Chapter 45
The air in Morgana's ruin stank of old blood and damp stone.
Malrik stepped carefully over crumbled masonry, his cloak trailing ash. His boots echoed in the empty hall, but he wasn't afraid. He'd walked through darker places for less gain.
Morgana appeared from the shadows as if born from them, tall and ageless, her eyes gleaming with old magic. "Back so soon?" she purred.
Malrik didn't waste breath. "I need assurance."
She arched a brow. "Still doubt me? After all we've done together?"
He met her gaze, unflinching. "You lied to me once. Let me believe she was dead."
Morgana smiled, unfazed. "It served us both. The grief won your king. The victory won you power."
"And now she's still breathing," he said, voice low. "You kept that from me."
She turned, her robes whispering against the floor, and led him to the sealed chamber. With a flick of her fingers, runes flared and stone groaned open.
There she was—Hera—pale, sleeping, entombed in glass like a relic. The room hummed with silent power.
Malrik looked down at her with no softness in his gaze.
"I don't care about her," he said flatly. "She's the blood of Tommen. Of Celine. The line I swore to burn."
"Then why return?" Morgana asked, half-curious.
He folded his hands behind his back. "Because your little sleeping doll may yet be useful. A symbol to fracture Tommen's rule. A weapon to set the court on fire. And when the chaos clears—"
"Raymar will be king," Morgana finished, smiling.
"Yes." His voice was like iron cooled in blood. "My blood. Not theirs."
Morgana circled the coffin like a snake. "And what will you do when she wakes, and your 'weapon' has a mind of her own?"
Malrik smirked. "Then you'd best make sure she wakes loyal… or not at all."
Morgana laughed softly. "You always were my favorite monster."
He turned to go, not looking back. "Just remember your promise, witch. Tommen will fall. And Aethelgar will belong to me—through Raymar."
Behind him, Hera's eyes twitched faintly beneath closed lids.
------
The sun hung low over Valla's training grounds, casting long shadows across the packed dirt. Knights sparred in pairs, the clang of steel and barked commands filling the air, but Caven barely noticed any of it.
His eyes were fixed on one person—Elias.
Elias moved with calm precision, sweat slicking his brow, dark hair tied back loosely. He didn't seem to notice Caven at all, which wasn't unusual. No one ever really did.
Caven stood by the wall, arms crossed, trying to appear indifferent. But inside, everything stirred.
He hadn't always been here—not in this place, not in this life. After his mother's death, his stepfather had thrown him out without hesitation. A weak, feminine boy was of no use to a man like that. For days, Caven had wandered the outskirts of the city, starved and invisible. He'd almost ended everything.
But then he remembered his mother's dying wish: "Be strong, Caven. Be more than they see."
So he joined the knights, even if he didn't belong. Even if the others looked at him like a shadow among stone.
No one sat beside him. No one spoke. Until one day…
Elias had.
Not much—a quiet moment at the mess hall. Elias had asked if he was going to finish his food. Caven had handed it over without a word, just grateful for the interaction. When Elias stood to leave, he had paused just long enough to ask, "What's your name?"
Then he had patted Caven's shoulder. Be strong, he had said.
Caven had clung to those words like armor.
And later—later came the kiss.
He hadn't expected it. In a quiet hallway, away from the others, a few words had been exchanged, a closeness lingered too long. Then Elias had let him in—just for a moment. Their lips had met, and for the first time, Caven hadn't felt small or invisible.
But that moment ended. Elias had pushed him away.
Now, watching Elias from across the training ground, something inside Caven tightened.
He saw everything—the tiredness in Elias's shoulders, the distance in his eyes. And he remembered the softness of his lips, the way he hadn't pulled away immediately.
Caven had never wanted anything so badly. And watching Elias now, he couldn't help but think—
You deserve more. You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who stays.
And maybe… maybe that someone was him.
---
The sound of boots echoed across the training ground as all movement slowed. Heads turned. Even the clashing blades halted for a heartbeat when Prince Alistair entered the grounds, clad in a simple dark tunic with the royal insignia glinting faintly beneath the morning light.
"Your Majesty," the knights said in unison, bowing slightly.
Alistair gave a small nod, barely slowing his pace as he passed them. His eyes, however, didn't linger—not even on Elias.
Caven noticed the way something shifted in Elias. Not on his face—it remained impassive—but in the way his grip on the practice sword faltered slightly, in the tension coiling across his shoulders. He was used to it. That cold distance. But it still cut.
As the prince disappeared into the corridor beyond the grounds, Elias turned without a word and began walking away. Caven hesitated, then took a step forward, hoping—maybe—he could say something.
But Elias passed him without so much as a glance, and that stung more than it should have.
Caven's eyes followed him, burning with unspoken thoughts. And then—he moved.
Down the corridor Elias went, quiet and purposeful, slipping past others until he reached the quieter hall beyond the practice yard. Caven kept his distance, moving in the shadows.
Then Elias stopped.
The sunlight pouring in from the high windows caught on the figure standing at the far end—Alistair. The way the light danced across his features made him seem carved from marble, too perfect for this world. Elias stood still, caught in the moment, just staring.
Caven froze too, watching from around the corner.
Alistair noticed Elias then. A soft smile broke through his features, and he walked over without hesitation, pulling Elias into a tight embrace.
"I waited for you," Alistair murmured, his voice low and tender. "But you didn't show up."
"I'm sorry," Elias replied, breath catching. "There were too many eyes. I couldn't leave."
Alistair reached up and brushed Elias's hair gently from his face. "Sorry about not being present… with everything."
"It doesn't matter," Elias said quietly. "You're the prince. It's normal to be busy." He paused, eyes searching Alistair's face. "All that matters is now."
Then he kissed him.
It was soft at first—hungry in the way only years of secrecy can birth. Alistair leaned in, pressing their foreheads together as if grounding himself. Their bodies tangled in the stillness of the corridor, unaware—or uncaring—that the world could still be watching.
And it was.
Caven stood frozen at the corner, the sight of them hitting him like cold steel to the chest. That kiss—they were lost in it, in each other. Like he never existed.
Alistair pulled away slightly, their arms still wrapped around one another. "Come," he whispered.
And Elias followed, letting himself be pulled down the corridor.
Caven remained behind in the shadows, his throat tight and his hands clenched at his sides.
No one had ever looked at him that way.