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Then, the pendant at my throat went still.

The warmth that had pulsed continuously since the grove faded away. The silver disc cooled, returning to the exact temperature of my skin, just as it had been every day of my life until that afternoon.

I closed my eyes.

I did not know what was transpiring within the palace walls at that hour.

I did not know that as the amber light yielded to darkness, it was not a court sorceress summoned to the emperor’s private chambers, but a witch. I did not know Drystan sat near a cold hearth, staring at a small parchment bearing a sigil that matched the mark hidden on my chest, a mark he had recognized from a royal portrait hanging in a gallery I had never seen. I did not know the witch had spoken to him for an hour regarding what had to be done, while he listened in heavy silence, the longest hour of his life. I did not know that the absolute composure of the sovereign was breaking against ancient, unyielding laws he had not known existed, laws that were now breaking him in return.

I fell asleep.

Chapter 5

The stallion carried Drystan west.

He held the reins lightly while the horse navigated the familiar road to the capital without guidance. They had travelled the path between the eastern provinces and the imperial city dozens of times in recent moons, and the animal set a good pace, better than Drystan wished. He let the stallion walk, for deep in his soul, he did not want to arrive.

The road fork lay miles behind him. The golden light of late afternoon deepened into amber, shifting toward the cool violet of dusk. The stallion’s hooves marked a steady cadence in the quiet landscape.

The empire moved around him at a different pace whenever he rode incognito, stripped of his imperial entourage. The roads remained mostly quiet, save for the occasional farmer wrapping up his day in the fields, paying no mind to the passing nobleman. Ever since coming of age, Drystan had periodically broken away from the court to observe the true state of the realm rather than the polished version his advisors presented. His father had taught him to remain vigilant, to know the mind of the common man, warning him that the people could strip power from the Aurelians just as the Aurelians had seized it three centuries prior. To preserve the throne, his father advocated stifling subversion early while offering generosity where the populace grew restless. Regular, secret excursions proved the most effective way to accomplish both.

The court had grown accustomed to these brief disappearances. Drystan was permitted his freedom so long as he avoided the turbulent border regions. He pushed the boundaries of his court’s tolerance, and they granted him latitude, for he had earned their trust across twelve years of firm, stable rule.

Yet now, he could feel Liora’s presence lingering in the east. Her aura seemed to reach across the distance, seeking him out while the reality of what he had to do pierced his heart.

She would have reached her village by now. He imagined her unsaddling her mare in the small shed, then walking the brief path to her cottage door. He had memorized the geography of her life during his weeks of courtship, grounded in the single visit he had made to her village. He had allowed Taren to accompany him on that journey, the only member of the Veilborn permitted on his secret rides. It was on that trip that Drystan and Liora first crossed paths. The recognition had been instantaneous, a profound realization the moment her gold-silver eyes met his.

He had seen her cottage only once to preserve their secret, yet the image remained vivid in his mind, the shed beside it, and the back window overlooking a garden dense with herbs.

He knew of the thin mattress against her eastern wall because she had described it to him. She had mentioned her tired shoulders with a light joke, saying the thin padding would soon force her to sleep directly on the floor. Observing the subtle tension in her frame, he had quietly decided she would not suffer that mattress much longer. Preparing her palace chambers under the pretense of hosting a foreign envoy had brought him genuine satisfaction.

Those chambers stood ready. The bed was a Northern import, deep and soft, layered with cream silk sent in tribute by the merchants of Iskanrin. He had selected the fabric himself the previous week, lingering in the preparation rooms until the chatelaine firmly dismissed him, reminding the emperor that managing bed linens was beneath his station. The court respected Drystan, finding him far more approachable than his father, which allowed for such candid exchanges. He valued their candor, yet he had maintained the ruse, settling on the cream silk in the quiet hope that she would take pleasure in it.

None of it mattered now.

She would never see the bed.

The realization struck him with sudden force, dismantling the future he had quietly envisioned. He pushed the thought back, unable to process the full weight of the decision in clear terms. The knowledge threatened the foundation of his duty, and duty was the pillar upon which his lineage rested. The empire surpassed the desires of any single ruler. His father had instilled the lesson early, the Aurelian name was inextricably tied to the land itself. The bloodline was the realm, and protecting the dynasty was his absolute charge.

Drystan understood his obligation. He hated the clarity of it, knowing that the final resolution would be faced alone in his private chambers by the cold hearth. He would permit himself no comfort, a silent penance for the path he was forced to choose. He would summon the witch. This ride marked the final hour of the only true contentment he had known, a brief period free from the demands of the throne. He tried to hold onto the warmth she had given him, knowing it would soon be permanently extinguished, yet his obligation to the empire remained paramount.

The stallion rounded a bend in the road, opening the western horizon.

The capital emerged across the plain, its white-tiled pagodas catching the last amber rays of the sun. The grand roof of the central palace anchored the skyline, a monument to three centuries of Aurelian supremacy. Built by his great-great-grandfather, the city stood as a testament to imperial power, constructed with southern gold and eastern tile brought by cart across generations. It was his duty to preserve it at all costs.

The city’s foundation, however, rested upon the ruin of the Vespera royal family.

The Aurelians had taken the empire by force, a history Drystan recognized without illusion. He understood the consequences of such power, having witnessed the lingering friction along his borders where ambitious lords sought to carve away at imperial land. Drystan was determined to shield his people from further conflict. Where his father sought out seeds of rebellion to crush, Drystan sought grievances to heal, recognizing that a stable realm required the protection of its populace.

Yet he was realistic enough to know that gentle measures alone could not sustain an empire. Hard decisions were required. Three centuries of Aurelian doctrine formed the framework of his governance. He had been taught that the Vesperas were decadent and weak, collapsing under their own misrule until the Aurelians stepped forward to restore order. It was the history passed down from father to son until the narrative became the structural truth of the state.

The fact that he had fallen in love with the last living descendant of the house his ancestors destroyed did not alter his obligation. He could not compromise his lineage or risk the stability of the realm.

He knew what had to be done.

The stallion crested the small rise above the plain, the capital spread below. The road descended toward the outer gates where the palace guards would already be preparing for his return.

He had a quarter of an hour remaining. Fifteen minutes to hold onto the memory of the secret grove.