29. AUREVYN #3
The corridor swallowed him whole. His footsteps echoed as he reached the far wall, the sound reverberating like a threat. He paused only long enough to pull in a breath—but it didn’t soothe.
He slammed his fist against the cold stone. Not enough to shatter. Just enough to feel.
Behind him, the soft rustle of fabric whispered down the corridor. Frey’s presence arrived without announcement, but her steps had never needed heralding—not with him. She said nothing at first, simply stood beside her son, the distance between them already familiar.
“Leaving your own coronation?” she asked gently.
Theodore didn’t respond. His shoulders were drawn tight, his jaw still locked.
She didn’t press. Instead, she placed a hand lightly on his arm—not to comfort. To anchor.
Theodore’s breath came slow and shallow, fogging faintly in the cold corridor air. His knuckles throbbed where they’d struck the stone, but he didn’t look at them. He stared ahead into nothing, as if the wall might offer answers the crown could not.
Frey stood beside him, silent, steady.
And then, without turning, he spoke—his voice raw, like something torn loose from deep within. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
Frey said nothing. She didn’t need to.
“I was supposed to be king with her,” he continued, the words spilling now, unfiltered.
“Not … not alone. Not with whispers in the hall and empty chairs at my side. I was supposed to look out at that crowd and feel like I had something to hold onto. Something that was mine.” His voice cracked, just slightly.
“But she ran. And now they look at me like I’m half a man.
Like I’ve already failed before I’ve begun.
” He turned to face his mother then, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness and something deeper—something like shame.
“I don’t know if I’m angry at her … or at myself.
For letting her go. For not chasing her.
For wanting her to come back and hating her all at once. ”
Frey’s gaze softened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I stood there today,” he whispered, “with a crown on my head and a kingdom at my feet—and I’ve never felt more hollow.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was sacred.
Frey reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his brow like she had when he was a boy. “Then fill it,” she said gently. “Not with what others expect. Not with what Cavric whispers. But with what you know is right.”
Theodore closed his eyes. “I wish I could,” he snapped, voice rising.
“I wish I could fill it with duty, with honor, with all the things Father said would make me whole.” He turned his gaze back to the stone wall, as if afraid to meet Frey’s eyes.
“But I can’t shake this emptiness inside me.
It’s like a wound that won’t close. And I”—his voice caught, raw and unguarded—“I need her back by my side.”
The words hung in the corridor like a confession to the gods.
Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, but not hesitant.
Lance stepped into view, brows furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. He had heard enough to know the shape of the moment, if not the whole. “I hate to interrupt.” He cleared his throat. “But I must speak with you both.”
Theodore turned and glared at him. “Now? During my coronation?”
“I’ve been trying to speak with you since the wedding—you won’t stop and listen to me,” Lance bit. “This can’t wait any longer.”
“I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” Theodore spat. “This is all your fucking fault. If you hadn’t barged in on my wedding, tried to stake claim on my wife, she’d still be here.” His hands clenched into fists at his side, knuckles white.
“Boys—” Frey started, but Lance was quick.
“You still want her?” he asked, voice edged with disbelief. “After everything? After she ran from the altar, from you, from this kingdom? It’s pathetic. You’re chasing ghosts while the kingdom watches you unravel,” he scoffed.
Theodore tilted his head. “What was that?” he asked, tone deadly. But he’d heard it.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
In a flash, he surged forward, rage uncoiling like a whip. His fist collided with Lance’s jaw, the crack echoing down the stone hall. Lance stumbled back, caught off guard, but before he could recover, Theodore shoved him hard to the ground.
Then he was on him.
Straddling his chest, fists flying—one, two, three—each blow fueled by grief, by shame, by the unbearable echo of Mabel’s absence. Lance tried to block the hits, but Theodore’s fury was relentless, unthinking. “You don’t know anything!” he roared.
Frey was shouting now, her voice sharp with panic. She grabbed Theodore’s shoulders, pulling, pleading. “Theodore, stop.”
He froze. Breath ragged. Hands trembling. His brother beneath him, dazed and bleeding.
And in that moment, the crown on his head felt like a noose.
Theodore stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles in slow, crimson trails. His eyes were wide—wild—not with triumph, but with the sudden, sick realization of what he’d done.
Lance lay sprawled on the stone floor, lip split, a smear of red trailing from his nose. His breath came in shallow gasps, more from shock than pain.
Frey dropped to her knees beside him without hesitation, skirts pooling around her like a storm. Her hands were gentle but swift, fingers brushing Lance’s brow, tilting his chin to examine the damage. “Easy,” she whispered, voice tight with worry. “Don’t move too quickly.”
Lance winced as she helped him sit upright, one hand braced against the floor, the other pressed to his face. Blood stained the collar of his tunic, and his eyes—though dazed—never left Theodore.
Theodore didn’t move. He just stood there, fists still clenched, the silence around him louder than any scream. And for the first time since the crown touched his head, he looked less like a king—and more like a boy who had lost everything.
The echoes of the scuffle hadn’t gone unnoticed.
From the grand doors of the feast hall, heads began to emerge—nobles in silks and furs, their laughter fading into murmurs as they caught sight of the scene. A few gasped. Others exchanged glances, whispers already forming like smoke.
Frey remained kneeling beside Lance, shielding him with her body as best she could, her expression a mask of composure stretched thin over fury and fear.
But Theodore was already walking away. His cloak dragged behind him, one side torn loose from the scuffle, his crown slightly askew.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t acknowledge the stares or the silence that followed him like a second shadow.
He walked with purpose—to escape the weight of what had just happened before it crushed him entirely.
The corridor swallowed him again. The torchlight flickered against the blood on his knuckles. The crown on his head had never felt more fragile.
He traced familiar steps and stood before the door that had once belonged to his father.
Theodore slammed the heavy door behind him, the echo rattling the shelves of Thalen’s old study.
The scent of aged parchment and fire-charred oak still lingered in the room, though the hearth had long gone cold.
Shadows clung to the corners, and The Great Stag’s head above the mantle watched in silence.
Cavric stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, as if he’d been expecting this storm.
“You told me she’d be here by now,” Theodore snapped, voice sharp with fury. “You said she’d be returned to me. That this would all be behind us.”
Cavric turned slowly, his expression calm—too calm. “And she will be,” he said smoothly. “But these things take time. She’s not a simple package to retrieve, Your Majesty. If we move too quickly, we risk losing her entirely.”