Chapter 18 #2
At first, just a few scattered claps, then more and more, louder and louder, finally becoming thunderous applause. Someone started shouting "Vela!" Others shouted "Luna!"
I stood in that sea of applause and cheers, looking at the man kneeling before me, feeling something churning in my chest.
It was complicated—like watching a mountain you once looked up to crumble before you, standing there watching the rocks tumble and dust fly, thinking: so you can bow your head too.
"Get up," I said, my voice so calm it surprised even me.
He hesitated, then slowly stood.
We faced each other, less than a meter apart. I could smell that familiar cedar scent on him, could see that faint scar at the corner of his eye—left by Ethan's fist, not yet fully healed.
"Nice welcome ceremony," I said, a hint of mockery in my tone. "How long did you rehearse?"
He smiled bitterly. "Probably... since the night I found out you were Vela."
"Efficient."
"I have a lot to make up for. Efficiency is basic."
I looked at him, and he looked at me. The crowd was still cheering, but I felt those sounds growing more distant, like through thick glass.
Then several elders pushed through the crowd toward me.
"Lady Vela," one bowed ninety degrees, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Welcome home! Back then, we were deceived, please don't hold it against us..."
I looked at him, disgust rising in my chest. These people—five years ago they wanted to tie me to a stake, and now that they knew I was Vela, they came crawling with flattery. They changed faces faster than flipping pages.
I didn't bother wasting words on these people, just walked past him. People like this weren't worth a second of my time.
Behind me came another elder's voice, clearly displeased. "Is she really Vela? Probably a fraud—"
Then I heard a dull thud, followed by Zane's icy voice. "Say that again?"
I turned to see Zane's hand on that elder's shoulder, pressing hard enough to twist the man's face. The air seemed to freeze, everyone holding their breath.
"Your Majesty..." the elder managed.
"She is Vela," Zane said, each word like a nail driven into every ear present, his voice not loud but crystal clear. "And she is my fated mate. Anyone who disrespects her is challenging me."
He released his grip. The elder stumbled back several steps, face pale, not daring another word.
I looked at him, unable to name what I felt. Five years ago, he'd watched these people attack me without saying a word. Now he stood up for me in front of everyone.
Was justice delayed still justice?
I didn't know.
"On the next full moon," Zane turned to the crowd, raising his voice, "I will restart the Howling Ceremony. Vela will guide us under the moonlight."
The crowd erupted in even more enthusiastic cheers.
And I stood there, feeling like a bird locked in a cage.
The palace was bigger than I remembered, and colder.
I was given the main suite in the east wing—supposedly where queens throughout history had lived. The room was ridiculously large, with high ceilings, silk sheets on the bed, velvet curtains, fresh flowers and fruit platters on the table.
Lily ran around the room, excited as a bird just released from its cage.
"Mommy! This bed is huge! I can do ten somersaults on it!"
"Mommy! You can see the whole garden from this window!"
"Mommy! The bathtub's big as a swimming pool!"
I sat on the couch watching her happy figure, my lips curving involuntarily.
At least she was happy.
After settling Lily in, I decided to familiarize myself with the palace layout. After all, I'd be here until the next full moon—at least ten more days. I didn't want to get lost in a place where I'd once been imprisoned.
The hallways were long, walls hung with portraits of past kings and queens. Their gazes looked down at me from their frames with scrutiny, as if saying: you don't belong here.
I knew I didn't belong here.
I never planned to stay.
I walked through hallway after hallway, past chamber after chamber, until I stopped at an open door.
By the layout, this must be Zane's study.
When my eyes fell on the walls, I froze.
All four walls were covered in papers—manuscripts, sheet music, lyrics.
My handwriting.
Things I'd written during my time in the palace five years ago, things I thought had been thrown away or burned long ago.
They were mounted in elegant frames, hung neatly on the walls like precious artifacts in a museum.
My feet felt nailed to the floor, unable to move a step.
On those yellowed pages, some places still showed water stains.
My tears, or his?
I didn't dare think about it.
On the opposite wall—
I stopped.
It was a painting.
Not my handwriting. Drawn on parchment in charcoal lines. The painting showed a woman standing in moonlight, head tilted back, lips slightly parted as if singing. Her hair blown by wind, her skirt billowing.
The woman's face was mine.
Below the painting, written in gold ink:
"The most beautiful sound I ever heard was your silence."
I felt my eyes burning, my throat blocked.
I stood in the doorway, motionless, feeling the whole world go quiet. Only those yellowed pages glowed faintly in the afternoon light, silently telling something.
Those lyrics, those poems, those things I thought lost to time—they were all here.
Treasured, framed, hung on walls.
Like a monument.
I opened my mouth, wanting to say something—to mock him, to laugh at him, to say "what good does this do now"—but nothing came out.
Because those paintings, those manuscripts, those carefully preserved traces—
They were too real.
Real enough to make my chest ache.
I stood there, staring at that painting, feeling my heartbeat thundering in my ears. A voice in my head screamed: leave. Leave now. Don't look, don't think, don't soften.
But my feet wouldn't obey.
"It's all too late," I told myself, my voice eerily calm. "Zane, it's all too late."
I took a deep breath, forced myself to turn, and continued down the hallway.
Behind me in the study, those manuscripts hung quietly in the afternoon light, like a treasured memory.
And I walked away without looking back.