Gilded Chains ⋆✴︎˚｡⚔️ (Li Shen)
“A king’s heart does not belong to himself, Zayne. It belongs to his people.” ᝰ.ᐟ
Synopsis: He cast you aside for a love that betrayed him. Now, bound by duty and regret, Zayne learns too late that you were the only freedom he ever had.
Genre: Angst
AU: Royal!au
Pairing(s): Zayne x MC (Celestine), Caleb x Non!MC Reader
Warnings: MAJOR Angst (I’m not joking this is genuinely so gut wrenching and unbelievably sad)
Note: I did not expect the unbelievable amount of support on “The Lark of Philos” (Part One), I was honestly shocked at how much everyone loved it, so much so that I decided to make a prequel from Zayne’s POV! The questions of “What happened to Celestine?” Will be answered in here LMAO, also I don’t know why I bring misfortune onto Zayne, he’s literally my main LI (ik hard to believe when I’m YIZHOUPRINT) but I swear I love him ;; As always, happy reading and I hope you guys enjoy this one, thank you for the amazing support as any like + reblog will always be appreciated.
Zayne had never been one to believe in love.
To him, love was a fragile invention, an indulgence reserved for poets and commoners, never meant for princes of his kind.
He had been raised to see the world through duty’s gaze—every lesson sharpened his mind, every hour of the day was pressed into shaping him into a sovereign who would bear the crown without faltering.
His father would often remind him:
“A king’s heart does not belong to himself, Zayne. It belongs to his people.”
So he never expected to keep his own.
And yet, since boyhood, there had been one exception. One girl who managed to slip through the cracks of his iron resolve.
Celestine.
She was his tutor’s daughter, a shadow in the corner of the room where he learned to read maps and recite histories, her hands busy with parchment or ink, her quiet laughter spilling when she thought no one heard.
She should have been nothing more than a presence on the edge of his world. Yet somehow, she became his whole sanctuary.
He remembered the first time she caught his gaze, bold in her own quiet way. He was ten, frustrated over a map of warring kingdoms he could not seem to memorize, when she leaned over with the confidence of someone who did not fear princes.
“You’re tracing them wrong,” she had whispered, her finger brushing against his as she pointed to the southern border.
He had stared at her, caught off guard—not by the correction, but by her nearness, the way her eyes glinted with a light that had nothing to do with duty.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me during lessons,” he muttered, though there was no true bite in it.
Celestine only smiled, a small, daring curve of her lips.
“Then don’t tell on me.”
It was such a simple moment, but it carved itself into him, etched like scripture on his bones. From then on, she became the one constant thread in a life otherwise strangled by expectation.
When he studied until exhaustion left him hollow, she slipped him stolen pastries from the kitchen, giggling as he ate them in secret. When his father’s words grew sharp, lashing like whips, she would sit with him beneath the oak tree in the palace gardens, her voice soft as she read aloud from her favorite books.
“You’ll be a good king, Zayne,” she once told him, her hand brushing against his sleeve. “Because you already know how it feels to be lonely.”
He had looked at her then, and for the first time in his life, he thought that perhaps love wasn’t a weakness. Perhaps it was the one thing that made him real.
Years blurred and seasons shifted, and with every passing day, the boy became a man. The crown loomed closer, its shadow stretching over him, but so too did the promise of Celestine’s presence.
In the quiet recesses of his heart, he dreamed. He dared to imagine a future where she was not only his solace but his wife, his queen in everything but name.
He thought—naïvely, foolishly—that fate might be kind.
But fate had been cruel to princes since the beginning of time.
When the age came for him to take his place in the kingdom’s affairs, the truth unraveled like a blade through silk.
His parents, long before he had even known the shape of his own desires, had signed away his hand. His marriage had been secured to the princess of Philos—a treaty dressed as a betrothal, chains disguised as destiny.
It was written in ink he could never erase, a vow he had made before he even knew how to speak of love.
For days, he carried the knowledge like stone in his chest.
He thought of Celestine’s laughter, of the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, of every quiet rebellion they had shared since childhood. And he thought of how little all of it mattered before the will of a kingdom.
He was his father’s son. He was the heir. He could not refuse.
And yet, through it all, his love did not falter.
It did not bend or vanish like duty demanded. It stood steadfast, as if it were the last defiance left to him. Even as he walked toward a future already written, he could not let go of the girl who had once placed a pastry in his hands and whispered, don’t tell on me.
She was not simply a memory. She was the part of himself that he refused to surrender, the fragment of Zayne that was not swallowed by the crown.
Even if she was the one thing he could never keep.
When the decree was finally read, the words felt less like parchment and ink and more like a blade pressed to the heart.
The Linkon and Philos betrothal had always been sealed in wax long before either of them had grown tall enough to reach the library shelves, and yet hearing it aloud stripped away every fragile dream they had stitched together in secret.
Celestine’s hands trembled, her knuckles pale as she clutched the folds of her gown, though her face—so gentle, so careful—betrayed nothing but a faint, quiet smile.
She always smiled for him, even when it cost her.
“So it was never meant to be mine,” she whispered, her voice soft as falling snow, “not your crown, not your name… not even your hand.”
Zayne, ever the stone-faced heir, felt the earth shift beneath him.
He had been trained his entire life not to flinch before an enemy, not to break before a council of lords, but Celestine was neither foe nor lord.
She was the girl who had once brushed ink-stains off his fingers after long hours of study, the girl who tucked wildflowers into his hair when he thought no one was watching. And now—she was the girl he could not keep.
“Do not say that,” he rasped, the weight of his own breath unbearable. “You were always mine. In every way that mattered, you were mine.”
Her eyes, glassy and luminous, lifted to him with a kind of tender defiance. “But not in the way that lasts.”
For the first time, Zayne’s composure fractured.
His jaw clenched, his throat burned. He wanted to rage against his parents, against the kingdom, against every duty that shackled him to a throne he had not yet touched. But all he could do was reach for her hand and hold it as if the force of his grip could chain her to him.
Celestine let him. For a moment, it was as though they were children again, sitting beneath the oak tree in the courtyard, sharing stolen pastries, laughing about what the future might hold. But reality returned like a cruel wind.
“I would burn this kingdom for you,” he said, voice breaking in a way no one else would ever hear.
“And yet you will rule it instead,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his. “That is why I loved you, Zayne. That is why I must let you go.”
Her tears slipped silently down, falling like pearls onto the back of his hand. He wanted to swear he would choose her, even against the crown, but the truth wrapped its chains tighter: an heir was not free.
And she, his beloved Celestine, had always known.
The silence that followed was heavier than any vow.
The wedding day was cloaked in splendor, though to Zayne it all felt like a masquerade draped in gold and silk.
The chapel hummed with hymns, courtiers, royals, and nobles smiled with teeth too polished as candles dripped wax as though even fire pitied him.
When he stood beside you—his bride—he did not see you, not truly. He saw only the weight of a crown pressing heavier than the circlet that glimmered upon his brow.
You, veiled in ivory, lifted your eyes to him when the vows were spoken. Zayne’s lips moved to repeat them, but his gaze was fixed beyond you, empty, like a man reading a death sentence carved into stone.
He could not meet your eyes. Not once. Not even when the priest declared you bound.
Applause rose like thunder, the sound hollow in his ears.
When the procession ended, Zayne excused himself with practiced ease, the heir who had a kingdom to attend to. But he did not go to the throne room, nor the banquet prepared in his honor.
His steps carried him elsewhere—always elsewhere—until he found her.
Celestine.
She was waiting in the shadows of the library, her gown plain, her face pale as moonlight.
The moment their eyes met, all the walls crumbled.
Zayne crossed the distance and drew her into his arms, holding her as though the world itself were splitting beneath their feet.
“I cannot do this,” he choked, burying his face in her hair. His tears spilled freely, the kind no council or soldier had ever seen.
“I cannot stand before her, before them all, when I know it should have been you.”
Celestine trembled against him, her own sobs breaking like waves against stone.
“Do not say that,” she pleaded, though her voice cracked. “She is as bound as you are, Zayne. This cage was built for two. You were not the only one forced into vows.”
He pulled back, his hands cupping her face with a desperation that shook through his bones.
“Then let us go. Let us leave it all. I would rather live nameless in the woods with you than wear this crown and lie to the world.”
For a heartbeat, Celestine almost believed it. Almost. But her eyes, swollen with sorrow, searched his, and she whispered the truth neither of them could escape:
“You cannot. You would not. The kingdom is yours, Zayne, as much as I wish it were not. And I could never steal you from it.”
He broke then, utterly.
The great heir, undone by a tutor’s daughter. They wept together in the silence of the old library, clutching at what scraps of time they could still claim.
Zayne made his choice in that hollow night—not to his crown, not to you, but to her. Even if the world called you his wife, he would remain Celestine’s in every hidden corner of his heart.
But fate was never so merciful.
Days later, at the first formal dinner after the wedding, the air was heavy with wine and the murmur his parents congratulating a union forged more of politics than love.
Zayne sat at the head of the table, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. He barely touched the venison before him.
The announcement was made so casually at the dinner table—almost like a passing remark about trade routes or harvest reports—that for a moment, Zayne thought he had misheard.
“The princess is to take residence in Linkon for the rest of the year, to strengthen ties with her family.”
The room continued as though nothing had happened, but to Zayne, the words were a blade.
His head snapped up, the goblet in his hand pausing mid-air. For the first time that evening, his composure faltered.
Across the table, Caleb leaned back in his chair, brows knitted, a glimmer of knowing in his gaze. He had always been too perceptive, too keen.
Zayne ignored the weight of his brother’s stare, but his fingers tightened around the cup until the wine trembled within it.
“Is that so?” His voice was steady, but the undertone was jagged, a quiet storm.
His parents nodded, oblivious.
“Indeed. A gracious gesture of alliance. The people of Linkon will be most pleased, and you are granted with the opportunity to get to know each other as a couple.”
Zayne pushed away his plate, his appetite soured into ashes. The thought of you—alone, in a foreign court that was supposed to be your second home—slipped under his skin like a thorn.
Not because he loved you. But because he did not. And somehow, that truth weighed heavier than the crown itself.
His mind was racing, his jaw locked, the words echoing in his skull as though they had been carved there with a blade.
You were moving to Linkon.
Celestine would weep when she heard. He knew it. And in that moment, he hated himself for the life he had built—half a lie, half a prison, wholly unbearable.
Across the table, Caleb met his gaze. His younger brother, sharp-eyed and unflinching, caught the flicker in Zayne’s expression—the stiffened shoulders, the clenched fist beneath the tablecloth, the way his breath had turned shallow.
Zayne couldn’t sit there another moment. The walls of the hall felt too tight, the air too thin, the chatter of his parents clawing at his ears.
He shoved back his chair with a scrape loud enough to silence the table. Without a word, he strode out, boots echoing hard against the stone.
He didn’t care where he was going. Anywhere that wasn’t here. Anywhere where the truth couldn’t find him.
But Caleb did not let him escape.
“Brother.”
The voice came cool and steady, chasing him into the corridor. Zayne ignored it, quickening his pace.
“Zayne.”
He stopped, spine stiff, but did not turn.
Caleb’s footsteps followed, deliberate and sure, until he stood just behind him.
“What was that back there? You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
Zayne’s hands trembled, though he forced them into fists.
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
Caleb tilted his head, studying him.
“Nothing?” He let out a quiet laugh, humorless. “The heir to the throne storms away from his family dinner, and you call it nothing?”
Zayne finally turned, eyes burning. “What do you want from me, Caleb?”
“The truth,” Caleb said simply, voice low but firm.
“Why does the thought of her moving to Linkon unsettle you so much? She’s your wife, not your lover. Unless…” His eyes narrowed, sharp as the blade at his hip.
“Unless you never intended to see her as one.”
Zayne’s jaw tightened, the mask he always wore slipping just enough for anguish to seep through. He wanted to deny it, to snarl back some careless remark—but the words lodged in his throat like shards of glass.
Caleb studied him in silence, then smirked faintly, though there was no real mirth in it.
“I see. So it’s Celestine.”
The name hit Zayne like a blade to the gut. His lips parted, but no sound came.
Caleb stepped closer, voice dropping into something almost cruel.
“Tell me, brother—did you think you could serve two masters? Duty to the crown and devotion to a woman the crown would never accept? You’re a fool if you believed you could keep them both.”
Zayne’s composure cracked then—just a flicker, but enough.
“Do not speak of her,” he growled, though his voice shook, grief bleeding through anger.
Caleb only raised his brow again, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
“Then stop acting as if losing your little tutor’s daughter is the end of the world. Because the way you’re carrying on—it’s not only your heart at stake anymore. It’s hers. It’s Y/n’s.”
The name—your name—fell like a weight between them.
For a moment, Zayne couldn’t breathe. He wanted to shout, to strike, to crumble all at once. Instead, he turned sharply away, swallowing the storm rising in his chest.
And Caleb—ever observant, ever relentless—watched him go, a shadow of both pity and judgment flickering in his gaze.
Celestine had become the sun around which Zayne’s world revolved, even if that orbit left everything else—including you—plunged into shadow.
He made no attempts to bridge the silence between you, nor to hide how little he cared for the vows you had exchanged.
You could recall too many moments that revealed his heart was never yours to begin with:
The way he would turn his head away during morning greetings, answering only with clipped nods.
The way he would let your words die in the air, never grasping them, as though your voice were a passing wind unworthy of his attention.
The way his hand recoiled—subtle, but present—when yours brushed against his sleeve at a council meeting.
Even when you mustered the courage to smile at him beneath the candlelight of evening suppers, he would leave the table before dessert was served, muttering excuses about matters of state, when in truth he was always heading to her.
Every attempt at companionship you offered him was met with walls, stone-cold and unyielding. And still, Celestine remained the exception, the one clink in his armor.
He would slip away at the break of dawn, or under the shroud of midnight, carving stolen hours with her.
She was the one who drew laughter from his lips—the same laughter you had never heard. She was the one who softened his gaze. She was the one he chose, again and again, even while married to you.
And then came the banquet.
It was a night meant for you.
Your name was etched into the golden invitations, your virtues praised in the speeches, your beauty adorned in silks and jewels meant to remind the court that you were their queen, not merely by title, but by presence.
Musicians played in your honor; goblets were raised for you. And yet, Zayne slipped into the halls when the music swelled, seeking out Celestine like a man seeking air.
Rafayel and Sylus were the ones to find them first—Zayne’s hands cradling her face, their foreheads pressed together in an embrace that was far too tender to be mistaken for anything innocent.
“Your Highness,” Sylus’s voice was cold, a blade in the dark. “This is not a sight we should be seeing on such an evening.”
Zayne’s eyes widened, panic striking through his practiced composure.
“Please,” he begged, his voice low and frantic, “say nothing of this. I ask it of you as your prince.” But it was already too late.
Caleb’s boots echoed in the corridor, his gaze cutting sharp as glass the moment it fell upon the scene. His lips curled, not with surprise, but with something far heavier—disappointment, maybe, or bitter clarity.
“You’re lucky,” Caleb began, his tone dripping with disdain, “that she retired to her chambers early. The sight of you clutching another woman in your arms would not have been so kind on her poor heart.”
Zayne’s jaw tightened, his hand tightening on Celestine’s wrist as though shielding her from Caleb’s words.
“Leave her out of this,” he snapped. “I will never allow another to take her place in my life.”
Caleb let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head.
“Do you hear yourself, brother? You speak as though love were stronger than crown, as though duty could be undone by the softness of a woman’s hands.” His gaze sharpened, striking Zayne where it hurt most.
“Shall your heart belong to another, remind yourself that the illusion of your love can only last for so long.”
With that, Caleb turned on his heel, Rafayel and Sylus following in his wake. His words echoed in the silence they left behind, hanging like a curse in the air.
Celestine’s eyes welled with tears as she clutched at Zayne’s tunic.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I never wished to cause you shame. I never wished for her to suffer.”
Zayne pressed his forehead against hers, his breath ragged with grief.
“It is not your fault, beloved. I am sorry fate had to be so cruel.” He kissed the crown of her head, though the words Caleb had spoken refused to leave him, digging deeper than any wound of steel.
And fate proved crueler still.
Weeks later, whispers slithered into his chambers—rumors, then truths—that Celestine had been seen, not with him, but with another.
A Duke from a neighboring kingdom, wealthy and cunning, had charmed her away.
Zayne had laughed at first, denial burning in his chest, but when he caught sight of them together in the gardens—her smile radiant, her hand twined with the Duke’s—it was as though the world collapsed beneath his feet.
Celestine had betrayed him.
And for the first time, when his eyes drifted toward you, he did not see a stranger he was shackled to. He saw the quiet strength in your carriage, the tenderness in the way you smiled at servants, the kindness he had been too blind to notice.
Where once he felt only chains, he now felt something unfamiliar—fragile, blooming, dangerous.
Perhaps love had not been lost to him after all.
The garden had always been a place of solace for him, though not his own. It was yours.
A sanctuary of roses, jasmines, and ivy, of quiet laughter and rustling leaves. He sought you there in desperation, as though the air itself might carry your name, but his steps faltered when he saw the scene unfold before him.
Caleb, his ever-defiant younger brother, lay with his head upon your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair with a tenderness that stabbed Zayne clean through the chest.
Your laughter—light, unrestrained—rippled through the garden like a song only Caleb was allowed to hear.
Zayne froze, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He told himself it was only jealousy, only wounded pride, yet the way his heart thundered betrayed something far greater.
He turned away before you could see him, swallowing down the bitter taste of yearning that refused to leave his tongue.
He tried again days later, wandering into the library where he knew you often lingered.
The sight that met him near broke him entirely: you seated by the tall, arched window, golden sunlight spilling upon you like a halo, your smile softer now, a secret meant for another.
Xavier, your brother, sat across from you, leaning in close as though he belonged in that warmth, his voice drawing out your laughter again, quieter but no less radiant.
Zayne stood in the doorway, invisible and uninvited, his chest tight with a longing he had no words for.
From then on, he noticed everything.
The way you carried yourself with grace even when ignored, the way your kindness never wavered though he had spurned you at every turn.
He remembered the banquet night when he left you alone, and how you had smiled, brittle but still present, offering courtesies to nobles who barely deserved them.
Zayne thought of the dinners where you tried to speak, only for him to cut conversations short. He thought of your silences, each one a wound he had carved himself.
And yet, with each day, the ache inside him grew unbearable.
One evening, he passed by the stables and heard you speaking gently to your horse, your voice soft as though confessing secrets to the night.
He lingered in the shadows, listening as you hummed a tune, the sound low and wistful. He had never known music to move him so, not even Celestine’s songs of youth.
Another time, Zayne caught sight of you with the children of his relatives, kneeling in your gown as though you were one of them, their laughter rising around you while you tied flower crowns with patient hands.
The prince had seen you wear jeweled circlets before, but the crown of daisies sat upon you like the truest diadem of all. Something inside him twisted then, sharp and undeniable.
And when at last he crossed your path alone—late in the corridors, candlelight spilling between the two of you—he found himself stopping, words rising to his lips and dying there.
You only gave him a polite nod, your gaze guarded, before slipping past him. He turned, watching the sweep of your gown vanish around the corner, and realized with a start that he had never hated silence so much.
Zayne had thought his heart belonged to Celestine, that his loyalty to her was unshakable even when betrayed.
But as the days turned, as the hours unraveled, he understood the crueler truth: the love he had fought so hard to protect had been an illusion, and the one he had cast aside without thought was the very one who had been worthy all along.
Now, it was you his heart longed for.
You, whose kindness endured his cruelty. You, whose smile felt rarer than the sun. You, who had been beside him from the very beginning, waiting—though perhaps, not for him any longer.
And with each passing moment, he feared it was too late.
The palace was alive with preparations, golden light spilling through tall windows as servants hurried about for the evening’s banquet.
Zayne should have been attending to his duties, his speech, his appearance—yet his mind was elsewhere, consumed with words that had sat heavy on his tongue for weeks now.
I want to be better for you.
It was all he wished to say, simple yet impossible.
The weight of it pressed against his chest as he found himself standing before your door, his hand curling into a fist before he rapped gently against the wood.
Inside, he heard laughter—yours, lilting and warm, mingled with Xavier’s low voice. When the door opened, the sight stole the air from his lungs.
You sat at the center of your chamber, gifts piled upon the table before you—garlands of rare blossoms, silks from the eastern ports, a necklace that shimmered like starlight.
Every token bore Caleb’s signature extravagance, and every servant in the palace had whispered of them by now. Caleb’s gifts to his beloved, the one who waits even while he is away.
Zayne’s chest tightened. His gaze shifted to you and Xavier, your laughter carrying as you unwrapped another parcel together.
It was a sound that had once irritated him; now it only hollowed him out, leaving him raw.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Both of you looked up, and for a heartbeat he thought he might speak—might spill everything he had swallowed down.
But your eyes, polite and expectant, felt impossibly far away.
“I…” His voice wavered, faltering beneath the weight of all he wished to say. The words slipped from him, pitiful in their smallness: “I wanted to check up on you.”
A nod, a faint smile from you, and then the world kept moving, your attention drawn back to Xavier and the cascade of gifts.
Zayne lingered a heartbeat longer, then turned on his heel, leaving before his face could betray him.
The corridor outside felt colder than it should. He leaned against the wall, running a hand down his face, a low growl breaking from his chest.
“What did I do to deserve this?” His voice was harsh, trembling with the kind of frustration that bordered on despair.
“Celestine…” he hissed the name like a curse, slamming his fist against the stone. “Why would you leave me?”
He thought she had been the one, the love meant to carry him through war and betrayal, the anchor he had clung to through every storm. But she was gone—gone by her own hand, gone by her own betrayal.
And now… now he had lost you too.
Lost you to the very absence he had buried himself in, to his own pride, to his blindness.
You were not waiting, not longing for him as he once assumed. You had been seen—cherished—even when he could not find it in himself to stay.
For the first time in years, Zayne felt like a boy again, adrift, the sharp edge of his composure cracking. And on the eve of his birthday—the one day meant to honor him—he had never felt more undeserving.
Zayne’s boots echoed down the corridor as he stormed away from your chambers, anger pulsing hot beneath his skin. But the further he went, the heavier the silence became.
By the time he reached the shadow of the training grounds, it wasn’t anger that gnawed at him anymore. It was memory.
Every step seemed to conjure another moment, another chance he had squandered.
He saw you there again, walking at his side across the very sands where swords clashed and steel sang.
Your laughter had rung brighter than the morning sun as you glanced at him, your words warm and reverent.
“It must take great courage, Zayne… to be both a Paladin and the next King.”
But he had shut you down, dismissing the admiration that trembled with affection.
“It is only my duty,” he had said flatly, as if that stripped away the heart in your words.
He had not dared look too long at the shine in your eyes then—afraid of what it might mean if he let himself linger.
And then the midday light shifted in his mind, recalling another day: the two of you seated across from one another at lunch.
The quiet had been different then—hopeful. You had leaned forward, your smile tentative yet glowing.
“Shall we visit the village together? It might do us both some good.”
But the very thought had made his chest tighten in ways he could not name. He had recoiled, detesting how vulnerable it made him feel.
“No,” he had said firmly, as though the suggestion itself had been offensive. He remembered the way your light dimmed, only for a moment, but enough to carve a mark he could not erase.
And then came the days after—days where your laughter no longer followed him down the halls.
Where you spotted him in the gardens or the library and fled as though his shadow were poison. You had always been a beacon, a brightness that drew even the most hardened of men to warmth.
But around him? You stopped shining. You stopped smiling.
He clenched his jaw, the sound of his breath harsh as his hand pressed against the stone wall.
Until Caleb came.
Until Caleb had coaxed your laughter to return, until your presence became something untouchable, too far for Zayne to grasp.
Until Caleb, with his endless gifts and shameless declarations, had breathed life back into you.
Zayne shut his eyes, but the darkness there was no refuge. The images still came—your joy beside another, the ease you had once tried to offer him now resting in someone else’s hands.
He had always thought there would be time. That you would wait, that the bond between you would endure his distance, his silence, his fear of being seen.
But now…
Now he understood too late that time had run out.
The morning after his birthday banquet, Zayne sat at the long table in the council chamber, eyes bloodshot, body sluggish from a night without rest.
He could still hear your voice echoing in his head from the night before, breaking him with every syllable:
“Every wreath we’ve made, every quiet moment in the garden, every stolen look… my heart has belonged to you for longer than I even realized. I don’t want the crown, or the title. I want you.”
He had left before hearing more, but the words alone had been enough to tear the breath from his lungs.
Now, before the first meal had even been cleared from the table, one of his informants entered, kneeling low with a report in hand.
“Your Majesty… urgent news regarding Lady Celestine.”
Zayne’s tired gaze lifted, his jaw tightening. “What of her?”
The man hesitated, as though the words themselves were venom.
“She was no ally. Celestine was a spy—sent by Esthros with your tutor to worm her way into our court. A pawn meant to unravel us from within.”
The words struck him like steel to the chest. He sat up sharply, every muscle coiled.
“What did you say?”
“She failed her mission, Your Majesty. Failed… because she couldn’t bring herself to use you. Records say she fled with another man in the night. She never cared for Linkon. Never cared for you.”
Silence descended over the chamber, broken only by the faint crack of Zayne’s fists clenching against the table.
So it had all been a lie.
The girl who had filled his thoughts, the one he had convinced himself you had left him for, the reason he had pushed you away instead of fighting for you… none of it had been real.
Celestine had never chosen him. She had never loved him.
And worse—he realized, with a bitterness that scalded his tongue—you had.
You had tried, over and over again, to stand by him. To reach for him. To love him. And he had turned you away, blinded by his fear and his cowardice.
Now you belonged to another, and Zayne was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a false affection and the unshakable truth of what he had thrown away.
He rose from his chair without a word, striding out of the chamber, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
For the first time in his life, the prince felt not only defeated… but utterly, devastatingly alone.
Later that same day, Zayne found himself wandering the empty hallways, his crown feeling heavier than steel upon his brow.
The report on Celestine still weighed on his chest, suffocating him. He thought he could escape it for a moment in the quiet of the colonnade, but fate had other plans.
Caleb was there.
The younger prince leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, as though he’d been waiting.
When his eyes landed on Zayne, his usual warmth was gone, replaced by something harder, colder.
“So it’s true,” Caleb said flatly. “Celestine was nothing but a spy. A trick. A lie.”
Zayne froze, his throat tightening. “…Who told you?”
Caleb scoffed. “You think the court doesn’t whisper? You think the palace doesn’t know?” He stepped closer, his boots echoing against the marble floor.
“You nearly destroyed Y/N for her. The woman you threw everything away for didn’t even exist—not the way you thought she did.”
Zayne flinched at your name, guilt twisting his gut. “Don’t—”
“No. You don’t get to silence me this time.” Caleb’s voice sharpened, his eyes blazing.
“Do you know how many nights Y/N cried because of you? Do you know how many times she reached for you, only to be pushed aside? She gave you everything, Zayne, and you spat it back in her face for a ghost.”
“I thought—” Zayne started, his voice cracking.
“You thought wrong,” Caleb snapped, stepping close enough that his words cut like blades.
“And now she’s mine—not because I stole her, not because I tricked her—but because I listened. Because I cared. Because I was there when you weren’t.”
Zayne’s hands trembled at his sides, torn between fury and regret, but no words came. What could he say when everything Caleb spoke was true?
Caleb’s jaw tightened, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper.
“You lost her, brother. Not to me. Not to Celestine. To yourself. And no one to blame but you.”
He brushed past Zayne then, his shoulder colliding hard with the King’s as he strode away, leaving Zayne standing in the colonnade, shattered by truths he had long refused to face.
© yizhouprint 2025’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.
