You woke alone.
Not in the armchair. Not in the warmth of his arms.
Your bed.
The quilt had been pulled over your shoulders, tucked in just slightly — too careful, too deliberate to have been done by a servant.
The fire had died sometime in the night. The settee by the window sat empty now, a silver goblet resting on its side, dried wine darkening the carpet beneath.
A dream?
You pressed your wrist against your brow, trying to recall the weight of him — the pull, the breath, the way his hand had hovered near your face as though he meant to reach for you and never did.
Then you saw it.
A faint shadow on your wrist, the shape of his grip blooming in violet and umber — proof.
He had touched you.
He had pulled you close.
And then he had left before dawn.
You lay there for a while, the morning bleeding slowly through the drapes.
He had held you.
And still, you had awakened alone.
.....
At breakfast, the court buzzed around you — pressed linens and jeweled brooches, silk skirts brushing polished floors. You sat at the high table with a small plate of fruit untouched.
You didn't look at him.
But you could feel his gaze.
A flicker at the edge of your vision. A pause in conversation.
You kept your expression serene. Gave nothing away.
The Queen Dowager complimented your robes. A minister passed you an update on river trade. The day marched forward with the elegance of ritual.
And then… an important ally arrived.
Lord Dylan, Casian's old comrade from the border campaigns — tall, tanned, with a voice like a blade and eyes sharp with memory. They clasped arms like brothers, laughed like soldiers who had once nearly died side by side.
A hunting trip had been planned. A political display, yes — but also a quiet message to the neighboring baronies: the King is still sovereign. The crown still holds favor.
You smiled at the appropriate moments, offered small courtesies, let your presence anchor his authority — as a queen should.
But beneath the silk, your heart beat unsteadily.
You'd almost forgotten about the hunting trip. Casian would leave by dusk.
And before he did, he found you.
You were walking the inner hall when his voice reached you.
"Wait."
His tone wasn't loud. But it never needed to be.
You turned.
The corridor was empty aside from Mira, who bowed immediately and slipped away at his glance. Two guards lingered by the archway until Casian dismissed them with a curt nod.
When he faced you fully, his expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not soft. Just… searching.
His eyes dropped to your wrist.
"May I?"
You didn't answer.
But you didn't pull away.
He stepped forward and took your hand — gently this time. His thumb brushed the bruise, lingering there like it pained him more than it did you.
"I was drunk," he said.
You said nothing.
"I—" He hesitated. "I wasn't thinking clearly."
You drew your hand back slowly. "You weren't cruel."
"That doesn't excuse it."
"No," you said. "But I've lived through worse."
His brow tightened. "Are you well?"
"Yes." The word felt like a lie, but a necessary one.
Silence.
Then he said, "We need to speak. When I return."
You inclined your head, composed as ever.
"I understand."
He studied you again. As if he wanted to say more.
But a courtier's voice echoed down the hall — the horses were ready, the hounds restless.
He stepped back.
You followed him out to the main courtyard, where the hunting party waited. You gave him what the court expected — a smile, a kiss pressed lightly to his cheek, your voice warm as you said, "Ride safely, Your Majesty. May your arrows fly true."
The nobles watched. So did the Queen Dowager.
Casian took your hand, and pressed his lips against your knuckles — not rushed, not ceremonial, but deliberate.
Then he said, "When I return, we'll speak properly."
You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Your smile didn't falter.
But you felt the chill run down your spine.
"Of course."
He looked at you a second longer. Then turned.
You watched him mount his horse.
Watched the small procession from behind him.
The Queen Dowager leaned close beside you.
"A queen who bids her king farewell in peace earns whispers of loyalty," she murmured, pleased. "Let them see how well you serve him."
You didn't answer.
Your hand lingered near your lips.
When he returns… he'll speak to me.
And though your face was calm, your heart whispered only one question:
Does he mean to divorce me?
.....
You stayed at the top of the palace steps as the horns sounded — a low, ceremonial note that stirred the courtyard to life. The hounds barked, restless in their harnesses. Hooves scraped the cobblestones. Casian's banner — gold and black — unfurled against the breeze.
He did not glance back.
Not once.
You stood perfectly still as the party moved through the eastern gate, your hands clasped in front of you, spine straight, expression serene.
But inside…
You burned.
Each hoofbeat was a measure of distance.
Each banner flutter, a question left unanswered.
Each laugh that echoed from Lord Dylan's mouth, a future being written without you.
And when the last rider vanished past the gates, and the courtyard emptied once more into quiet…
You did not cry.
You did not scream.
You simply sank to your knees.
You dared to hope after last night — after he held you close and you felt his warmth. He wrapped his arms around you like a promise, and you melted into it.
But morning came.
And with it, the truth:
He will never see you the way you wanted to.
You had let yourself believe.
That the cold would thaw.
That the walls between you would bend.
That maybe, after all this time, he'd choose you.
But all that was left of hope—
was the bruise on your wrist
and the sound of hooves growing faint in the distance.