Chapter 156

Chapter 156
King Arin stood at the tall window of his chamber late that afternoon, his broad shoulders rigid as he leaned against the carved frame, his eyes locked on the horizon where the sun dipped lower in the sky, bleeding fire and gold into the clouds. The light spilled across the polished floor of his chamber, stretching into long shadows that seemed to crawl toward him, as though even the day itself were urging him to act before it was too late.

Below, the distant thundering of hooves broke through the stillness, drawing his gaze sharply to the palace gates. Dust rose in a pale plume behind the riders, swirling like smoke in the fading light, and within moments, the banners came into view, crimson and silver, unmistakable, bearing the sigil of King Roberto.

Arin’s breath caught as recognition struck him with the weight of a blade pressed against his chest. Roberto… already? He gripped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened, his mind racing with disbelief. How did he arrive so quickly? We have only been here two days. Two days.

The riders slowed, the sound of hooves clattering against stone echoing into the courtyard, and there he was: King Roberto, dismounting his horse with the elegance of a man too used to being admired. His cloak flared behind him, his armor gleamed, and his smile was the kind of smile that belonged to a man who always got what he wanted.

Arin’s chest tightened as if caught in a vice. The sight hammered the truth into him with cruel precision—time had run out. He could no longer delay, no longer circle around the words he had swallowed again and again. It is now or never, he told himself, the thought searing like fire. If I do not tell the queen that I no longer want her, if I do not tell Henriette that she is the one, then I will lose her. And when I lose her… it will be forever.

The urgency coiled hot in his veins, pressing against his ribs until he felt he might shatter beneath it. With a sharp, impatient snap of his fingers, he summoned his servants.

“Get me dressed,” he commanded, his voice sharp and urgent, the tone of a man who no longer had the luxury of time. His eyes blazed with impatience as he added, “And be quick.”

The servants rushed in, their arms full of fine silks, tunics, and the ceremonial cloak befitting a king. They moved swiftly, but to Arin every gesture was unbearably slow, every fold of fabric smoothed, every clasp fastened, every buckle secured dragged like an eternity. His jaw clenched tighter with each passing moment, frustration clawing at him. He wanted to rip the garments from their hands and clothe himself if it meant reaching her faster.

Finally—after what felt like a lifetime, he stood fully dressed, the heavy cloak falling against his shoulders, his boots polished to gleam in the candlelight. He barely spared a glance in the mirror; he cared nothing for appearances now, only for the words clawing inside his chest, desperate to be spoken. Without hesitation, he strode to the door and flung it open, his long strides echoing through the corridor.

“There you are,” a voice called, smooth and deliberate, halting him mid-step.

Queen Henriette glided toward him, her gown whispering across the stone floor, her expression a mixture of triumph and relief. She looked radiant, her hair gleaming with jewels that caught the last of the sun’s rays, her posture straight and flawless. Yet her eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered with something darker, possessiveness, perhaps, or suspicion.

“I came to tell you,” she said, her tone light but laced with steel, “that King Roberto has arrived. He is here to take Henriette back to his kingdom.”

Her words struck like a lash, but Arin’s face hardened. She reached for his arm, her slender fingers poised to curl around him, to stake her claim, but he brushed her away with a swift, decisive movement that brooked no argument.

“I have something important to speak to you about,” he said, his voice clipped and brimming with restraint, “but it will have to wait.”

And without waiting for her reply, he surged forward, his stride lengthening, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm breaking loose. The queen’s eyes widened, and she hastened after him, the hurried click of her slippers echoing against the stone as she tried desperately to keep up.

“Arin!” she called, her voice rising, breath catching as he outpaced her. “What is the big hurry?”

But he did not slow. His chest heaved as he pushed through the palace doors, the cool air of the gardens striking him like a slap. And then he froze.

There, framed by the arches of roses and the soft spray of a fountain, stood Henriette. Her figure, delicate and achingly familiar, was caught in the arms of King Roberto.

Arin’s breath tore from his lungs in a jagged rush. His body locked in place, his heart slamming violently against his ribs as the world seemed to tilt beneath him.

Her head was bent slightly, her hands resting against Roberto’s chest as he held her, his expression one of smug satisfaction. To any onlooker, it would appear she belonged there, that she was his, that the embrace was welcome.

Arin’s throat closed, the confession that had burned inside him shriveling on his tongue. His entire plan, to cast aside the queen, to tell Henriette she was his heart—died in an instant.

From where he stood, unseen, he watched her smile falter, though Roberto’s never wavered. The sight cut him open, jagged and merciless. I should leave her to be happy, he thought with brutal clarity. If I declare my love now, I will only confuse her. And if I force her to choose, I may destroy the very happiness I swore to protect.

The ache in his chest deepened until it was unbearable. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms, but he did not move forward. He stayed rooted, a prisoner to his own restraint.

Queen Henriette stumbled to a halt beside him, her cheeks flushed, her breath ragged from the chase. “What is the big hurry?” she demanded again, her voice edged with irritation though her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph.

“Nothing,” Arin said stiffly. He forced the words out past the tightness in his throat. “I changed my mind.”

He turned his face toward her, masking the storm in his eyes with an expression of cold detachment.

The queen’s lips curled into a victorious smile, as though she had gained something precious without lifting a finger.