Chapter 71

Two days later.

Palace War Room | Late at night | Rain pelting the windows | A fire slowly burning out.

The war room was too quiet for comfort. The candlelight danced against the polished oak walls, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts. Maps were scattered across the long table, marked in red ink, ancient runes etched on parchment, scrolls opened halfway through deciphering. The smell of burning wax mingled with the soft scent of wet earth—the storm had not stopped since we returned to the capital.

I was exhausted. My fingertips were smudged with charcoal from drawing ward circles, my back ached from hunching over scrolls, and my eyes stung from lack of sleep.

But I couldn’t rest.

Because I still felt it.

The Rift was alive.

And Alaric... he wasn’t dead. I couldn’t believe he was.

My hand trembled slightly as I reached for another scroll, one Max had written, salvaged from the last campfire before we retreated. Notes on unstable Rift energy, fragments of old summoning scripts, and the sketch of a symbol that hadn’t left my mind for days—a tear-shaped glyph embedded in shadow flame.

Across from me, Prince Damian Lucien sat, his midnight-blue robes draped over the edge of his chair. He wasn’t speaking either, though his eyes were sharp and focused on me.

Always on me.

A gust of wind rattled the tall windows. Thunder rolled above us, deep and growling, like a giant turning in its sleep. The fireplace crackled to life once more, casting amber light across his strong jaw and the quiet melancholy in his expression.

"You’re shaking,” Damian said suddenly.

I blinked. My hand was trembling again.

“Just tired,” I murmured.

He stood and walked to my side. I expected him to offer water or a blanket—but instead, he unfastened his cloak and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke.

Warmth wrapped around me, and so did something else.

I looked up. And he was watching me like I was the only person left in this world.

“You haven’t rested in days,” he said softly. “You need sleep. Grief… doesn’t obey willpower.”

I swallowed hard.

“Neither does hope.”

There was a silence that stretched between us then. Long. Weighted. The candle between us flickered under an unseen breeze, and for a moment, all I could hear was the storm outside and the faint ache in my chest that whispered his name—

Alaric.

“He wouldn’t want us to give up,” I said. “But the Rift—there’s something wrong with it. It resets. It feeds off something… Maybe souls. Maybe time. But it’s watching us. And it hurts not to know if he’s still inside that place. Alive. Or—”

“Don’t,” Damian said, cutting me off.

His voice was tight. Too tight.

I turned my face to him. For the first time, the prince wasn’t composed. His shoulders were tense, his eyes shimmered with something raw, something like fear.

“If he’s alive,” he went on, “then we will find him. If not—” He paused, voice catching. “Then I’ve failed twice.”

I stood. The cloak slipped from my shoulders and pooled on the marble floor.

“You didn’t fail. We made a choice. He stayed behind to protect us.”

“You think that makes it easier?” Damian’s voice was barely a whisper now, tight and vulnerable. “Watching you walk into danger again and again. Wondering which day I’ll lose you too?”

The candle flickered again—then went out.

Lightning cracked outside, illuminating his face in silver. That expression—the way his eyes searched mine, the way his breath trembled—it stole the air from my lungs.

“I can’t lose another one of you,” he whispered.

I didn’t know what to say. My heart was thundering louder than the storm. The room smelled of old books, wet earth, and quiet longing. Something in me twisted painfully. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to scream. I wanted Alaric back, and I wanted—

Him.

Prince Damian.

His hand reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek.

“We both lost him,” he said again. “But I think I’m starting to lose something else too…”

“What?” I breathed.

“Every time I see you step into danger—I think I’m losing you. And I don’t know what scares me more. The Rift… or the way I feel when you’re not beside me.”

My breath hitched.

I didn’t know when it happened—how grief turned into this… raw, uncertain thing between us. A tether pulled tighter with each battle. Each near-death. Each sleepless night huddled over magic and hope and memories.

I reached for his hand.

We didn’t kiss.

But in that stormy silence, as thunder echoed over the palace and the queen wept alone in her tower, we stood in the dark, holding onto each other like we were all that was left of the world.

And maybe, for now, we were.

POV: Queen Auriella

Location: The Queen’s Solarium, Capital Palace | Weather: Thunderstorm, rolling grief overhead

The tea had gone cold.

Queen Auriella stared into the porcelain cup, untouched since the storm began its slow crawl over the capital. It was as if the skies mourned ahead of the people. She had seen her share of battles, watched magic tear down cities, and even danced in blood-stained gowns in the name of diplomacy. But nothing prepared her for the weight she carried now.

The lightning cracked against the high tower windows like the heavens themselves were rattling the bars of fate. Rain painted streaks down the crystal panes, shadows dancing as if restless ghosts had taken residence in the royal solarium. A room once filled with roses and sun now hung heavy with silence and the scent of rain-soaked sorrow.

A footman entered quietly, head bowed. “Your Majesty... Princess Abby and Prince Damian have returned.”

Auriella looked up slowly, her spine straightening as if her crown had been suddenly replaced.

“And?” she asked. Not as queen. Not as ruler of the northern kingdom. But as a woman who feared what she already knew.

“They did not bring him back.”