Shame pressed harder. I straightened, drawing the room’s attention. “Council’s dismissed.”
Confused murmurs rippled around me, but I didn’t wait for questions. I strode from the chamber, each step heavy with unspoken turmoil. Darius moved to follow, but I waved him off. If I let him, he’d drag me to a healer who would offer nothing but uselessremedies.
Tallon watched as I passed, his head tilted in mild curiosity. I never dismissed early—always listened to my people’s concerns, as a king should. His gaze prickled, but I kept moving.
My pauldron slipped, and I stood straighter, righting it. Could nothing go right today?
The corridor loomed quiet, the routine of my day shattered. Normally, I would spar or visit the temple after council sessions. Neither appealed now. Sparring would earn me bruises and Greaves’ wordless disapproval—a lecture delivered through blows.
My steps slowed. Where was Nienna?
Greaves drew even with me. “Are you well?”
“Just a headache,” I muttered, though we both knew better. “Perhaps I’ll send for the healer.”
“You don’t need a healer,” he said. “You need the temple.”
The corner of my eye twitched, but I couldn’t refute him. He was right. My guilt dragged behind me like a shadow, and until I apologized to Nienna, and righted things with my god, there would be no relief.
I exhaled, a pointed signal of my displeasure, before pivoting and heading toward the temple district.
He fell into step behind me without further protest, his silence more valuable than any apology. For all his infuriating habits, Greaves understood his role as well as I did. In public, he knew his place, offering his opinions only when protocol allowed. In private, however, he exercised a certain freedom, though he compensated for it by holding his tongue when it mattered most.
Last night, his disapproval had been palpable, his expression a silent accusation. Yet even in my chambers, he refrained from speaking aloud what we both knew—I made a mistake. He didn’t need to say it. His words, when offered, were rarely soothing, but I relied on him regardless—just as Radaan relied on me.
My son was a problem without a solution. His upbringing bore the weight of my failures. I had exhausted my arsenal of reprimands. Threats of banishment, sparring matches—they were meaningless gestures, like scolding a child for playing too rough. Assigning him to dull diplomatic duties or limiting his wine only underscored the futility. None of it would forge the man Radaan needed him to become.
A dull ache pulsed in the back of my neck, tempting me to rub the tension away, but I resisted. There was no escape from this, no reprieve from the consequences of my choices. This was the hand I had been dealt, and I would see it played through.
At least Radaan had Nienna
Tallonhad Nienna—assuming he didn’t push her to the breaking point and drive her back to Draconia. Yet she had already shown more resilience than that. She didn’t run—she wouldn’t. She loathed him, yes, but she stayed. Not as a lover or equal, but as a general waging a private war. She calculated her moves, wielding every flaw and misstep of his as a weapon.
For now, I would be her shield while she fought her battles against him.
The palace gates gave way to sunlight, and a faint relief loosened the invisible chains binding my shoulders. The warmth of the sun seemed to scrape away the guilty shadows clinging to my thoughts. My jaw, tight moments ago, relaxed as I inhaled the garden’s sweet air.
Startled workers glanced up at my unexpected arrival, their tools stilled. I waved them back to their duties with a small smile. They had work to do, and my presence shouldn’t unsettle them. At least their roles were straightforward, their purpose unclouded by the burden of fractured family ties.
The temple loomed ahead, its arches stark against the morning sky. Two priests glanced my way, then quickly ducked into the shadows of the alcoves. Only Greaves would hear my confessions here, my prayers bleeding into the silence of stone walls. Only he was privy to my sins.
And a certain princess.
Greaves moved to unfasten my yoke, his fingers deft against the heavy clasps. My jaw tightened as I debated whether to kneel before Elohios with the mantle weighing on my shoulders. A man’s desires drove me, but it wasn’t just a man who failed—it was a king. My recklessness jeopardized more than my own reputation. I gambled the fragile peace I fought for and put Radaan’s people at risk.
“Leave it,” I said.
Without hesitation, Greaves began re-securing the clasps. To rise from my knees while bearing the mantle would be awkward, but the struggle felt appropriate. Kingship demanded balance, a sacrifice of personal desires for the greater good.
He stepped back as I approached the altar, leaving the rug behind. Comfort had no place here. The chill in the chamber pressed against my skin, no longer the soothing calm I once knew, but a cold judgment. Elohios’ stone gaze bore down from above, sharp and unyielding, dissecting every corner of my soul.
I compromised a woman.
When I lowered to my knees, I grunted, the mantle pulling at my shoulders.
I betrayed my son.
My head bowed, shame dragging it down as if the act itself might absolve me. A faint breeze stirred the air, icy tendrils snaking around me and biting at my exposed skin.
