Chapter 31 Obsidian
OBSIDIAN
SEBASTIAN
Light filtered through gauze curtains, turning everything soft. Unreal. Like the world had been wrapped in fog and hung out to dry.
Two weeks since Hollowvale. Two weeks since fire and bullets and Marcel's laughter echoing through stone. The city still looked like a war zone in places. Charred stone. Half-mended roads. Scars carved into London's streets that would take years to fade.
But we were breathing.
Viktor lay beside me, chest rising and falling steady. One arm draped across my waist, protective even in sleep. Bandages on his shoulder and thigh, fresh from this morning. He never let me see him tend his wounds. Too much pride. Too much habit of hiding pain behind discipline.
I traced the edge of the bandage on his shoulder with one finger. Felt the heat of healing skin beneath white gauze. Counted the scars I could see in the morning light. Each one a story. Each one proof he'd survived when he shouldn't have.
His eyes opened. Grey like winter storms, but warm when they looked at me.
“You're staring,” he said. Voice rough with sleep.
“You're worth staring at.”
“Liar.” But he smiled. Small. Real. The kind that made his whole face soften.
I shifted closer. Felt the pull and burn along my ribs where they'd wrapped me tight. Everything still hurt. Probably would for weeks. But it was the good kind of hurt. The kind that reminded you that you'd survived.
“He's gone,” Viktor said quietly. Like he'd been waiting to tell me. Like he knew I'd been thinking about it.
I didn't need to ask who. “When?”
“This morning. The tribunal finished before dawn. Life imprisonment, no parole.” Viktor's jaw tightened. “They shipped him to St. Edda's Island two hours ago.”
St. Edda's. An island prison cut off from the mainland by storms and sea. Reserved for the worst traitors the kingdom had ever produced. A place where men went to be forgotten. To rot in stone cells while the world moved on without them.
Good.
I should've felt something. Relief, maybe. Or triumph. The man who'd orchestrated my mother's murder, who'd tried to kill me more times than I could count, who'd nearly succeeded in burning everything I loved to ash. He was gone. Locked away where he couldn't hurt anyone ever again.
But all I felt was tired.
“And élodie?” The name tasted like ash.
Viktor's hand found mine. Squeezed. “Your father exiled her. She left at dawn. One-way passage to the territories. No return. No contact with the crown. No communication with London ever again.”
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 just felt 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 stood on 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 deep around 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.
But he smiled when he saw me. Genuine. Warm. The kind of smile that said he was proud, even if he didn't know how to say it out loud.
“Sebastian.” His hand came to my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“As I'll ever be.”
He studied me for a moment. Seeing past the prince, past the performance, straight through to the exhausted man underneath. “You've done well. Your mother would be proud.”
My throat tightened. “I hope so.”
“I know so.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then turned toward the balcony doors. “Let's show them what survival looks like.”
The doors opened. Sound hit like a physical force. Cheering, applause, the roar of thousands of people packed into the courtyard below. Flags rippled in the morning breeze. Bells tolled from churches across the city. Cameras flashed like lightning.
I stepped out beside my father, and the noise doubled.
Viktor followed three paces behind. Apollo at his heel, perfectly trained. Close enough to move if needed. Far enough to stay professional. But I felt him there. Solid. Unmovable. The wall at my back that never wavered.
My father raised his hand. The crowd quieted, thousands of voices falling to silence in rippling waves.
“Two weeks ago,” he began, voice strong despite everything, “our kingdom faced its darkest hour. A traitor within our walls. An enemy who wore loyalty like a mask while plotting our destruction.”
The crowd murmured. Angry. Hurt. Still processing the betrayal.
“But we survived.” My father's voice rang clear across the courtyard. “We survived because of courage. Because of loyalty. Because good men stood between evil and innocent lives.”
He turned, gestured to Viktor. “Sir Viktor, step forward.”
Viktor moved. Smooth. Controlled. Every inch the soldier even as every camera in London swiveled to capture him. Apollo stayed at his side, regal and alert.
“Sir Viktor has served this crown with honor beyond measure,” my father continued. “He has bled for us. Fought for us. Stood as shield and sword when darkness came calling. And today, I name him Royal Consort and Protector of the Crown.”
The applause was thunderous. Deafening. Viktor stood there, expression unreadable, while medals gleamed on his chest and the kingdom roared its approval.
My father placed a ceremonial chain around Viktor's neck. Heavy gold links, the Laurent crest hanging like a promise. Official. Binding. Recognition that Viktor wasn't just hired muscle anymore. He was family.
He was mine.
Viktor's eyes found mine across the space between us. Grey meeting green. A small smile tugged at his mouth. Private. Just for me. Hidden in plain sight while thousands watched and cameras recorded and history etched itself into stone.
My father spoke again. “And there is one more matter.” He gestured for me to step forward.
“My son has faced trials that would break lesser men. He has survived attempts on his life. Witnessed betrayal from those he trusted most. And through it all, he has shown the strength and compassion that defines true leadership.”
He looked at me. Really looked. Father to son. No ceremony. No performance. Just love.
“Sebastian, you are my heir. My pride. The future of this kingdom.” His voice cracked slightly. “And you have my blessing. In all things. With whomever you choose to stand beside you.”
The words hung in the air. Clear. Unmistakable. A public declaration that my father approved. That Viktor and I had his support. That the crown itself recognized what we were to each other.
The crowd erupted again. Louder than before. Cheering. Crying. Celebrating not just survival, but love that had survived alongside it.