Chapter 92 If love bends to crowns.
Daevir's POV
I stood there silent and still. Not even the old, wise, and mighty Zephyr has words.
"You may report to the Apothecary, Orgah," I said quietly and stepped out of the room.
"I need to be alone," I said when Zephyr followed after me. He nodded and returned to Orgah, both of them leaving the room. The sound of the door shutting behind them brought me back to reality.
I walked out of the room, following the passage that led to the Emperor station. Taking off my crown and robes, I changed into my hunting suit. A suit so common, men in the land won't recognize their emperor walking past them if I did.
With my weapons tucked away, I stood outside the palace, looking out at the mountainous terrain as I walked through the woods. Zephyr would have commanded a legion of guards to follow me without my knowledge. But I don't care about that now. All I wanted was for this raw emotion hanging to my chest to go, lest Ezriel explode in me and take the wheel.
I walk without direction, boots crushing damp leaves and broken twigs beneath me, the evening sun setting in, folding close around my shoulders like a cloak. The trees stand tall and silent, ancient witnesses who neither judge nor question, only endure. I envy them for that.
Emperor.
The word feels foreign in my mouth, heavy as iron. It should taste like victory. Like power. Like destiny fulfilled.
Instead, it tastes like ash.
Amarien.
Her name rises unbidden, sharp and aching, lodged somewhere between my ribs. No matter how far I walk, I cannot outrun it. I cannot outrun her.
She was pregnant.
With my child!
The thought hits me again, sudden and brutal, like a fist to the gut. I stop walking. My breath fogs the cold air as I brace my hands against a tree trunk, bark rough beneath my palms.
My child.
A life I never knew existed, already gone, or worse, dying somewhere beyond my reach.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The nuns beat her.
The words replay endlessly, each time carving deeper. I imagine it against my will; her body curled in on itself, her hands shielding her stomach, shielding him. I imagine her crying out, not for mercy, but for me.
Because she did call for me.
I heard her.
That is the part that gnaws at my heart.
I straighten abruptly, anger flaring hot and wild in my chest. I tear my hands away from the tree and pace again, faster now.
I was there.
In that tower. In that cursed stone prison where I had to sit with my dead father. I heard her voice echo through the corridor, hoarse, desperate, breaking as it called my name.
"Daevir!!!"
And I did not turn back.
I told myself it was for the best. The whole kingdom is tense now that they've learned of my affair with Amarien and my father sacrificed to keep her alive. Keeping her in the palace is as much a risk as sending her to that guillotine to die.
The nunnery was the best solution. After all, I've learned she didn't want me anymore. She only used me while she was courting Theron.
So I walked away. Hoping not to stand between her and my brother.
The wind cuts through the trees, sharp and cold, and I welcome it. Let it bite. Let it punish me.
I clench my jaw until it aches.
Theron.
My brother. My rival. The man I have spent all my life resenting and the other half competing with. He heard what I did, and he went to her.
He saved her.
The image burns behind my eyes: Theron striding into the nunnery, wrath incarnate, tearing her from their hands and carrying her away like something precious, something his.
Jealousy coils tight and ugly in my chest.
He always wanted her. He fought for her. I didn't.
I shut my eyes, and the imagery for their courting simmered to the surface.
Did Theron look at her the way I did? Did his gaze linger? Did his voice soften when he spoke to her?
I could imagine it all. Theron is holding her in his arms and declaring she belongs to him.
And she let him.
While she kissed me passionately and compelled me to her bosom, she hid this treachery from me!
The wound gnawed at me. How could someone so sweet and precious bring so much pain?
She let Theron court her.
Even knowing what I offered.
A crown.
A throne.
A future as my queen.
I exhale sharply, the sound almost a laugh, though there is no humour in it.
What arrogance.
As if love bends to crowns.
As if wanting her was enough to deserve her.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration surging.
She never asked for the throne.
She never asked to be torn between brothers, between power and protection. She asked for safety. For honesty. For me.
And I gave her silence.
I gave her distance.
I gave her the nunnery and whispered promises instead of my presence.
My steps slow again, exhaustion creeping into my bones.
The child.
My chest tightens painfully.
A son? A daughter?
I picture small fingers, dark hair, eyes that might have looked at me with trust before ever learning to look for disappointment. A life that carried my blood and hers.
Gone.
Because I was blinded by rage and jealousy.
Because I let fear make my decisions.
Because I was not brave enough to defy the world for one woman.
Anger flares again, this time directionless and violent. I kick at a fallen branch, sending it skidding across the forest floor.
The nuns will answer for what they did, oh, they will. That much I swear to the silent trees. Their faith did not give them the right to play executioner. Their god did not sanction cruelty.
But vengeance does not bring back the dead.
It does not unhear her voice.
It does not unbreak what I broke.
I stop beneath a towering oak and finally let myself sag against it, breath coming hard. The forest smells of earth and moss and rain, life continued, indifferent to my grief.
I laugh softly, bitterly.
Emperor of a realm I cannot rule within my own chest.
Theron has her now.
That truth sinks in with quiet finality.
He took her away when I did not. He stood between her and death when I stood behind stone walls and my subject. If she lives, if she survives this loss, it will be his arms she wakes in.
And the part of me that hates him for that is the same part that knows he earned it.
I press my forehead to the bark and close my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into the night, unsure if the words are meant for her, for the child, or for the man I once thought I was.
The woods do not answer.
They only stand, eternal and unmoved, as I remain there: alone with my guilt, my jealousy, and the unbearable knowledge that this loss was my fault.