned and walked past him without a word.
By evening, the corridors were empty. Only the dull torchlight remained, flickering weakly against the walls.
The bruise had already begun to bloom along his jaw. Blood still marked the corner of his mouth, though he made no effort to clean it again.
He looked ahead, not seeing. Not really.
It was Seraya who found him.
She approached without hurry, footsteps soft against the floor, her gaze sharp with worry before she even spoke.
“Caelum.”
He didn’t move.
She stepped closer, her breath catching when she saw the mark on his face. Her hand lifted, fingers grazing the air between them.
“What happened?”
Still, he did not answer.
She reached for his face, slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw.
But he stepped back—not in rejection, not with coldness, but with a kind of restraint that felt like grief.
“Don’t,” he murmured. His voice was low. Hoarse. “Not now.”
Seraya lowered her hand, but she didn’t leave.
She didn’t press.
They stood like that for a long moment, the quiet stretching between them, full of things neither of them could name.
Back in the Queen’s chambers, Elowen stood waiting. The fire behind her cast a warm light over her dark gown, but there was nothing warm in her gaze.
Seraya entered slowly, shoulders tense.
Elowen’s voice was calm, but cut sharp. “You should be more careful where you leave the pieces of him.”
Seraya met her stare without blinking. “What do you want to say, Elowen? Say it.”
“You’re playing with a man who does not know how to play,” she said plainly. “He doesn’t survive love, Seraya. He survives war. He survives hunger. But not love.”
Seraya said nothing.
Elowen stepped closer. “When he breaks, he doesn’t rebuild. He burns through everything he has and leaves nothing for himself.”
“I didn’t ask him to love me,”Seraya said softly. “Not like this.”
“But he does,” Elowen said. “And you know it.”
When Elowen left, the room felt colder. Seraya stood in silence. The fire burned low behind her. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.
She moved slowly to the bed, her hand pressing lightly to her stomach. The heartbeat was still there—the false one, the enchanted thrum beneath her skin.
But it was no longer the lie that weighed on her. This was never about survival anymore.
Not for the court. Not for the throne. She touched her stomach as though it might anchor her.
And whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “It’s him.”
She had known it for days. But tonight, she felt the weight of what it would cost.
30
