POV: Skylar Blackwood
The cold cell beneath the Blackwood Palace was far from the lavish chambers I once ruled from. The stone walls sweated with age, and the faint hum of the empire above served as a cruel reminder of what I'd lost.
Five days.
That's what he gave me.
Not just to live—but to kneel. To be paraded like a traitor before my people. Our people.
I paced the cell, bruises blooming beneath my skin from the guards' rough handling. But pain didn't break me.
Not yet.
Not until the door creaked open, and she stepped in.
Amara.
No crown. No guards.
Just her—power wrapped in silence.
She stood in front of me like she owned the air I breathed.
"I begged for your life," she said coldly. "I argued. I even pitied you."
I scoffed, voice hoarse. "Don't pretend you cared."
She stepped closer. "I didn't say I cared. I said I pitied you. There's a difference."
My fists clenched. "Do what you came to do."
She smirked. "No. You'll live every moment of this disgrace. You'll see the empire turn its back. You'll hear them cheer when the blade falls."
"Chris won't let you enjoy this," I said, eyes narrowing. "He may have chosen you now, but I made him. I built this empire with him—"
"No," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice stone. "You used him. Manipulated him. Loved the power more than the man. And now you're nothing more than history rotting in a dungeon."
She turned toward the door.
But paused.
"Oh, and one last thing—when the blade falls, it won't be a soldier. It won't be an executor."
She looked over her shoulder, eyes glinting with finality.
"It'll be me."
And then she left.
---
POV: Chris (Meanwhile, Throne Room)
I sat alone, the empire still bustling outside my throne room. But I was quiet. Still. Thinking.
Skylar had to die. That wasn't just justice—it was order. But my chest still twisted with every memory.
Love doesn't die. It decays.
And in its decay, it poisons everything you try to rebuild.
But I had Amara now. Not just my wife. My 02. My sword.
I closed my eyes.
Let this be the last ghost I bury.