M:use @mono--muse - Tumblr Blog

Part 2

You were supposed to be crowned beside him.

That was the promise you made in the academy, backs pressed against cold stone, stars breaking open above Philos like they were listening.

“For eternity,” Xavier said, voice soft—serious even then.

You laughed. “That’s a long time.”

“I can wait,” he answered. “As long as it’s you.”

You believed him.

The academy bells have already rung curfew, but neither of you moves. Moonlight spills across the training grounds, silvering the stone and the banners that snap softly in the wind. You sit on the edge of the fountain, shoes discarded, toes grazing the cold water. Xavier stands nearby, sword resting against his shoulder, posture careful—like he’s afraid to take up too much space beside you.

“You’re distracted,” you say.

He blinks. “Am I that obvious?”

“You missed three strikes today.” You look at him over your shoulder. “That never happens.”

Xavier exhales and sets the sword down. “They keep reminding me.”

“Reminding you of what?”

“That I won’t belong here much longer.”

You straighten. “Because of the crown?”

He nods once. “Because of everything that comes with it.”

You let the silence sit before speaking again. “Does it scare you?”

His answer is immediate. “Only when I think about doing it alone.”

Your chest tightens.

“You won’t be alone,” you say quickly, then slower, more deliberate. “I won’t let you.”

Xavier studies you like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—the academy uniform, the loose hair, the way your voice softens when it’s just the two of you.

“You shouldn’t promise that,” he says quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because Philos will ask things of you.” His voice lowers. “Things that hurt.”

You stand and face him fully now. “And it won’t ask things of you?”

He gives a faint smile. “It already has.”

You step closer. “Then we endure it together.”

The wind stirs, carrying distant laughter from another wing of the academy—people who don’t know what waits beyond these walls.

Xavier reaches out, hesitates, then takes your hand.

“If the council forbids it,” he says, “if the world turns against us—”

“I stay.”

“If I’m forced to choose duty over my own heart—”

“I’ll remind you which one you made your vows with first.”

He swallows. “You don’t even know what eternity looks like.”

You squeeze his hand. “I don’t need to. I just need to know who I’m spending it with.”

For a moment, Xavier looks young. Not a future king. Just a boy in love.

“Promise me,” he says.

You tilt your head. “What kind?”

“That no matter how far apart we’re pulled,” he says slowly, “you’ll remember this night.”

You hook your pinky with his. “I promise.”

He tightens his grip. “For eternity.”

You smile. “That’s still a long time.”

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says softly.

The academy bells ring again—final warning.

You don’t let go.

And somewhere, far beyond the walls of Philos, a future is already beginning to crack.

The palace has never looked more alive. Gold chandeliers blaze overhead, hundreds of candles reflected in polished marble until the entire hall seems to glow from within. Silk skirts whisper as nobles move past you, laughter chiming like glass. Music swells from the orchestra balcony—strings bright and triumphant, a melody meant to celebrate continuity, legacy, the future of Philos.

Tonight is a celebration. Tonight is an announcement. Tonight, everyone is watching you.

You feel it in the way conversations soften when you pass. In the way eyes linger just a moment too long. Some curious. Some approving. Some calculating.

Xavier stands at your side, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through layers of fabric and formality.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, head tilting slightly toward you, lips barely moving.

You glance at him. He looks unreal like this—royal black and gold tailored perfectly to his frame, posture immaculate. There’s no crown on his head yet, but it’s already there in the way people bow without realizing they’re doing it.

“You’re nervous,” you say softly.

He lets out a controlled breath. “I don’t like this many people looking at you.”

A corner of your mouth lifts. “That’s what happens when you choose a future queen.”

His eyes soften immediately, all the sharpness melting away. “I chose you long before tonight.”

Your heart stutters at that. Your fingers brush his sleeve, a grounding touch. Beneath the layers of your gown, hidden against your wrist, something small presses reassuringly into your palm.

Not yet, you tell yourself. Later.

A noble approaches—smiling too widely, congratulating too eagerly. Then another, then another. Compliments stack like obligations. A council member leans in, whispering something urgent into Xavier’s ear.

You feel him tense.

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly, reluctant, eyes searching your face. “Don’t go far.”

“I won’t,” you promise, because you mean it.

He hesitates, then leans closer, voice dropping so low only you can hear it. “Remember the academy.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once. “For eternity.”

Only then does he step away.

The music continues.

Time stretches strangely without him. You smile when spoken to, nod when expected, respond automatically. Your cheeks ache faintly from holding a pleasant expression. But the air feels wrong—too tight, too heavy, like the hall is slowly closing in on itself.

A prickle crawls up your spine.

You scan the room. Nothing is overtly wrong. Guards line the walls as they should. Servants move in practiced patterns. And yet—

You need space.

Just a moment.

You excuse yourself politely and slip through a side corridor, the noise dulling almost instantly behind you. The music fades to a distant echo. The hallway is dim, lit only by wall sconces and moonlight spilling through tall windows that overlook the gardens.

Your steps slow.

You breathe out, shoulders lowering. “Just a second,” you whisper to yourself, fingers brushing the hidden tassel again. “Then I’ll go back.”

You imagine Xavier’s face when you finally press it into his palm. The soft surprise. The way his grip would tighten like it did back then, in the academy.

Footsteps echo behind you.

You turn, expecting a servant or a guard. “I’ll return shortly—”

Hands seize you.

Rough. Unfamiliar. Strong.

“What—?” The word barely leaves you before a cloth is clamped over your mouth. A sharp, foreign scent floods your senses. You kick, twist, claw at sleeves that don’t bear Philos’ colors.

“Quiet,” a voice hisses. Not a servant. Not a guard.

Your heart slams violently against your ribs. You try to scream Xavier’s name, but the sound dies against fabric and panic. The hallway tilts, the moonlight smearing into silver streaks.

Your strength drains faster than it should.

No—no, no—

As darkness pulls you under, one thought pierces through the haze, sharp and aching.

Your last thought before darkness takes you is Xavier’s voice.

Don’t go far.

When consciousness returns, the air feels wrong. Colder. Sharper. Heavy in a way Philos never was.

Your eyes open slowly, vision swimming. Stone rises around you—dark, seamless, unforgiving. Torches burn low along the walls, their light swallowed by shadows instead of reflecting them. When you try to move, metal answers first.

Chains whisper.

The sound sends a jolt through your chest.

You sit up too quickly, dizziness crashing over you. A dull ache pulses at the back of your head. The chain around your ankle is thick, anchored into the floor with deliberate cruelty—close enough to allow movement, far enough to remind you of its presence with every shift.

This is not Philos.

Banners hang from the walls, long and heavy, dyed in deep obsidian and midnight blue. Silver thread catches the firelight: a sigil you recognize instantly.

Noctyra.

“Well,” a voice says lightly, almost pleasantly, “you’re awake.”

You turn.

He stands near the tall arched window, backlit by moonlight. Hands clasped behind him like a man awaiting a guest rather than guarding a prisoner. His posture is relaxed—too relaxed—like nothing in this room could possibly threaten him.

King Zephyr of Noctyra.

Moonlight cuts across his face, illuminating the faint smile he doesn’t bother hiding. His eyes are sharp. Patient. The eyes of someone who has waited a very long time.

“You’ll regret this,” you say, throat raw but voice steady.

Zephyr chuckles softly, as if you’ve amused him. “Everyone says that at first.”

He turns from the window and begins to walk toward you, steps unhurried, boots echoing against stone. Each one lands with purpose.

“Do you know,” he continues conversationally, “how many nights I stood on Noctyra’s western towers and watched Philos glow across the border?”

You say nothing.

“How often I saw you at his side,” Zephyr adds, stopping just out of reach. “Always composed. Always smiling. Always untouchable.”

Your jaw tightens. “Xavier will find me.”

His smile deepens, slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

You stiffen.

“But kings,” Zephyr says, tilting his head, “don’t move as freely as lovers, do they?”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

“You were always too precious to be left unguarded,” he continues. “Philos made you a jewel. Displayed you. Admired you.”

His gaze sharpens. “I simply claimed what the light was foolish enough to leave exposed.”

You force yourself to stand, ignoring the pull of the chain. The metal clinks loudly, a cruel reminder of your position—but you refuse to flinch.

“I am not yours,” you say.

Zephyr’s eyes flick briefly to the chain.

Then back to your face.

“Not yet,” he replies calmly.

Your heart pounds. “You think this will end well for you?”

“I think,” he says, circling slowly, “that history favors the patient.”

He stops behind you. Not touching. Never touching. The restraint is intentional.

“I belong to Philos,” you say sharply. “To its people. To its king.”

“Ah,” Zephyr murmurs. “There it is.”

He steps into your line of sight again. “Tell me—has Philos protected you?”

Your silence answers for you.

“Did its guards stop me?” he pressed. “Did its walls hold?”

You clench your fists. “This changes nothing.”

Zephyr studies you for a long moment. Then he smiles—not mocking now, but satisfied.

“No,” he agrees. “It changes everything.”

He turns toward the door. “Rest. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?” you demand.

Zephyr pauses, hand on the doorframe.

“For the waiting,” he says simply.

The door closes behind him with a final, echoing thud.

You are alone.

Xavier is in the middle of a conversation when it happens.

“…of course, the eastern trade routes will need restructuring after the coronation—”

He nods absently, fingers resting at his side, posture perfect out of habit rather than attention. His gaze drifts—not deliberately, not even consciously—to where you were standing only moments ago.

Empty space.

His breath catches.

For a heartbeat, he tells himself you’ve merely stepped aside. A servant. A noble. Nothing more.

He looks again.

You are not there.

His attention snaps fully back into the room, eyes cutting sharply through the crowd. Silk, gold, movement—too much movement. Too many people.

He turns his head.

Then his shoulders.

Then his entire body.

The council member falters mid-sentence. “My king?”

“Where is she?” Xavier asks.

The words are quiet, but something in his tone makes the man straighten immediately.

“I—pardon?”

Xavier doesn’t answer him. He scans the hall again, faster now, eyes searching every familiar color, every angle where you should be.

“She was here,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “She doesn’t leave my side.”

A noble nearby offers a nervous smile. “Perhaps the lady stepped away for a moment—”

Xavier turns on him.

“For how long?”

The noble opens his mouth, then closes it. “I—I couldn’t say, Your Majesty.”

That tightness blooms in Xavier’s chest, sharp and sudden.

He raises his voice. “Guard.”

A soldier immediately steps forward. “Yes, my king.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Moments ago, sire. She was beside you.”

“And after that?”

The guard hesitates. Just a fraction. But Xavier sees it.

“And after that?” he repeats, slower.

“I do not know, sire.”

The music keeps playing.

Violins rise, bright and celebratory, completely at odds with the pounding in Xavier’s ears. Laughter ripples through the hall, unaware, careless.

Xavier steps away from the conversation entirely now, scanning the balconies, the exits, the side corridors.

“She promised,” he mutters under his breath. “She promised she wouldn’t go far.”

He strides toward the corridor to his right—the one you glanced at earlier, the one just out of the main hall. His pace quickens.

Empty.

His jaw tightens.

“Seal the hall,” he orders sharply, turning back toward the guards. “Now.”

“My king—?”

“Lock the doors. Close the gates. No one leaves this palace.”

The guards hesitate only a second before moving. The shift is immediate—confusion ripples through the crowd, music faltering as whispers begin.

Xavier doesn’t wait.

He moves.

Down one corridor. Then another. His boots strike marble hard enough to echo. He checks alcoves, gardens, shadowed corners where you might have paused for air.

Nothing.

“No,” he breathes.

A servant rushes toward him, pale. “Your Majesty, we believed the lady had returned to your side.”

Xavier stops so abruptly the servant nearly collides with him.

“You believed?” His voice is dangerously controlled. “You were assigned to watch her.”

“Yes, my king, but—”

“But what?”

“She excused herself briefly.”

“How briefly?”

The servant swallows. “I—I cannot be certain.”

The world seems to tilt.

Xavier presses a hand to the nearest column, grounding himself. His pulse is loud. Too loud.

“She wouldn’t leave,” he says, voice low and strained. “Not tonight.”

The captain of the guard approaches, breath quick. “My king, the outer gates report no departures.”

Xavier’s head snaps up. “Then she’s still inside.”

Minutes pass. Then more.

Torches are lit. Guards move at a run now. The orchestra has stopped completely, leaving the palace filled with anxious murmurs and the echo of footsteps.

Still nothing.

Xavier’s fists clench.

“I told her not to go far,” he whispers, the words scraping out of him. “I told her.”

The captain hesitates. “Sire… there is a possibility this was not an accident.”

Xavier looks at him.

Slowly.

“Explain.”

“The corridor she entered was briefly unguarded. And—” The captain lowers his voice. “—this level of absence does not happen without intent.”

The word lands hard.

Taken.

Xavier straightens, every trace of panic compressing into something colder. Sharper.

“Find who was responsible for that corridor,” he says. “Interrogate them.”

“Yes, my king.”

The palace is no longer a place of celebration. Torches line the walls now, throwing harsh shadows across marble. Nobles whisper in tight clusters, watching him with barely disguised fear.

“Send riders,” Xavier says. “Every border. Every road leading out of Philos. I want checkpoints established before dawn.”

“Yes, my king,” the captain replies immediately.

Xavier steps closer.

“And listen carefully,” he adds, voice low, controlled, terrifyingly calm. “You will not come back to me with assumptions.”

The captain stiffens. “Of course, sire.”

“If she was seen,” Xavier continues, “I want names. If she spoke to someone, I want faces. If a single guard blinked at the wrong moment—”

He stops directly in front of him now.

“—you will bring them to me.”

The captain swallows. “We will search every inch of the palace.”

Xavier’s eyes harden. “You will search beyond it.”

A guard nearby hesitates. “My king… if this was a political move—”

Xavier’s head snaps toward him.

“If you are about to suggest patience,” he says quietly, “reconsider.”

Silence slams down.

He takes another step forward, gaze sweeping across the assembled guards, servants, and officers—every person responsible for keeping you safe.

“She was under my protection,” Xavier says. “Under yours.”

No one breathes.

“You will find her,” he says, voice dropping even further, every word deliberate. “Because if you do not—”

He pauses.

The threat does not need to be loud.

“—then your lives will answer for the time you wasted.”

The words ripple through the group like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

The captain bows deeply. “We will find her, Your Majesty.”

Xavier turns away without another glance, fists clenched so tightly his gloves creak.

He walks back toward the corridor one last time. The place where you disappeared feels wrong—empty in a way that hurts to look at.

“She promised,” he whispers, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “She trusted me.”

His jaw tightens.

“I will bring you home,” he says, not as hope, but as a vow. “No matter whose kingdom burns for it.”

Behind him, the palace moves in frantic obedience.

Because the king of Philos has made himself clear:

Bring back his queen—

or pay for her absence with blood.

The council chamber is colder than the hall, and every candle flickers nervously under the high ceiling. The ministers sit stiff-backed, papers in hand—some leaning forward, others avoiding Xavier’s gaze entirely. The weight of tradition presses on him—every protocol, every law he’s been raised to follow—but it cannot stop the fire burning inside.

“She cannot simply vanish from the palace!” Xavier’s voice slams into the chamber, cutting through the polite murmurs. “She was under our protection! Every rule of this kingdom says that she should be safe! And yet she is gone!”

A murmur ripples around the table. One counselor clears his throat.

“Your Majesty—” one minister begins cautiously.

“Do not ‘Your Majesty’ me,” Xavier snaps, stepping toward the table. The polished marble trembles beneath his fists. “Do you know what it feels like to realize the one person you swore to protect is not here because of your rules? Because of your limitations?”

A councilor to the left stiffens. “Sire, we are bound by law—”

“The law does not matter!” Xavier cuts him off, voice raw, shaking. “If she is dead, I will not forgive any of you for standing in my way. I will ride to the borders myself if I must, and anyone who dares stop me will die where they stand!”

Gasps ripple across the chamber. Chairs scrape softly as several ministers shift back.

“That is an act of war,” another counselor says sharply. “You would provoke every neighboring kingdom—”

“Then they should pray they are innocent,” Xavier fires back without hesitation.

“Your Majesty—Xavier—think rationally,” Jeremiah, the chancellor, says carefully, his voice steadier than the others, heavy with familiarity rather than fear. “You cannot ride out by yourself. You cannot abandon the throne for one—”

“One?!” Xavier roars, slamming his hand on the table. Documents scatter. Candles tremble in their holders. “Do not ever call her one! Do you know what she is to me? Do you know what I swore in the academy, in front of stars, in front of this kingdom? I swore my life to her! And now she is gone, and all I hear is your excuses!”

Silence crashes down.

An older councilor exhales slowly. “Sire… emotions cannot guide a kingdom.”

Xavier turns on him. “Then what should? Ink and parchment while she bleeds somewhere beyond our walls?”

Another voice cuts in, tense. “We must consider the people of Philos.”

“I am,” Xavier snaps. “I am considering what happens when their king allows his queen to be taken from under his roof.”

Jeremiah lifts a hand slightly, trying to slow the room. “Xavier—”

Xavier’s eyes lock on him, blazing. “If you will not act, I will. I do not care about protocol. I do not care about tradition. I do not care about every law and expectation you think binds me. If she is not found, and I do not find her, then I will hold each of you responsible for her absence. Every hour she is gone is on your heads.”

A sharp intake of breath circles the table.

“You would condemn your own council?” one man whispers.

“I will condemn failure,” Xavier answers coldly.

He straightens, breathing hard. “I will send knights. I will scour every border. I will burn every road, check every carriage, question every stranger who has crossed into Philos. And if anyone interferes with that, mark my words—they will not live to see another sunrise.”

The council erupts into overlapping voices.

“This is madness—”

“You cannot threaten the council—”

“This will destabilize—”

Jeremiah raises his voice just enough to cut through. “Enough.”

The room stills—not because of his authority, but because of Xavier’s silence.

“Your Majesty,” Jeremiah says again, quieter now, torn, “you cannot—”

“I can,” Xavier interrupts, voice low, deadly, “and I will. Because she is mine. Because I swore to protect her. Because I am king, and no law, no tradition, no council of wise men will stop me from bringing her back!”

He sweeps his arm toward the windows, toward the dark horizon beyond Philos. “You sit here, arguing words, while she could be in the hands of monsters right now. I will ride if I must. I will command the knights, and I will leave no stone unturned until I have her.”

No one speaks.

Even those who disagree cannot meet his eyes.

Xavier straightens fully, voice low, unyielding. “Hear me clearly. I will not wait. I will not negotiate. I will not be restrained. Anyone who delays this search will answer me personally. Do you understand?”

A fractured response follows—uneven, fearful. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” Xavier says, drawing in a sharp breath, forcing control back into his voice. “Then prepare the knights. Double the patrols. Send word to every border. I want her found, and I want her found now. And when she is, no one—no one—will ever speak to me again about what is ‘proper’ over what is right.”

He turns and leaves.

Boots echo like judgment against stone.

The council remains frozen in his wake—because they all understand the same thing now:

This is no longer a debate.

It is a command.

Time in Noctyra does not pass the way it should. It stretches. It thins. It becomes something you stop counting because counting hurts too much.

Your chamber is large—deliberately so. Stone walls polished smooth, ceilings high enough to echo your breathing back at you. A narrow window lets in moonlight but never warmth. The chain at your ankle is shorter now. Not enough to bind you to the floor—just enough to remind you that freedom is theoretical.

The first offering arrives three days after you wake.

A tray of food. Warm. Carefully prepared. Bread still steaming, fruit cut neatly, silverware polished to a shine.

You stare at it.

Then at the guards.

“I won’t eat,” you say.

They don’t answer.

The tray is left anyway.

When Zephyr comes later, he notices immediately that it’s untouched.

“You should eat,” he says calmly, setting the tray back down himself. “Noctyra has no use for a queen who wastes away.”

“I am not your queen,” you reply hoarsely.

He tilts his head. “Not yet.”

That phrase follows you like a shadow.

The offerings continue.

Books next—histories of Noctyra, poetry written in a language you half-recognize. Dresses are brought, dark silks and velvets, colors that swallow light instead of reflecting it. Jewelry you never touch. Candles that burn with unfamiliar scents.

Everything is careful.

Nothing is kind.

You are never hurt.

You are never comforted.

You are simply… kept.

Days pass. Then weeks.

Sometimes you speak aloud just to remember what your voice sounds like.

Sometimes you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the door, waiting for footsteps that don’t come. Other times, they come too often.

Zephyr never raises his voice.

That frightens you most.

“You look thinner,” he remarks one evening, standing just inside the threshold. “You should stop resisting what is inevitable.”

You laugh once—dry, brittle. “You think this is resistance?”

He studies you. “You still look toward the door.”

Your chest tightens. You hadn’t realized.

“He will come,” you say quietly.

Zephyr’s smile is almost pitying. “Kings don’t move for love. They move for leverage.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know crowns,” Zephyr replies. “And crowns choose survival over sentiment.”

After he leaves, you press your forehead against the stone wall and try not to cry.

Not because tears are weak— but because they make the waiting louder.

Nights are the worst.

The silence presses in until it feels like it’s sitting on your chest. You lie awake listening to the faint sounds of Noctyra—wind against stone, distant guards changing shifts, chains whispering when you move.

You dream of Philos.

Of the academy courtyard. Of Xavier’s hand in yours. Of promises whispered under stars that feel impossibly far away now.

When you wake, the room is always the same.

Cold. Still. Empty.

One morning, you find fresh flowers on the table.

Dark blooms. Almost black.

You knock them over.

Another day, Zephyr brings news.

“No search parties have crossed the border,” he says casually. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

Your heart stutters. “You’re lying.”

He shrugs. “Perhaps.”

That night, you don’t sleep at all.

Your body grows tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Not the exhaustion of effort—but of waiting. Of hoping and being disappointed over and over until hope itself starts to feel dangerous.

You sit by the window sometimes, fingers tracing frost patterns, wondering how long is too long before someone gives up.

He wouldn’t, you tell yourself.

But doubt is patient.

Zephyr returns again, setting something small on the table.

A mirror.

You flinch when you see your reflection.

“You are still beautiful,” he says. “Even like this.”

You turn away.

“You could have comfort,” Zephyr continues. “Warmth. Purpose. All you need to do is stop looking backward.”

You don’t answer.

Because if you speak, you might beg.

And you refuse to let Noctyra hear that.

So you wait.

You wait with fear curled tight in your chest. You wait with loneliness heavy in your bones. You wait because it is the only thing you are still allowed to do.

And somewhere beyond these walls, you hope—desperately, painfully—that Xavier is still looking toward the dark.

Time stretches like liquid in Noctyra.

You begin to lose track of days. Light comes through the narrow window in thin, pale slices and disappears before you can count the hours. Sometimes you wake to the sound of distant bells, sometimes only to the wind scraping against stone. Chains bite into your ankle whenever you shift, reminding you that you are not free, no matter how much you pace the floor.

The first offering arrives three days after you wake.

A tray of food. Warm. Carefully prepared. Bread still steaming, fruit cut neatly, silverware polished to a shine.

You stare at it.

Then at the guards.

“I won’t eat,” you say.

They don’t answer.

The tray is left anyway.

When Zephyr comes later, he notices immediately that it’s untouched.

“You should eat,” he says calmly, setting the tray back down himself. “Noctyra has no use for a queen who wastes away.”

“I am not your queen,” you reply hoarsely.

That phrase follows you like a shadow.

The offerings continue.

Books next—histories of Noctyra, poetry written in a language you half-recognize. Dresses are brought, dark silks and velvets, colors that swallow light instead of reflecting it. Jewelry you never touch. Candles that burn with unfamiliar scents.

Everything is careful.

Nothing is kind.

You are never hurt.

You are never comforted.

You are simply… kept.

Days pass. Then weeks.

Sometimes you speak aloud just to remember what your voice sounds like.

Sometimes you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the door, waiting for footsteps that don’t come. Other times, they come too often.

Zephyr never raises his voice.

That frightens you most.

“You look thinner,” he remarks one evening, standing just inside the threshold. “You should stop resisting what is inevitable.”

“I am not tired,” you snap, though your voice trembles. You pace faster, trying to ignore the ache in your legs. “And even if I were, it would be preferable to doing nothing.”

He steps closer, unhurried. “Doing nothing is safe. Effort can hurt you.”

“You speak as if I have a choice.”

He shrugs. “You do. In every way but the obvious ones.”

You glare at him, chest tight with anger, frustration, and a fear you refuse to name aloud. “Do you enjoy this? Watching me like this?”

Zephyr tilts his head, the same faint, unyielding smile on his lips. “I am not here to enjoy anything. I am here to wait. And to observe.”

Every word is a challenge. Every pause, a trap. You bite your tongue to avoid saying more, but your chest heaves with fury.

And yet, slowly—so imperceptibly that you almost don’t notice—your resistance changes.

The first night it happens, you don’t argue when he leaves the door open. You sit by the narrow window and watch the moonlight spill across the floor. You feel… safer than before, even as your chains bite into your ankle.

Later, you accept the food he leaves, though you push it around your plate instead of eating. It is an admission that you need sustenance.

Weeks pass, and the pattern continues. Argument, defiance, silence. You watch him from the corner of your eyes, tense and ready to strike if he oversteps—but each time, he respects the line you draw. Each time, he waits.

“You are too stubborn,” he says one night, standing just outside the shadows of the room. “And yet you persist.”

“I have no choice,” you whisper, voice almost breaking. “I cannot give you what you want.”

“Perhaps not,” he replies. “But giving up does not mean I win. And waiting does not mean I lose. We are… learning from each other.”

The words unsettle you more than any threat. Because he is patient. Because he is careful. Because, somehow, he has learned your patterns without forcing you.

You begin to realize that your fear is shifting. It does not vanish, not entirely. But it loosens. The fear of pain, of aggression, of immediate threat fades just slightly. You are beginning to understand him—not as a friend, not as an ally, not as the man Xavier would kill to stop—but as someone who can exist near you without destroying you.

And that scares you almost as much as your chains.

At night, you lie awake longer. You do not speak. You do not cry. You simply listen. The wind, the distant guards, the faint sound of chains clicking when you adjust your ankle, and sometimes, the soft, deliberate step of Zephyr pacing outside your door.

“Do not think this means you are safe,” he says one evening as the candlelight flickers. “Do not think I have softened.”

You stare at the stone wall. “I do not.”

“Good,” he says. “Then we understand each other, at least partially. That will be useful—for both of us.”

You grit your teeth. “Useful to whom?”

“To survive,” he whispers, almost gently, before retreating into the shadows of the corridor.

Alone, you curl against the cold stone. The fear, the anger, the loneliness—they still cling to you.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, another thought creeps in.

Maybe… maybe surviving doesn’t mean trusting him. Maybe… maybe you can let him be there without letting him in.

Your chest tightens with guilt at the thought. You have not accepted him. You do not want to. Yet the knowledge that he can exist near you, patient, careful, watching without hurting, gnaws at your defenses.

And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to imagine—just for a moment—that being near him could be tolerable. That his presence, measured though it is, is a shield rather than a weapon.

And that makes you furious with yourself.

Because you know, deep down, accepting him even slightly does not mean forgetting Xavier. It does not mean surrender. But it is the first crack in the walls you built around your heart.

And in Noctyra, that crack might be the only thing keeping you alive.

The doors slammed shut behind Xavier, the sound reverberating through the council chamber like a verdict. For a moment, no one moved. Then the room exhaled all at once.

“He’s lost,” one counselor whispered, fingers trembling against the table.

“No,” Jeremiah said quietly, staring at the closed doors. “He’s terrified.”

Outside, the palace was already changing. Orders flew faster than messengers could carry them. Bells rang—not celebratory, but sharp and urgent, the kind that cut through sleep and settle dread in the chest. Torches flared along the walls and gates. Armor was hauled from racks. Horses were brought out, restless and snorting as if they felt the tension bleeding into the air.

The stables were alive with motion. Horses stamped, mist curling into the cold dawn. Knights moved with practiced urgency, armor gleaming in torchlight, swords ready at their belts, shields strapped tight. Every horse was saddled. Every messenger had a mount prepared.

Xavier strode into the stables like a storm given flesh. His black cloak swept around his boots, liquid shadow catching the firelight. His sword gleamed cold at his side.

“Captain.”

The man was already there. “Every available knight is assembling, Your Majesty.”

“Not available,” Xavier said, swinging onto his horse in one fluid motion. The cloak snapped behind him like a banner of storm. “Every knight. If they can hold a sword, they ride.”

He moved between the lines, boots striking stone, cloak trailing, every muscle taut.

“I want every route mapped. Every village contacted. Every border guard questioned. No one moves without reporting. Every carriage leaving the kingdom—document it.”

The air smelled of leather, iron, and tension.

Then Jeremiah arrived, robes brushing stone, worry stripped bare on his face.

“Xavier,” he said, voice tight, “you cannot ride blindly into this. Your presence—”

“I am the king,” Xavier snapped, turning on him, eyes blazing. “And I will not wait while she is gone. If I do not move now, I may lose her forever.”

“And if you let rage lead you,” Jeremiah shot back, “you will not find her at all. You cannot provoke war without knowing where she is.”

“I am not reckless,” Xavier hissed. “I am determined. I need to move. To act. To find her.”

“You risk everything,” Jeremiah said, anger sharpening his words. “Your throne. The stability of Philos. The lives of every knight here. For a suspicion.”

“Then I will die trying,” Xavier said, reins creaking under his grip. “Better than doing nothing.”

Jeremiah’s voice dropped, pained. “Your anger is righteous, but it must be tempered. If you ride blindly, I cannot guarantee the kingdom will survive. I cannot guarantee she will.”

“And if I do nothing,” Xavier said hoarsely, “she dies anyway.”

Silence stretched.

“At least let me ride with you,” Jeremiah said. “Once you cross the border yourself, this becomes a declaration.”

Xavier finally met his gaze, eyes bloodshot, awake too long.

“Then let history write it clearly,” he said. “Philos does not abandon its queen.”

A scout ran forward. No records. No carriages. No departures.

“Then she didn’t leave willingly,” Xavier said. “Expand the search. Smugglers’ routes. Rivers. Forest passes.”

“If this was internal—”

“Then someone helped her disappear,” Xavier said coldly. “Find them. Before I do.”

Steel rang as knights mounted. The banner of Philos snapped into the wind.

“Ride.”

The gates opened. Hooves thundered across stone, then road. The capital vanished behind them, swallowed by darkness and urgency.

And with every mile, the same thoughts sharpened instead of dulling.

How long has she been gone? Is she cold? Is she afraid? Did she call my name when no one came?

The first stops were neighboring kingdoms that had been present at the royal ball. Xavier greeted rulers with calm faces, exchanging pleasantries with the practiced smile of a king who could conceal a storm in his chest. Inside, his heart hammered like a drum, panic and fury locked in relentless rhythm. Every word was measured; every bow, every nod, every How fares your kingdom? was a test—courtesy sharpened into inquiry.

He scanned every court, every servant, every shadowed corner. His gaze flicked to faces, noting the twitch of a mouth, the hesitation in a glance, the way a hand lingered too long on a railing. His mind cataloged movements and inflections, letting conversation draw truth—or its absence—into the open.

Everywhere, the answer was the same. She had not passed through their lands. No one had seen her leave Philos. Hands shook with respect. Voices insisted she had not been there. Each reply struck his chest like a hammer.

Finally, he arrived at Noctyra.

The air shifted as he approached the palace gates—controlled, quiet, the stillness before a storm. His boots clicked against the courtyard stone as he rode forward, cloak swishing, black fabric catching dawn light like liquid shadow. His sword hung at his side, reflecting a pale, cold gleam that seemed to cut the air itself.

Zephyr appeared at the top of the steps, hands clasped behind his back, calm as ever, smiling like a man certain of his stage.

“Your Majesty,” Zephyr said, bowing slightly. “I trust your journey was… pleasant?”

“Spare me your courtesies,” Xavier said tightly as he dismounted, boots landing like a warning drumbeat. His gaze was cold, unflinching. “Have you seen her? Have you seen the queen of Philos?”

Zephyr’s smile widened, silk over steel. “I have not. Not since the ball. I would have remembered.”

Xavier stepped closer, the brush of his cloak sharp against the stone. “You lie.”

“No,” Zephyr replied smoothly, stepping back, letting calm arrogance settle around him like armor.

Xavier’s fists clenched until the leather creaked. “I know you watched her that night. I know you know where she is.”

Zephyr’s eyes flicked over him, calculating. “Do you have proof, or only suspicion?”

“My suspicion is enough,” Xavier snapped. “She is gone. And I will not leave until I know she is safe. Where is she?”

“She never came here,” Zephyr said evenly. “I did not see her. I swear it.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened. “I will find her—even if I have to tear your kingdom apart stone by stone.”

Zephyr inclined his head, almost amused. “Then I hope your search is thorough, King of Philos. You will need it.”

The tension rolled off Xavier like heat. His hand tightened instinctively around his sword, as if cold steel alone could cut through lies and summon her from shadow.

He moved through the palace like a predator. Corridors, archways, halls—searched and searched again. Guards and servants watched him, polite, wary. He pressed questions, hunted hesitation, searched stables, kitchens, forested grounds beyond the walls.

There was nothing.

Frustration gnawed at him. Horses shifted and snorted in their stalls. Forest paths lay empty, leaves stirring only with wind. Every unanswered question twisted deeper, each moment without her a fresh cut.

He confronted every servant, every guard, every steward. Each swore—carefully—that she had never been there.

Hours passed. Exhaustion settled into his bones, but he did not stop.

When night fell, Xavier mounted his horse—furious, spent, defeated. His cloak whipped around him, torchlight and dusk sliding across black fabric. His sword shone faintly, cold and unyielding, a mirror of his resolve.

Zephyr watched from the steps, expression unreadable, hands still clasped behind his back. Xavier held his gaze, chest heaving, jaw set.

Then, with a sharp flick of the reins, Xavier rode out of Noctyra, leaving the palace—and its secrets—behind.

You hear them before you see them. Hooves strike stone in sharp, deliberate rhythm—many of them. Too many to be coincidence. The sound slices through the quiet of your chamber, cutting straight into your chest.

You freeze.

Then you run.

Bare feet slap against cold stone as you rush to the narrow window, heart already hammering as if it knows what your eyes are about to confirm. The chain scrapes behind you, a soft metallic whisper you’ve learned to hate, but you ignore it—until it snaps tight.

Pain lances through your ankle.

You gasp but don’t stop. You clutch the windowsill, fingers whitening, and force yourself upright despite the burn, despite the way your body trembles.

And there—

There he is.

Black cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow torn from the night itself. Silver armor catching the dawn. The banner of Philos snapping sharply in the wind. His sword hangs at his side, gleaming pale and cold, reflecting light like a blade made of moonlight.

Xavier.

Your breath leaves you in a broken sob.

“He found me,” you whisper, disbelief and relief crashing together so violently your knees almost give out. “He found me—”

Tears blur your vision as hope floods you, reckless and painful.

You turn toward the door, panic driving your limbs.

“I’m here!” you shout, voice cracking as you stumble forward. “Xavier—Xavier, I’m here!”

You reach for the handle—

The chain yanks you back.

Hard.

You cry out as you hit the floor, the iron biting cruelly into your ankle, stealing the air from your lungs. Pain radiates up your leg, sharp and unforgiving.

“No—no, please—” you gasp, scrambling, dragging yourself forward anyway. “Just—just a little—”

You pound on the door with shaking fists.

“I’m here!” you scream, throat burning. “Please—don’t leave—I’m right here—!”

But the walls are thick. The door does not move. Your voice dies inside the stone.

You crawl back to the window, sobbing now, chest heaving as you cling to the sill again.

Below, you see him dismount.

You see Zephyr.

You see them face each other in the courtyard.

Your heart leaps painfully.

He knows. He must know.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach him through sheer will.

“Look up,” you whisper desperately. “Please—just look up—”

Your lips move soundlessly as you watch them speak. You can’t hear the words, but you see the tension in Xavier’s posture, the way his shoulders are drawn tight, the way his hand hovers too close to his sword.

Hope claws its way back into you.

Then—slowly—

Xavier steps closer to Zephyr.

Your breath catches.

Yes.

Yes—

But Zephyr doesn’t falter. He doesn’t panic. He stands calm, composed, hands folded behind his back like a man with nothing to hide.

Your chest tightens.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t—don’t believe him—”

Time stretches, cruel and unkind.

Xavier steps back.

Your heart stutters.

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “No—please—”

He turns.

Mounts his horse.

The world tilts violently.

“No!” you scream, slamming your hand against the glass. “Don’t leave—please don’t leave me—!”

You press your forehead to the window, tears spilling freely now, vision blurring as the line of knights forms behind him. His cloak whips once in the wind. His sword flashes faintly.

And then he rides.

Away.

Your legs give out completely.

You slide down the wall, chain clattering uselessly beside you as you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself like you might fall apart otherwise.

“He thinks I’m not here,” you whisper, voice hollow. “He thinks I’m gone…”

The sound you make next isn’t quite a sob. It’s too broken for that.

The door opens.

You flinch.

Footsteps approach—slow, unhurried.

“You watched him leave,” Zephyr says calmly.

You look up at him, eyes burning.

“You lied,” you choke. “You stood there and lied to him.”

Zephyr’s expression remains smooth, controlled.

“I told him what he was prepared to accept.”

“You let him think I was gone,” you whisper, rage and despair tangling painfully in your chest. “You let him leave me.”

“He chose to leave,” Zephyr replies. “You saw it.”

“That’s not true,” you snap, tears streaking down your face. “He would never—”

“But he did,” Zephyr interrupts softly. “And now he’s gone.”

The words hollow you out.

You curl tighter into yourself, voice barely audible.

“Don’t leave me…”

Zephyr watches you for a long moment.

Then he steps closer.

“You belong with me now,” he says quietly. “Whether you accept it or not.”

You shake your head weakly.

“I belong to him.”

Zephyr’s gaze darkens—not angry, but possessive.

“He rode away.”

The door closes behind him.

The lock slides into place.

And you are alone again—chained, shaking, staring at a window that no longer holds hope, only the echo of hooves fading into nothing.

Your gaze drops to your hands.

They’re shaking.

Something slides loose from your fingers and lands softly on the stone floor with a muted clink.

You stare at it.

The sword tassel.

The one you’ve carried for years. Hidden. Protected. The one you were supposed to give him that night—the royal ball, the promise, the future that never came.

You pick it up slowly, fingers brushing the worn threads. Philos' colors faded just a little from time. Xavier’s colors.

“He left,” you whisper, more to the tassel than to yourself.

Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.

You curl your fingers around it, pressing it to your heart like it might anchor you, like it might stop the ache splitting you open.

“I was supposed to give this to you,” you murmur, voice breaking. “You were supposed to stay.”

Silence answers you.

Days blur together after that.

The light changes. Morning comes. Night falls. You stop counting.

Food appears. You eat because your body demands it, not because you want to. Sleep comes in fragments—short, restless, haunted by hooves fading into the distance.

You sit by the window for hours, staring at the road where he disappeared.

Sometimes you imagine he’ll come back.

Sometimes you hate yourself for hoping.

The door opens again.

You don’t look up.

Zephyr’s presence fills the room before his voice does.

“You’re wasting away,” he says calmly.

You laugh weakly.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He steps closer. You feel it—the shift in air, the weight of his attention.

“I wanted you alive,” Zephyr replies. “And useful.”

Your fingers tighten around the tassel.

“I will never be yours.”

He sighs, like a man disappointed by stubbornness rather than angered by defiance.

“You misunderstand. This was never a negotiation.”

You finally look at him then—eyes hollow, rimmed red.

“You took everything from me,” you whisper. “And you still want more?”

“I want stability,” Zephyr answers. “A future. An heir.”

The word makes your stomach twist.

“No,” you say immediately, panic sharp and rising. “No. I won’t—”

“You don’t have the luxury of refusal,” he interrupts, voice still even, still controlled.

You push yourself back against the wall instinctively, chain clinking softly.

“I belong to Philos. To him.”

Zephyr steps closer, close enough now that you have to tilt your head to look at him.

“He rode away,” he says quietly. “And you are here.”

Tears spill over despite your effort to hold them back.

“He didn’t know,” you choke. “You made sure he didn’t know.”

Zephyr studies your face, then reaches out—stopping just short of touching you.

“You will learn,” he says, “that kingdoms do not wait for love.”

Your strength feels gone. Drained. Burned out by days of grief and waiting and hoping for footsteps that never return.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know,” Zephyr replies. “You don’t need to love me. You just need to survive.”

The implication settles heavy and suffocating in your chest.

Your body trembles—not with desire, but fear, exhaustion, and a crushing sense of inevitability.

You turn your face away.

“I won’t give you my heart,” you say weakly. “You can’t take that.”

Zephyr pauses.

Then, softer than before:

“He already took it with him.”

The door closes again.

You slide down the wall once more, clutching the sword tassel to your chest as if it’s the last piece of yourself you have left.

“I’m still here,” you whisper into the empty room. “I’m still waiting.”

But the window shows only an empty road.

And hope feels heavier than the chain.

The air in the room grew stagnant, thick with the scent of old wax and the encroaching cold of the stone walls. Zephyr’s patience, once a mask of polished marble, began to fracture.

He didn't want your tears; he wanted your compliance, and the friction of your resistance only seemed to harden his resolve into something jagged and dangerous.

He grabbed your waist, his large hands nearly meeting around your spine, and hauled you toward the center of the bed. The chain at your ankle jerked, the iron cuff biting into your skin with a sharp, stinging heat.

"Enough of the trembling," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating thrum against your ear.

“You act as if I am asking for your soul. I am asking for your body to do what it was designed for. To ensure that the blood spilled to take this city wasn't for a kingdom that dies in a single generation."

"It's not yours to take!" you shrieked, your voice cracking as you shoved against his shoulders.

“You can force me, you can chain me, but you will never have an heir that honors you. I will teach them to hate your name before they can even speak it!"

Zephyr’s expression darkened, a flash of genuine, predatory anger flickering in his eyes. He caught both of your struggling hands in one of his, slamming them down into the mattress above your head.

The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs. He used his free hand to grip the front of your shift, the fabric groaning before it gave way, tearing down the middle with a violent, definitive sound.

"Xavier is real," you gasped, a desperate, sobbing plea.

Zephyr’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the name. "Xavier is a shadow on a road to nowhere," he hissed. “I am the one who hears you scream. I am the one who will leave my mark on you tonight."

He moved with brutal efficiency, pinning your thighs with his knees until you were paralyzed by his sheer mass. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Fight me if it makes you feel alive. Scream his name into the pillows if it helps you endure. But by dawn, you will know exactly who owns this room."

Zephyr’s weight was an absolute, suffocating truth. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising the pale skin as he hauled you upward, meeting his next thrust with a jarring, bone-deep force.

You let out a strangled cry, your head falling back against the headboard with a dull thud.

"Open your eyes," he growled.

“Witness this."

“I see a monster," you choked out.

“You see a king," he corrected. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation.

It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a siege.

He shifted his grip, pinning your wrists above your head, stretching your body taut. His other hand traveled down, his fingers harsh and demanding. "You're wet," he whispered, a cruel, dark satisfaction coloring his words.

“Your heart says no, but your body knows who is here."

"I'm dying," you sobbed.

“I am planting a seed in the ruins," he countered, his movements turning frantic, his pace quickening into a brutal, unrelenting drive.

Each strike felt like a hammer on an anvil. The iron cuff around your ankle sang a high, tinny note of distress as you kicked out in a useless struggle.

He let out a low, guttural roar, his body tensing into a rigid arc of pure power. He drove into you one last time, bottoming out with a force that made your vision white out.

He held himself there, buried deep, his hands shaking as he gripped you.

“There," he panted. “It is done. The future is written in your blood now."

He stayed inside you for a long, agonizing minute, the heavy pulse of his climax fading into a dull, throbbing ache. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your own jagged, panicked breathing.

You felt the heavy warmth of him deep inside you—a permanent, intrusive weight.

Your eyes flew open with a realization that felt like a physical blow. You scrambled backward against the headboard, the chain snapping taut with a violent crack.

“Did you—?" your voice was a thin thread of horror. “Did you just... inside me?"

Zephyr didn't move. He remained braced over you, his arms like pillars of iron.

“No," you shrieked, striking out blindly at his chest.

“No! You can’t! Take it back! You monster, did you just do that?"

“I told you," Zephyr said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm rumble. He caught your wrists.

“This was never a negotiation."

“I'll kill it!" you screamed, your face contorted with soul-shattering despair.

“I'll starve myself, I'll jump from the tower—I will not carry a piece of you! How could you?"

“You will do nothing but survive," he countered. “And you will carry this child because it is the only thing in this world that will keep you from fading into nothingness."

A year and a half does not soften grief. It crystallizes it.

That is how long the absence has lived in Xavier’s bones.

It has changed him—hardened the lines of his face, thinned his patience, sharpened his silences. Philos still stands strong, the court still functions, treaties still hold—but everyone knows there is something missing at the king’s side. A space no one is allowed to name.

The annual exchange arrives like a formality carved in stone.

Banners are raised. Tables laid. Diplomacy rehearsed.

Xavier enters the Hall of Exchange already cold.

Not controlled—cold. The kind that seeps into stone and stays there long after the fire has died. He wears black trimmed with steel-grey, his crown unadorned, his expression carved down to its most essential shape. No warmth. No pretense.

He takes his seat at the high table alone.

The empty chair beside him is not filled. It never is.

The court feels it immediately. Conversations lower. Smiles stiffen. No one mistakes this for mourning anymore. This is restraint.

The neighboring kings arrive one by one, offering smiles and rehearsed words. Xavier receives them all with the same cool civility.

Until—

Zephyr of Noctyra steps into the hall.

The air shifts.

Xavier feels it instantly, like a blade sliding between his ribs.

Zephyr looks unchanged. Immaculate. Midnight silk and silver thread, confidence worn like a crown within a crown. He bows with theatrical precision—just shallow enough to insult.

“King Xavier,” Zephyr says smoothly. “It has been some time.”

Xavier inclines his head only enough to satisfy etiquette. “King Zephyr.”

They sit across from one another. Crystal goblets catch the light between them like fragile truces.

Wine is poured. Plates are set.

Conversation crawls forward—trade, borders, harvests—hollow and lifeless.

Xavier lets it happen.

He waits.

Zephyr is the one who grows bored first.

“How curious,” Zephyr murmurs at last, swirling his wine. “Your court used to be… brighter.”

Jeremiah stiffens instantly.

Xavier does not look at Zephyr. He looks at the goblet in his hand. “Say what you mean.”

Zephyr chuckles softly. “I only meant—your court feels quieter than I remember. Your queen had a presence.”

His gaze flicks—not to Xavier’s face—but to the empty chair beside him.

“You once had something very precious seated there.”

Silence slams into the hall.

Xavier’s fingers tighten around the goblet.

“Yes,” Zephyr continues lightly, surgical now. “Some losses echo louder than others. Even after a year and a half.”

A year and a half.

The number lands wrong. Too precise.

Xavier finally turns his head.

His eyes are empty. Not angry. Worse.

“You speak very freely,” Xavier says calmly, “for a guest.”

“A neighbor,” Zephyr corrects. “One who understands how fragile precious things can be.”

Fragile.

Xavier rises.

The scrape of his chair against stone screams through the hall.

“Fragile?” Xavier repeats softly. “No. She was protected.”

Zephyr lifts a brow. “Was she?”

The mockery is no longer subtle.

“You searched,” Zephyr continues, unfazed. “Borders. Forests. Rivers. You rode like a man possessed.” A pause, deliberate. “And still—nothing.” He tilts his head. “Tragic, really.”

Xavier’s vision narrows.

You did not vanish. You were kept.

Steel flashes.

Xavier’s sword clears its sheath in one smooth, lethal motion. The point stops a breath from Zephyr’s throat—close enough that the cold dimples skin.

Gasps ripple through the hall. Guards half-rise. Nobles freeze.

“Dismiss them,” Xavier says quietly.

No one moves.

The blade presses closer. A single drop of blood beads at Zephyr’s neck.

“I said,” Xavier repeats, voice low and shaking with restraint, “dismiss them.”

Jeremiah lifts his hand. Slowly. The guards hesitate—then step back.

Silence crashes down again.

“You enjoyed this,” Xavier says, leaning in. “The watching. The waiting. The way grief hollowed my court while you drank to my ‘loss.’”

Zephyr’s smile falters—but he still tries. “You draw steel in a hall of diplomacy?”

“I draw steel for theft,” Xavier snaps. “For chains. For lies.”

His voice drops further, dangerous and raw.

“For a woman taken while I trusted your courtesy.”

“You accuse boldly,” Zephyr says, swallowing.

“I accuse accurately,” Xavier says. “You mocked me because you knew. You counted the months. You knew she was alive while I buried ghosts.”

Another bead of blood slips down Zephyr’s neck.

“Where,” Xavier demands, “is she?”

“If you kill me—” Zephyr begins.

“I won’t,” Xavier interrupts coldly. “You’re worth more alive. For now.”

The cruelty lands.

“Location,” Xavier says. “Or I end this exchange with your head on my table and let the world decide what follows.”

Zephyr exhales slowly.

Then his shoulders sag.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It was Noctyra.”

The word tastes bitter. Old. Wrong.

Xavier’s grip trembles—not with doubt, but with barely contained violence.

“Details.”

“North tower,” Zephyr says. “Inner keep. Eastern wing.” A pause. “Chained. But alive.”

Alive.

The word nearly brings Xavier to his knees.

“How long?” he asks.

Zephyr hesitates.

The blade presses in.

“A year and a half.”

The hall erupts—shouts, chaos—but Xavier is already stepping back, sheathing his sword with violent precision.

“Jeremiah,” Xavier says hoarsely. “Prepare the army.”

Jeremiah nods. “Quietly?”

Xavier looks once more at Zephyr—cold, murderous certainty burning in his eyes.

“You thought time would make me forget,” Xavier says.

Zephyr wipes blood from his neck, finally afraid.

“I don’t forget,” Xavier whispers. “I remember. And I repay.”

Jeremiah asks, “What about the exchange?”

He turns away.

“This,” Xavier says over his shoulder, “was the exchange.”

The lie has broken.

And the cold has started moving.

Xavier is coming.

The door opened again two days later.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift in the air, the subtle tightening in your chest. The chain stirred as you pushed yourself upright, already bracing.

Zephyr entered first.

He looked composed, immaculate, as though nothing in this room had ever been broken. His presence filled the space with a quiet pressure, slow and deliberate. Behind him came the physician again, carrying the same leather bag, eyes downcast.

Zephyr’s gaze swept over you, unhurried. Calculating.

“Well?” he asked calmly, as if discussing the weather. “How does she fare?”

The physician cleared his throat. “She is… not as weakened as one might expect, Your Majesty.”

Your fingers curled into the blanket.

Zephyr hummed softly. “Go on.”

“There is bruising,” the physician said carefully, choosing each word like a step across thin ice. “Exhaustion. Shock. But her constitution is strong. With rest and… compliance… there is a possibility.”

A possibility.

Your stomach twisted.

Zephyr’s eyes flicked to you, sharp with interest. “You hear that?” he said. “Your body is resilient. It adapts.”

You said nothing. Your throat burned too badly to trust your voice.

“She will need continued tonics,” the physician added quickly. “Food. Warmth. Stability. Emotional distress can—”

“That will be managed,” Zephyr interrupted smoothly.

The physician hesitated, then dared a glance at you. “She speaks often,” he said quietly. “In her sleep. A name.”

Zephyr’s expression hardened—just for a moment.

“…Xavier,” the physician finished.

Silence dropped like a blade.

Zephyr exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “That will stop.”

The physician bowed. “I will return in three months.” And then he was gone, leaving the door to seal shut behind him.

You didn’t look at Zephyr. You stared at the far wall, at nothing.

“You cling to a ghost,” Zephyr said at last. “A man who rode away.”

“He didn’t know,” you whispered.

Zephyr turned to you fully. “He believed me.”

Your chest tightened sharply, breath catching. “Because you lied.”

“Yes,” Zephyr said easily. “And he accepted it. What does that tell you?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “He would have come back. If he knew. If he even suspected—”

“But he didn’t,” Zephyr cut in. “And he hasn’t.”

The words sank deep, cruel and deliberate.

You finally looked at him then, eyes red, hollow. “He promised me,” you said, voice breaking. “At the academy. He promised he would never leave me behind.”

Zephyr studied you, almost thoughtfully. “Promises made in youth are fragile things.”

“He would burn the world for me,” you said, clinging to the belief like a lifeline.

A faint smile curved Zephyr’s mouth. “He already chose his world over you.”

That hurt more than anything else.

Your shoulders sagged, something inside you giving way—not fully breaking, but bending under the weight of doubt.

Zephyr stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “You are alive because I chose to keep you,” he said quietly. “You will endure because I require it.”

You swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?”

He tilted his head. “Your body will.”

You closed your eyes.

In the silence that followed, your thoughts drifted—unbidden—to a familiar image: a black cloak snapping in the wind, a sword catching the light, a voice calling your name.

Come back, you begged silently. Please. I’m still here.

But the palace remained still.

And for the first time, fear crept in—not that Xavier wouldn’t come at all…

…but that when he did, you wouldn’t be the same person he was searching for.

The cycle became a clockwork of cruelty.

For months, the sun didn't mark the passage of time; the sound of the iron belt did. Every evening, the heavy thud of Zephyr’s boots echoed in the corridor, a rhythmic herald of the coming storm.

He was a man of his word—a terrible, iron-clad word. If the Physician shook his head in the morning, Zephyr returned at night.

"Still empty?" he would murmur, his voice a low, dangerous vibration as he unbuckled his sword belt.

“Then we are not finished."

The acts blurred into a singular, exhausting memory of heavy weight and gasping breath. He would pin your wrists until they were ringed with yellowing bruises, his body a relentless engine of "stability."

He didn't care for your tears, nor your silence, nor the way you would stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in the stone to keep from screaming.

“Look at me," he would command, his voice thick with the heat of his exertion.

“You are not in Philos. You are here. Under me. Carrying the weight of my crown. Let it stick tonight. If it doesn’t, I will simply find you again tomorrow."

He treated your body like a fortress to be besieged, over and over, until the walls finally gave way. The angst of it was a living thing in the room—a suffocating blanket of resentment that Zephyr seemed to breathe in like oxygen.

He took you with a grim, repetitive hunger, his seed a constant, unwanted guest within you, until the very scent of him made your stomach heave.

The change was subtle at first. The food you forced yourself to eat began to taste of copper and bile.

The heavy, dragging exhaustion wasn't just from the sleepless nights of his visits; it was deeper, a bone-weariness that pulled at your very center.

The morning finally came when you couldn't reach the washbasin in time.

You were doubled over, retching into the cold stone shadows, when the door opened.

You didn't even have the strength to flinch.

The Physician entered, his footsteps lighter than Zephyr’s, his presence heralded by the sharp, medicinal scent of dried mint.

He didn't speak. He watched you for a long moment, then guided you back to the bed. His hands were cold as he pressed them against your abdomen, measuring the tension of your skin, searching for the subtle shift in the architecture of your body.

A long, heavy silence stretched between you.

The Physician’s eyes widened, his fingers lingering over the slight, new firmness just above your pelvic bone.

"It has taken," he whispered, a mix of awe and dread in his voice.

The door burst open before the Physician could even stand. Zephyr was there, still in his riding leathers, the smell of rain and horse clinging to him. He didn't look at you; his eyes were locked on the old man.

"Speak," Zephyr barked, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

The Physician bowed low, his voice trembling.

“Your Majesty... the cycle is broken. The soil has accepted the seed. She carries an heir."

The word hit the room like a physical explosion. An heir.

Panic, sharp and jagged as broken glass, sliced through your chest.

You scrambled back against the headboard, your hands instinctively flying to your stomach as if you could shield yourself from the reality already growing inside you.

“No," you breathed, the word a ragged, broken sound.

“No, please... not this. Not his."

Zephyr stepped forward, his face a mask of triumph so cold it made your blood freeze.

He didn't look like a father; he looked like an owner who had finally seen his investment yield fruit.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight, and reached out.

“Don't touch me!" you shrieked, your voice cracking with a pure, raw angst.

“I hate it! I hate what you’ve put in me! It’s a curse—it’s a monster—it isn't mine!"

“It is mine," Zephyr corrected softly, his voice more terrifying in its calm than it had ever been in his anger.

He ignored your flailing hands and pressed his large, calloused palm firmly against your stomach.

The heat of his hand felt like a brand through your thin shift. "It is the bridge. It is the end of your ghost-prince and the beginning of my line."

“I'll claw it out," you sobbed, tears blurring your vision as you looked at the window—the same window where you had watched Xavier ride away months ago.

“I’ll jump. I’ll end it before I give you a single breath of its life."

Zephyr leaned in, his shadow swallowing you whole.

He gripped your chin, forcing you to look into eyes that were dark with a terrifying, possessive joy.

“You will do no such thing," he whispered.

“I will have guards at your door every hour of the day. I will have the Physician taste every morsel of food you put in your mouth. You wanted to be a martyr for a man who forgot you? Too late. You are the mother of my kingdom now."

“You’ve turned me into a cage," you choked out, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“A cage for your blood."

“I’ve turned you into a Queen," he replied, standing up and looking down at you with a chilling finality.

“Guard her well. She carries the only thing in this world I value."

The door closed, the bolt sliding home with a sound that felt like the final clod of dirt on a grave.

You lay there, trembling, your hands over your stomach, feeling the crushing weight of the life you never wanted.

The sword tassel lay in the corner, covered in dust, a faded blue relic of a woman who no longer existed.

You weren't waiting for hooves anymore; you were waiting for the inevitable growth of a shadow within you.

The days no longer separated themselves cleanly.

Morning bled into afternoon, afternoon into night, until time became a thick, unmoving fog you had to push through with your body alone. The Physician marked weeks. You did not. You marked things differently now—by how tight your chest felt when you woke, by how long it took the nausea to pass, by how heavy your limbs felt when you tried to stand.

By how impossible it became to pretend nothing was growing inside you.

The first time the Physician said the word progressing, you laughed.

It startled even you.

“Progress?” you repeated, voice cracked and thin, staring at the wall behind him instead of his face. “You speak as if this is a journey I agreed to take.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Your body is adapting. That is all I meant.”

“My body is betraying me,” you snapped, finally turning toward him. Your eyes were sunken now, ringed dark with exhaustion. “Every morning it wakes up and chooses him again.”

The Physician opened his mouth—then closed it. He had learned when silence was safer.

You sat rigid on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically keep the world out. Your shift hung looser around your shoulders, but tighter at the waist. The change was subtle, cruel in its restraint.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to look for long.

“I won’t touch it,” you said suddenly. “I won’t speak to it. I won’t smile or soften or pretend this is anything but violence stretched over time.”

He nodded, slow. “That is… your choice.”

“Is it?” you whispered. “Because it seems like every choice I make is ignored.”

When he left, you didn’t move.

Hours later, the guards brought food. You stared at the tray like it was an enemy.

“I’m not hungry,” you said flatly.

“You must eat,” one replied, rehearsed, bored.

“I won’t.”

They exchanged a glance.

One of them cleared his throat. “If you don’t, His Majesty will be informed.”

Your jaw tightened. Your hands shook.

“Good,” you said hoarsely. “Let him come. Let him look at what he’s done.”

But he didn’t come.

That was the cruelty.

Instead, they waited. Watched. Stayed.

Eventually your body betrayed you again—weakness flooding your limbs, dizziness blurring the edges of the room. You tore a piece of bread with hands that barely obeyed you and swallowed without tasting, tears slipping down your face unchecked.

“You win,” you whispered to no one. “You always win.”

At night, it was worse.

The room was too quiet. Too aware.

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling every unfamiliar sensation with mounting panic. Pressure. Pull. A constant presence that refused to be ignored.

“Stop,” you whispered once, pressing your palms flat against your stomach as if you could command your own flesh. “Please. I don’t want you. I never wanted you.”

Your voice broke.

“I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose him. I didn’t choose any of this.”

There was no answer.

Just the slow, relentless continuation of a body doing what bodies did—surviving, adapting, carrying on without regard for the soul trapped inside it.

Some nights you spoke aloud to Xavier, even knowing he couldn’t hear.

“You would hate this,” you murmured, voice trembling. “You would hate what I’ve become. I can barely recognize myself.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m trying not to disappear,” you whispered. “But it feels like I already have.”

When Zephyr visited now, it was brief.

Observational.

He looked at you like a problem that was finally resolving itself.

“You look tired,” he said once, standing just inside the doorway.

You laughed again—sharp, broken. “You should be pleased. Exhaustion means it’s working, doesn’t it?”

His gaze flicked to your stomach. “Your body is doing exactly what it was meant to do.”

You surged to your feet despite the dizziness. “My body was meant to be mine.”

He regarded you coolly. “It no longer is.”

Something in you cracked then—not loudly, not cleanly. Just a quiet splintering deep in your chest.

“I will never forgive you,” you said, voice shaking but clear. “No matter what grows inside me. No matter what crown you place on its head.”

“That is irrelevant,” Zephyr replied. “History will remember results, not your feelings.”

As he turned to leave, you spoke again—so softly it barely reached him.

“And I will remember you as the man who broke a woman and called it legacy.”

The door closed. The bolt slid home.

You sank back onto the bed, hands trembling as they hovered over your stomach—then dropped away, refusing contact at the last second.

You stared at the window, at the sliver of sky you were allowed to see.

“I won’t love this,” you whispered fiercely into the quiet. “You can take my body. You can take my future. But you will not take my heart.”

Your chest ached with the effort of staying upright, of staying you.

And still—inside you—life went on.

Unasked. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

M:use