I cried my heart out completely, holding nothing back. When the tears finally began to subside, I was left utterly shaking—my entire body trembling uncontrollably as sobs continued to wrack through me in waves. The immense, crushing guilt must have been the reason I had forgotten everything in the first place, I realized with horrifying clarity. My mind had buried these traumatic memories deep, locked them away in some dark corner where they couldn't hurt me. But now they had been unearthed, dragged back into the light, and the pain was unbearable. I buried my face in my hands and sank down onto the hard carriage floor, no longer caring about dignity or appearances. The carriage continued to shake and rattle as it moved steadily along the rough road, yet it pressed onward with its journey as if nothing catastrophic had happened—just like I had continued living my life all these years as if nothing terrible had occurred, as if I hadn't caused two deaths.
They both died because of me. The thought repeated endlessly, mercilessly.
The two people I had loved most in this world died because of my actions, because of my foolish kindness.
Arvid was clearly deeply concerned. He tried multiple times to reach out and touch me, to offer comfort with a hand on my shoulder or back, but each time I violently slapped his hand away, rejecting his attempts.
"Get out!" I finally yelled between ragged sobs, my voice raw and broken. "Just leave me alone! Get out!"
He looked genuinely shocked by my vehemence, his eyes widening and his mouth falling slightly open. But he didn't argue or try to reason with me. He simply complied with my demand immediately. He reached up and tapped firmly on the carriage hood to signal the driver to stop, and then he stepped out into the cold without another word. Frigid wind seeped in through the open door, making me shiver. Before closing the door behind him, shutting me into my private hell, he murmured softly, "I'm so sorry, Rhia. I'm sorry for everything." The carriage door shut ever so gently, with careful consideration, and then I was alone.
I don't know how long I cried after that. I completely lost my sense of time, lost track of whether minutes or hours were passing. Eventually, I even lost my tears—my body simply ran out, leaving my eyes dry and burning. But still I stayed there, curled tightly on the uncomfortable carriage floor in a defensive ball, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking slightly. I was no longer actively crying, just completely empty inside, hollowed out and numb.
A memory surfaced unbidden, floating up from the depths of my mind like something precious recovered from deep water.
"You were a very happy surprise," I remembered my mother saying, her voice warm and full of love. I had been much younger then—long before my dragon instincts had awakened and changed everything. She had been sitting behind me, carefully brushing my hair with long, soothing strokes, whispering softly into my ear. She had smiled so beautifully and kissed my temple with such tenderness.
"I had such a hard time giving birth to your brother," she had confided. "The labor was long and difficult, and I nearly died. Your father was terrified. Afterward, he swore he would never make me go through childbirth again, that he couldn't bear to risk losing me. But I desperately wanted another child—I wanted to give my son a sibling, wanted our family to grow. So I begged and prayed to Uyen and Guyen, the twin goddesses of family. Nine long years passed without any sign that my prayers were being heard—I almost completely gave up hope. And then, miraculously, there you were. I discovered I was pregnant with you. I was so deliriously happy I offered countless gifts to the twin goddesses in gratitude—gold, jewels, everything I could spare. Your father worried about my health throughout the pregnancy, but I felt like I was in heaven. My long-cherished wish had finally come true."
She had cuddled me close against her chest, showering my small cheeks with soft kisses that made me giggle.
"You were a god's gift to me," she had said, looking directly into my eyes as if declaring it to the world and the heavens. "My precious miracle."
Would she have thought the same thing after I awakened my dragon abilities at the unusually young age of seven? After I inadvertently caused her beloved firstborn son to die when he was only ten years old? She had been absolutely shattered after his death—transformed into a mere shadow of her former vibrant self, barely holding on to sanity and life. The light had gone out of her eyes. Did she secretly blame me for taking her son? Did she hate me?
At sixteen, when I was caught in a forbidden relationship with Salime and punished severely by being confined to the library for four years, forced to study instead of live, I had hated her. I had blamed her for my imprisonment, for keeping me away from the boy I loved. But now I wondered: how much did she hate me in return? Did she ever truly forgive me for my brother's death, or did she carry that resentment to her grave? Did she hate how easily I seemed to forget their deaths and simply moved on with my life, laughing and loving again?
These painful questions would never be answered now. My mother was gone, taking her true feelings with her into death.
And, quite honestly, sitting there in the dim carriage, I wasn't entirely sure I actually wanted to know the answers. Some truths might be too terrible to bear.
The carriage eventually came to a halt, the sudden stillness almost startling after so many hours of constant motion. We were now approximately half a day's ride from Ferne, close enough that we would arrive by tomorrow afternoon. There, at Ferne, I could finally visit Misty's grave and ask for her forgiveness—though deep in my heart, I wasn't at all sure I was worthy of receiving it. What right did I have to ask forgiveness for getting her killed?
For a brief moment, I felt a small flicker of gratitude toward Arvid despite everything. He had known he would face severe backlash from telling me the truth, had known I might hate him or reject him completely. Yet he had still chosen brutal honesty over comfortable lies. Yes, his presence in Draga had brought calamity upon us, had set in motion the events that led to two deaths. But he himself had been only a child—barely nine years old, frightened and alone. He had gone through far more trauma and pain than I had ever imagined, more than I had suffered despite my own losses.
I let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of my soul.
We truly were pitiful puppets of fate, dancing on strings we couldn't see or control.
A tentative knock on the carriage door interrupted my spiraling thoughts, pulling me back to the present moment.
"I've set up your camp for the night," Arvid said softly through the door, his voice careful and gentle. "Everything is ready when you are."
"I'll be out in a moment," I replied, my voice hoarse and rough from crying.
He gave a small, acknowledging hum—"mmh"—and then I heard his footsteps walking away. His steps were firm and purposeful, steady and sure. I found myself wishing desperately that I could be that steady, that certain in my movements and my place in the world. At sixteen, when I had been yelling at my mother and throwing childish tantrums, he had been crowned emperor and forced to navigate deadly court politics. We were exactly the same age—yet life had twisted and shaped us in completely different directions, like metal bent by different forces. We were two sides of one coin, forever linked but facing opposite ways.
After taking several minutes to compose myself and fix my appearance as best I could, checking my reflection in the small mirror and wiping away the obvious tear stains, I finally stepped out of the carriage into the cold evening air. At that moment, stepping down onto the frozen ground, I felt acutely just how badly I needed a proper maid to help me—and a warm bath. Gods, what I wouldn't give for a hot bath. I had changed clothes once at yesterday's camp, putting on a fresh set, but wearing clean garments over an unwashed body felt absolutely awful, wrong in a way that made my skin crawl. The fabric stuck to me uncomfortably. I just had to reach Ferne, I told myself firmly. Then everything would be fine. Then I could bathe properly and have servants attend to me.
Seeing me approach the campfire, Arvid quickly moved to place a large, flat stone near the flames for me to sit on, even taking the time to lay a clean cloth over its cold surface to make it more comfortable. I accepted the thoughtful gesture silently, lowering myself onto the makeshift seat. He had clearly been raised well, taught proper manners and consideration. Deep down, beneath the ruthless emperor exterior, he was a true gentleman who had been trained to care for others' comfort.
He handed me a steaming cup of jasmine tea without my asking—the same soothing fragrance as yesterday, already becoming familiar and comforting. I accepted it gratefully and sipped it slowly, deliberately, letting the warmth spread gradually through my cold body from the inside out. The hot liquid soothed my raw throat, woke me up gently from my emotional stupor. I took another sip, then another, craving the comfort and normalcy the simple act provided.
"How… are you feeling?" Arvid asked carefully after several minutes of silence, awkwardness dripping from every word. I had never seen him like this before—uncertain, hesitant, almost afraid. Even when we had first met during the marriage negotiations, he had carried himself with natural confidence and authority, as though the entire world were his personal playground and he knew every rule of every game. And apparently, all it took was me yelling "Get out!" to completely shake his foundation and leave him unsure of himself.
That realization wasn't good—not for him and certainly not for me. Him giving me this much power over his emotions, letting me affect him so deeply… I might accidentally misuse it. I might hurt him without meaning to.
"I'm fine," I said, the words coming out more abruptly than I intended. Then I deliberately met his gaze, holding eye contact. "And I'm genuinely sorry for yelling at you like that. It wasn't your fault—none of it was. You were just a child, a frightened boy who needed help. Those assassins were the real villains for trying to murder a child in a foreign land." I said it firmly and clearly, making absolutely sure he heard and understood every single word.
His ash-gray eyes widened noticeably, and then he smiled—a small, sad smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but held genuine relief.
"What happened to you after that day?" I asked, genuinely curious now about his story. "After your teacher rescued you from the cave?"
Arvid exhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts and his memories.
"My teacher actually arrived late to find me because he was simultaneously rescuing my father from a separate assassination attempt," he explained. "The plots against us were coordinated, you see. After hiding my father safely in a secure house with loyal guards, my teacher went back to search for my mother. He found her body and sent it to my father with his most trusted men so she could be honored properly. That's why he came to find me alone rather than with soldiers. When he finally located me in those caves and realized I was alive, he immediately sent word to my father about my survival. My father, still recovering from his own injuries and fearing another attempt on my life, asked my teacher to take me away with him… so I would be safe, so the assassins couldn't find and finish me. So I spent seven full years with him—wandering from place to place, never staying anywhere long, always moving. We traveled constantly until my father finally called me back home when the political situation stabilized."
His voice remained steady and controlled, but his gaze drifted somewhere far away—like someone drowning slowly in the overwhelming memories of a former self, of the child he used to be.
"During those seven years of traveling," he continued quietly, "I regretted everything constantly. I kept replaying that day in my mind, thinking of all the ways it could have gone differently. I told my teacher repeatedly that I never wanted to be that helpless again—never wanted to be unable to protect myself or the people around me who were trying to help me. So he agreed to teach me everything he knew—combat, strategy, languages, politics, poisons, everything. He trained me brutally and comprehensively. He made me into who I am today."