I was dining with Arvid in the morning when someone knocked firmly on the dining room door, the sound interrupting the comfortable quiet we had been sharing over breakfast. The morning had been pleasant up until that moment—peaceful, domestic, ordinary in ways that felt precious given recent events.
"Come in," Arvid called out, his voice carrying the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed immediately.
I had just finished eating my portion of the meal, so I took another leisurely sip of the tea Arvid had personally prepared for me that morning. It was black tea infused with fresh ginger—a combination I hadn't encountered before but which proved absolutely delicious. The deep, almost nutty richness of the black tea leaves paired beautifully with the sharp, spicy kick of the ginger root. The flavors complemented each other perfectly, the ginger's heat cutting through the tea's smoothness in a way that was invigorating without being overwhelming. It was exactly the kind of warming, fortifying drink one needed on a morning like this.
General Rohan entered the room with his characteristic military bearing, but I noticed immediately that his expression carried more tension than usual. His jaw was tight, and there was obvious concern written across his features—the look of someone about to deliver news he knew would be unwelcome.
"Your Majesty," he addressed Arvid formally, executing a brief bow. "The Duchess of Lumirei is here. She's requesting an immediate audience with both of you."
He paused, and I could see him weighing how much detail to provide, how much explanation was necessary before the Duchess herself appeared.
"The Duchess? Why would she come here to our residence?" Arvid asked, genuine puzzlement evident in his tone. After yesterday's trial and the tensions that had emerged there, Sofia Lumirei was one of the last people he would have expected to seek them out voluntarily. "What reason could she possibly have for visiting us directly rather than sending a formal summons or request through proper channels?"
"That's..." Rohan hesitated for just a second, clearly struggling with how to phrase what he needed to communicate. "The Saintess passed away this dawn. Her body was discovered after she apparently fell from her quarters' window during the night. And the Duchess is... she's making accusations."
Ah. Too bad for her, I thought with absolute detachment. She didn't even survive a single night under the curse. I had honestly expected her to last longer than that, had anticipated that she would endure at least several nights of torment before the psychological strain became too much to bear and drove her to seek escape through death. But apparently, the nightmare had been intense enough, horrible enough, that she had chosen—or been driven to—death after experiencing it only once.
I carefully maintained my expression, keeping my face neutral and mildly concerned, the appropriate response for hearing about an unexpected death. But I could feel Arvid's eyes on me, his gaze sharp and assessing, studying my reaction with the kind of attention that suggested he was looking for something specific.
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes with what I hoped appeared to be innocent confusion. "That's extremely surprising and tragic!" I said with appropriate shock coloring my voice. "How could such a thing have happened? Was she sleepwalking? Did someone push her? Surely there must be some explanation."
I turned toward General Rohan, allowing concern to show on my face.
"They're still conducting the initial investigation," Rohan answered carefully. "But the Duchess has directly accused Her Majesty—" he gestured toward me "—of being responsible for the Saintess's death. She's claiming that you somehow caused it, though she hasn't yet specified the mechanism she believes you employed."
"Me?" I asked with what I hoped was convincing surprise, allowing my voice to rise slightly in pitch. "However would that even be possible? I retired to bed quite early last night because I was feeling unwell after the emotional strain of the trial. I've been in my chambers all night. Surely there are servants who can confirm that I never left the residence?"
Arvid and the General exchanged a meaningful glance, some silent communication passing between them that I couldn't quite interpret. There was something in that look—doubt, perhaps, or shared concern about something they weren't voicing aloud.
"We'll meet with the Duchess and hear what she has to say," Arvid finally announced, his tone suggesting the decision was final and not open to debate. "Rohan, please show her to the receiving room and inform her we'll join her momentarily."
After the door closed behind General Rohan's departing figure, leaving us alone in the dining room once more, Arvid turned toward me. His expression had shifted into something harder, more serious than I had seen him wear in quite some time. The warmth that usually characterized his interactions with me had been replaced by something colder, more distant.
"What did you do, Rhia?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of accusation that made my stomach clench uncomfortably.
"I did nothing," I responded immediately, perhaps too quickly. "Are you actually suspicious of me? Do you truly not believe what I just told you?"
The hurt in my voice wasn't entirely feigned—there was genuine pain in being doubted by him, in having him look at me with that expression that suggested he didn't quite trust what I was saying.
"You did something," Arvid stated with quiet certainty, not backing down despite my protest. "I know you're more than capable of accomplishing something like this. You possess power that most people can't even comprehend. And you were extremely angry last night—righteously so, given what happened in that trial. You may have acted impulsively, done something in the heat of emotion that you're now trying to hide from me."
He paused, his eyes searching my face for confirmation or denial.
"So I'm asking you directly: did you do something to cause Fiona's death?"
"So you don't trust me now?" I interrupted him before he could continue, allowing hurt and anger to infuse my voice. "You think I'm just some impulsive, unstable woman who can't control herself or her powers? Someone who would commit murder and then lie about it to your face? I never thought this day would come—the day when you would doubt me so fundamentally, when you wouldn't believe me when I tell you something directly."
My voice shook with emotion—some of it genuine, some of it performed for effect.
"That's because you've been spiraling out of control ever since Katherine's death," Arvid countered, his own voice rising slightly in frustration and concern. "You're not yourself, Rhia. You made the entire town of Drath—a place that has never experienced winter weather—suddenly buried in a supernatural blizzard. You snapped a solid wooden table completely in two with your bare hands. The very air around you vibrates with barely contained power whenever you get emotional. Since Katherine's passing, you haven't been the same person."
He stopped, seeming to struggle with how to articulate what he was feeling.
"It's like you've become someone else entirely," he continued more quietly. "Not the Rhia I know and love. And that transformation, that change in your fundamental nature—it genuinely scares me. I don't know how to reach you anymore, how to help you, how to pull you back from whatever edge you're standing on."
His eyes had begun filling with tears, the moisture making them shine in the morning light streaming through the windows.
"And you lied to me," he added, his voice breaking slightly as he reached up to press one hand against his chest, over his heart. "You lied about why you decided to send Katherine away, why you insisted she had to leave your service and return to Draga. I don't know what the real reason was, but I know the explanation you gave me wasn't the complete truth."
He started wiping at the tears that had begun falling down his cheeks, the gesture somehow making him look younger and more vulnerable than I had ever seen him.
"You're lying even now," he stated with quiet certainty. "I can see it in your eyes, in the way you're holding yourself. You're keeping secrets from me, hiding things you think I can't handle or shouldn't know. And that hurts more than I can adequately express."
How did he know? How could he possibly see through my careful deceptions when I had been so cautious about maintaining my facade? And seeing him cry—watching tears stream down his face while pain radiated from every line of his body—it made me feel physically ill. There was an uncomfortable, squeezing sensation in my chest, an ache that had nothing to do with magic or curses and everything to do with causing pain to someone I cared about deeply.
"Don't cry," I managed to say, the words emerging weak and inadequate. "Please."
*Thump. Thump.* My heart was actually hurting, each beat somehow painful in a way I couldn't fully explain or understand.
"Please don't cry, Arvid," I tried again, taking a step toward him, reaching out with the intention of offering comfort or consolation, of somehow making this better.
But he quickly turned away from my approaching form, rotating so his back was to me, denying me the opportunity to touch him or see his face.
"We'll discuss this more thoroughly later," he said, his voice muffled and thick with suppressed emotion. "Right now, we need to deal with the Duchess and her accusations. But this conversation isn't finished, Rhia. We're going to talk about all of this—the lies, the secrets, everything you're hiding from me."
Then he walked away, moving toward the dining room door with stiff, controlled movements, leaving me standing alone in the suddenly too-large space.
---
I remained frozen in that spot for what might have been a minute or two, my mind racing but somehow unable to produce any coherent thoughts or productive action. The encounter had shaken me more than I wanted to admit.
"Why did you lie to him?" Aiona's voice suddenly spoke in my mind, breaking through my paralysis. Her tone wasn't judgmental exactly, but it carried a note of genuine curiosity mixed with disappointment.
"You should have told him the truth from the beginning," she continued. "About why you sent Katherine away, about what you did last night to Fiona. He wouldn't judge you for any of it—you know that intellectually, even if you can't quite believe it emotionally. He loves you. He would understand, or at least try to."
"I don't know," I answered honestly, my mental voice small and confused. "I genuinely don't know why I chose to lie to him. It wasn't a calculated decision—it just happened automatically, defensively. I wanted him to trust me completely, to believe me without question, to not accuse me or doubt me. Is that really too much to ask for in a relationship?"
I let my frustration bleed into my thoughts.
"Apparently it is too much," Aiona replied, but her tone had softened slightly, becoming more understanding. "You do understand that trust is fundamentally mutual, right? It's not something one person can demand while withholding it themselves. If you can't be completely honest with him, if you're keeping significant secrets and telling direct lies, that means you don't fully trust him either. How can you possibly expect him to trust you completely and without reservation when you're not offering him the same courtesy? Trust has to be reciprocal to be genuine."
She paused, and I could feel her gathering her thoughts before continuing with what was clearly going to be a more serious observation.
"I know being that vulnerable is terrifying," she said more gently. "I know it feels like exposing a potentially fatal weakness, especially for beings like us. It can be literally deadly for dragonkind when the person we trust most—our mate, our sole purpose for existing—betrays that trust. Just look at what happened to Rulha as the most extreme example. He was betrayed to an absolutely devastating degree by his own mate, the one person he should have been able to trust above all others."
Her mental voice took on a somber, almost sad quality.
"It's an unfortunate truth that humans simply don't feel the same way about mates that dragons do. The bond isn't symmetrical. For dragons, our mate is everything—the center around which our entire existence revolves. For humans, love is important but it's just one aspect of a much more complex life. They can survive losing a mate, can eventually recover and move on. We can't. Even before the relationship truly begins, dragons have already lost in a sense, because we'll always care more, need more, be more vulnerable. It's our ultimate flaw as a species."
She paused again, and I could sense her wrestling with whether to share what came next.
"Even Rulha," she continued slowly, "after experiencing the worst betrayal imaginable, after having every reason to want revenge, could not bring himself to curse his mate directly. He cursed her descendants, yes—created the terrible affliction that has plagued your bloodline for generations. But her personally? He let her live. She experienced a happy, healthy life and passed away peacefully, like simply falling asleep at the end of a long day. That's just how much a mate means to a dragon, how completely they dominate our hearts and minds even when they destroy us."
I waited, sensing she had more to say.
"But you're fortunate in one critical respect, Rhia," she said, her voice shifting to carry more warmth and conviction. "As I've mentioned before, I met him—our mate, Arvid—almost a thousand years ago, before he was living this current life. I knew him then, spent time with him, came to understand him to his very core. And based on that knowledge, there's one thing I can absolutely guarantee you: he will not betray you. Not ever, not under any circumstances."
Another pause, this one heavier.
"He would give his life for you without hesitation," she added, her voice turning distinctly somber. "Gladly, if he thought it would save or protect you. That's the kind of person he is, the kind of soul he carries across incarnations."
Her words sparked intense curiosity in me, raising questions I desperately wanted answers to. If she had met him almost a millennium ago, if they had known each other in a previous life, then surely that should have resulted in some kind of happy ending, shouldn't it? Why did her tone suggest the opposite? What had happened between them that made her voice turn sad and regretful when she spoke about it?
But before I could formulate any of these questions and actually ask them, the dining room door opened again. General Rohan appeared, peeking his head inside with obvious relief at finding me still there.
"Your Majesty," he said with a respectful bow. "His Majesty is requesting your presence in the courtyard. The Duchess has become... increasingly agitated. Your presence may help calm the situation, or at least allow us to proceed with the necessary conversation."
So I filed away my burning questions about Aiona and Arvid's past for later discussion. There would be time to explore that mystery eventually. Right now, I needed to deal with the immediate crisis of an angry duchess making accusations of murder.
I followed General Rohan through the residence's corridors toward the courtyard. Before I even reached the outdoor space, I could hear raised voices—angry shouting, the kind of volume that suggested someone had completely lost their composure. But the moment I actually stepped into view, emerging from the covered walkway into the open courtyard, everyone fell abruptly silent. The sudden absence of sound was almost eerie after the cacophony I had been hearing.
Well, the silence lasted for perhaps a second or two. That brief quiet was shattered when the Duchess of Lumirei suddenly drew the sword she wore at her side—apparently she had come armed, which should probably have been prevented but somehow hadn't been—and charged directly at me with clear murderous intent written across her face.
Before I could even consciously register what was happening and formulate a response, before I could raise magical defenses or teleport away from danger, Arvid was suddenly standing directly in front of me. He had somehow drawn a sword—probably snatching it from the weapon that had been hanging at General Rohan's waist—and brought it up just in time to parry the Duchess's strike. The two blades met with a sharp, ringing clash of metal on metal, the impact reverberating through the courtyard.
The speed with which he had moved was remarkable. One moment he had been several feet away, the next he was between me and danger, positioned to take the blow meant for me without any apparent concern for his own safety.
I realized with some surprise that I hadn't flinched at all during the attack. I had simply stood there calmly, watching events unfold with strange detachment, confident at some fundamental level that I wouldn't be harmed.
The Duchess took a step backward, her expression twisted with rage and grief. She looked as though she wanted to attack again but was being held back by some combination of tactical assessment and social conditioning about attacking an emperor.
"Duchess," Arvid said, his voice emerging absolutely cold and carrying an edge I had rarely heard from him. The tone was chilling, utterly devoid of warmth or compassion. "That is my wife whose life you just threatened. If you don't have a genuine death wish, I strongly suggest you sheath your blade immediately. Don't force me to send my father's old friend to meet him in the afterlife earlier than she was naturally supposed to arrive there."
The threat was delivered with such casual finality that it sent a shiver down my spine. This was the voice of an emperor who had personally killed many people, who wouldn't hesitate to add one more name to that list if circumstances required it.
If I hadn't been present just minutes ago to witness him crying, to see the vulnerability and hurt he had displayed in the dining room, I genuinely wouldn't have believed that this cold, dangerous man was the same person. The transformation was complete and utterly convincing.
But he had positioned himself between me and harm without thought for his own safety. He had protected me reflexively, automatically, even while doubting me and suspecting me of terrible things.
Perhaps Aiona had been right about him after all.