Exile. Not death. Not prison. Just the slow erasure of being removed from everything she'd ever known. From the palace she'd tried to rule from the shadows. From the power she'd craved. From me.
Part of me wanted to feel vindicated. To know she was suffering somewhere far away, living with what she'd done. But mostly I justfelt hollow. Like losing her had carved something out that wouldn't grow back.
“Did she say anything?” I asked. “Before she left?”
“No. Just took what they gave her and walked to the ship without looking back.” Viktor paused. “Your father said it was more mercy than she deserved.”
“He's right.”
We lay there in silence. Comfortable. Safe. The kind of quiet that only came after surviving hell together.
“The King wants you on the balcony in an hour,” Viktor murmured eventually. “Official announcement.”
Right. Today was the day my father would formalize what the entire kingdom already knew. That Viktor wasn't just my bodyguard anymore. That somewhere between the bullets and the blood, between midnight gardens and secret tunnels, between every whispered confession in the dark, we'd become something else entirely.
Something real.
“Help me get dressed?” I asked.
Viktor's mouth curved. Eyes softening. “Always.”
The palace hummed with activity.Guards in ceremonial black and gold lined the corridors. Attendants rushed past with last-minute preparations. Somewhere in the distance, trumpets warmed up for the fanfare that would announce our appearance.
I stood in front of the mirror in my chambers while Viktor worked the buttons on my ceremonial coat. Black velvet with gold thread, the Laurent crest embroidered over my heart. Heavy enough to make my shoulders ache. Restrictive enough to remind me this wasn't about comfort. It was about image. About power. About showing the world that the crown still stood.
“Stop fidgeting,” Viktor said.
“I'm not fidgeting.”
“You are.” His fingers brushed my collar as he straightened it. “Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“You tell me.”
I met his eyes in the mirror. He looked good in his uniform. Medals gleaming across his chest, scars visible but not hidden. The man who'd taken bullets for me wearing his survival like armor.
“I don't know what I'm supposed to feel,” I admitted. “Marcel's gone. Élodie's gone. We won. But it doesn't feel like winning.”
“Winning never does.” Viktor's hands settled on my shoulders. Steady. Grounding. “It just feels like surviving long enough to see tomorrow.”
“Is that what we're doing? Surviving?”
“We're breathing. That's more than we had two weeks ago.”
He was right. Two weeks ago we'd been fighting for our lives in a burning building. Bleeding out on concrete while Marcel laughed and the world tried to end us. The fact that we were standing here at all, dressed in ceremonial finery, preparing to face cameras and crowds, felt like a miracle wrapped in exhaustion.
Apollo bounded over from where he'd been napping by the fireplace. Tail wagging. Nosing at both of us like he could sense something important was happening.
I knelt carefully. Scratched behind his ears the way he liked. “You going to behave today?”
He licked my face. Viktor's too when he crouched beside me. Made us both laugh despite everything.
“He's coming with us,” I said. Not a question.
“Of course.” Viktor stood, offered me his hand. “Royal dog deserves to see his people.”
The King stoodon the balcony overlooking the palace courtyard, one hand resting on the stone balustrade. He looked older than I remembered. Grey threading through his dark hair, lines carved deeparound his eyes and mouth. Grief had aged him. My mother's death had hollowed him out, left him running on duty and protocol while his heart quietly broke.
