29. AUREVYN #2
The breeze stirred Lance’s cloak as he stood motionless, eyes still locked on the last embers curling skyward. The silence in his chest felt too familiar—hollow, aching, something he’d carried since childhood.
Then, the soft crunch of footsteps beside him.
Frey didn’t speak. She simply looped her arm through his, the gesture so instinctively tender that Lance nearly flinched from it. But he didn’t. Her presence was warm despite the chill, grounded despite the grief that clung to both of them.
She leaned gently against his shoulder, her cheek pressing softly into the embroidered hem of his cloak. For a long while, neither moved. The fire’s glow flickered in their eyes, and the crackle of wood filled what words could not.
Only when the wind changed direction did Frey speak, her voice careful, “You still have a place here,” she said. “If not by Theodore’s side … then mine.”
Lance’s eyes didn’t lift, but something in his shoulders eased. Just slightly.
Because for all the fractures in the kingdom, for all the divides shaped by blood and legacy—there was still someone who saw him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved her?” The words hadn’t meant to bite, but they stung in his chest all the same.
“I … I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he admitted.
“Love is nothing to be ashamed of, my child.” Her fingers tightened around his arm.
He stared at the burning sky, a sigh breaking from his lips. “No. But she wasn’t mine to love.”
“Will you go after her?”
He didn’t have an answer. The ache in his chest hadn’t dulled. All that was left of him was his grief and the love that refused to fade.
And for now, that was enough. The days would still pass.
The corridor stretched before them, long and dimly lit, its stone walls bearing the chill of mourning. The tapestries hadn’t been changed since the funeral—still black-draped, still somber—and their footsteps echoed in a silence thick with the weight of legacy.
Cavric walked with hands folded behind his back, his tone unhurried, almost soothing. “She’s being looked after,” he said, voice curling between the pillars. “And she’ll be returned to you soon enough. All in proper ceremony.”
Theodore’s gaze was distant, heavy. He hadn’t slept. His crown had yet to be fitted—only the title clung to him, raw and recent. “I don’t want her,” he breathed out, more to himself than to the man beside him. “Not if she doesn’t want me.”
Cavric turned slightly, a flicker of polite restraint flashing behind his eyes.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “I just know that if my wife had ever run from me … well.” He smiled lightly before clearing his throat.
“I’d be humiliated. How could I rule if my own betrothed had fled before the crown had even cooled?
What sort of signal would that send? What would the people say? ”
Theodore’s jaw tightened.
“But you,” Cavric continued, his voice almost admiring. “You’re made of sterner things. Resilient. That sort of strength—your people will respect it. Obedience is not weakness. It’s necessity. You’re a king, and you should be treated—and obeyed—as one.”
They stopped near the west balcony, where smoke still curled on the horizon from Thalen’s pyre. Theodore looked out over the rooftops of the city, eyes narrowed—not in scorn but thought.
The hallway had grown quiet behind him. Even with Cavric’s footsteps fading into stone and shadow, Theodore remained near the window, watching the slow drift of ash fade into the sky.
The horizon stretched thin, the clouds still stained with mourning, and his reflection in the glass looked hollow, sleepless and unsteady.
Cavric’s words lingered. It was easy to scoff at such manipulation. Easy to label it as beneath him. But Theodore knew better. Influence rarely announced itself with venom—it dripped in slowly, draped in courtesy and concern.
And it wasn’t wrong—at least, not entirely.
The vows had been spoken. The people had witnessed the ceremony halted by chaos, by her. The woman who had once looked at him with something almost warm … before it burned to resolve and vanished from his reach.
He gripped the stone windowsill tighter, jaw taut. He’d let her go. But Mabel’s escape had sent ripples through the court—talk he couldn’t control, whispers he couldn’t silence.
And somewhere in that darkening reflection, he saw it. Not just a man mourning his father. But a king deciding which part of himself the crown would require. He had to choose what to carry. What to shed. What to become.
The weight in his chest no longer felt like sorrow—it felt like steel. And whether forged by grief or pride, it had direction.
He turned on his heel. His cloak snapped behind him as he strode after Cavric, footsteps steady, echoing down the stone corridor. Not with agreement. Not with submission. But with decision.
And in the hush of numbing days that blurred in a rush leading to his coronation, he spent with Cavric’s company, listening to his council.
The cathedral bell tolled deep and resonant, shaking the breath from every chest in the chamber.
Theodore stood beneath the arch of carved stone, draped in crimson and gold, the cloak he wore stitched with the emblem of his father’s reign—the stag crowned in flame.
His face was solemn, pale beneath the ceremonial circlet that had yet to become a crown, shoulders squared as the kingdom watched.
The gathered nobles lined the hall in silence. Behind them, the common folk crowded the outer courtyard, peering through the archways, hearts split between loyalty and lingering rumor.
Frey stood to his left, garbed in mourning blue. Her gaze never wavered from her son, but her hand was clenched tight around Lance’s arm. He had come in simple attire, not from defiance—but restraint. His presence was loyal, quiet, tense.
And on Theodore’s right, Cavric lingered like a shadow.
He didn’t speak aloud, but his promise of Mabel’s return still echoed, spoken to advisers, whispered to Theodore. She will be by your side. This absence is temporary. This inconvenience will be mended.
But the absence was palpable. Where the queen-to-be should have stood was only air.
The priest approached, carrying the relics of coronation—the sword of sovereign judgment, the circlet of flame-forged gold, and a goblet for the sacred oath. He spoke the words with slow precision, drawing symbols of protection and lineage across Theodore’s brow.
Theodore responded without faltering. He drank. He kneeled. He rose.
And when the crown touched his head, the cathedral thundered with applause. But his eyes didn’t brighten. Because the cheers could not drown the hollowness inside him.
Not even Cavric’s approving smile. Not even Frey’s pride. Not even the weight of every eye upon him.
There was still no Mabel.
And what is a king … when the queen has chosen absence?
When the ceremony ended, the courtiers parted. Horns sounded from the palace gates. But the bells continued their mournful toll.
By sunset, the great hall glowed with celebration.
Long tables had been laid with velvet runners and gold plates.
The scent of roasted meat and mulled wine soaked into the stone, and musicians played a reverent tune—just lively enough to feel festive, just soft enough not to disturb the grief that hung in the air.
Theodore entered to a standing ovation.
Torches flickered against tapestries woven with royal scenes—hunts, weddings, coronations past. Goblets clinked in every corner, laughter roared, and nobles leaned across platters with mouths full of praise and prophecy.
Theodore sat at the head of it all. His newly polished crown caught the light with every subtle tilt of his head, but his eyes rarely met the room.
Courtiers from allied kingdoms offered congratulations like offerings, each sentence gilded with diplomacy, their smiles well-practiced.
Every toast came paired with a condolence. Every cheer lined with curiosity.
Where was his bride?
He answered when spoken to. Politely. Minimally.
A nod here. A murmured “thank you” there.
The occasional hollow smile that dimmed the moment it touched his lips.
When one noble mentioned Thalen’s legacy, Theodore raised a goblet.
When another praised his rule, he feigned agreement. But the warmth did not stick.
Because celebration only magnified absence.
Theodore felt resentment humming like a second heartbeat. Not just toward Mabel. But toward the whole spectacle.
The feast wasn’t for him. It was for a crown. And tonight, that crown felt heavier than ever.
The hum of conversation dipped for just a moment.
A noble from the small northern kingdom of Feymere—a man swathed in sapphire velvet and crowned in silver rings—leaned across the feast table toward Theodore with a glass still half-raised.
His voice was pleasant, casually inquisitive, but it cut through the haze around the new king.
“I’d heard,” the noble said, “that you’d been wed not long ago. Strange, I don’t see your bride tonight. Was she called away?”
Theodore’s goblet stilled midair. No one had asked directly before. Not his court. Not the advisers. Not even Frey.
His grip on the goblet tightened. The metal edge dug into his palm.
Behind his composed expression, something cracked—a fault line long quiet, now shivering under pressure.
He gave a brief smile. Polished. Empty. “She’s unwell,” he replied smoothly, voice cool.
“Travel has wearied her. I believed it best she remain in seclusion until she’s recovered. The people will meet her in time.”
The noble hesitated—just long enough to register the flicker in Theodore’s eyes. Not sorrow, not concern … but a barely concealed fire. “Of course.” The noble nodded quickly. “A wise decision, no doubt. Forgive the question.”
Theodore inclined his head with civility, but the motion was clipped. And without another word, he rose from the table, excused himself, and strode from the hall.