35. How It Works
Chapter thirty-five
How It Works
For the first time since Oberon left, I actually sleep.
His presence is the only thing I need for comfort, despite the weight of the confession the night before and the lingering wariness I still feel about it.
I know, deep down, that I will have to come to terms with what happened, with what he did.
I told him I forgive him, that I understand, and part of me does.
But there is a part of me, a quieter voice in the back of my mind, that still can’t fully reconcile the male I have come to care so deeply for with the prince who wears the crown.
When he put on that crown, I never imagined he could become someone so different. I know, deep down, that isn’t the person he has ever wanted to be.
He left because someone uncovered his secret, someone knows he is leading the rebellion, and he needed to determine just how much his father knew, if it had truly reached the throne, or if it was nothing more than a rumor.
His father must have already caught wind of the whispers and forced Oberon to prove his loyalty by becoming the very thing he despised.
What this means for the future, I’m not sure. But for now, all we can do is keep moving forward.
When I wake the next morning, Oberon isn’t in bed beside me. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and rise, the chill of the room settling into my bones as I search for him.
I find him standing at the window, staring out into the distance, lost in deep thought.
The weight of everything seems to hang in the air around him, settling into every perfect line of his body, every taut muscle beneath his skin. I can feel the tension emanating from him, like he is carrying something far heavier than I can ever understand.
I know balancing both of these roles, the prince and the rebellion leader, is taking its toll on him. He always seemed to manage with such effortless ease.
This is different, what he has to do, what he has to live with. He has been tricked before, forced into a role he doesn’t choose, only now, it is by his own hand. This time, the burden is his own choice.
He doesn’t notice when I approach him, nor does he seem to realize I have even made it out of bed. When he finally turns to face me, he offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The dark circles under them are a stark reminder of how little sleep he has gotten.
How long has he been standing there, lost in his own thoughts?
He looks exhausted, drowning in guilt, and I can’t figure out how to save him. “Good morning,” I say, trying to muster a smile of my own, though it is harder than I expect.
He doesn’t respond, just turns fully to face me, his gaze hollow.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. The exhaustion is written all over his face.
“No,” he replies quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t.”
Without thinking, I reach up and cup his face, brushing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
I wish I could take away whatever weighs him down, but for now, this is all I have to offer.
“I’ll run you a bath and bring up some breakfast,” I say, the words sounding hollow even to me, but it is all I can do to try and care for him, even in the smallest way.
He nods, as his gaze shifts back to the window, lost in whatever dark thoughts haunted him all night.
Today will be a hard day. The rebellion council is calling for a debrief, an explanation of his actions.
They all know who he is, what he has become, but he has never had to explain himself like this.
I don’t think anyone ever expected him to.
He is stuck between impossible choices, choices he now has to live with.
“The cage you can live with.” Those words, spoken to me so long ago, have weighed on me for what feels like an eternity.
They have shaped every decision I’ve made.
Now, I understand them better than I ever could before.
The meaning behind those words feels like too much to bear.
I didn’t realize then just how deeply those words would cut, just how much they would reflect the reality of our lives now.
We eat breakfast in mostly silence.
The male who left me just a week ago doesn’t feel like the same one who has returned. I can see the pain in his eyes, but he doesn’t let me in, not a hint, not a crack. He is a wall, built higher than before.
After breakfast, I head down first while he finishes getting ready, meeting Zander in the hall.
Zander had been with him. I wonder what he witnessed. Was he by Oberon’s side during the destruction? Or did he manage to keep his hands clean, distancing himself from whatever horrors unfolded?
I fall in step beside him, but he only gives me a sidelong glance, a flicker of something behind his eyes, maybe curiosity, maybe wariness.
“Good morning to you, too,” I tease, trying to gauge his mood. I’m not sure if he is as burdened as Oberon, but I need to know.
“What’s so good about it?” he asks flatly. I can’t tell if he is joking or genuinely irritated. His voice is hard to read, and his expression gives nothing away.
I shoot him a questioning look, trying to find a crack in his armor. But there is nothing. He is a stone. “Glad to see you’re as chipper as ever,” I muse, my tone light, but it is clear he isn’t in the mood to play.
Zander only raises an eyebrow, his face still a mask. “Is there something you need, Lyra?” he asks finally as we make our way down the hall, his voice a bit sharper than usual.
I debate for a moment whether to push or let him keep his secrets. Curiosity wins, a need to know pulling me forward. “Were you with him?” I ask quietly, barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer, but needing one nonetheless.
He pauses for a long moment, his gaze lingering on me, as though he were deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, he lets out a soft sigh. “Yes.”
I look down, watching my feet glide over the long rug that lies across the cold stone floor, my thoughts racing.
The silence stretches between us as I fight for the right words to say.
I want to know more, need to, but I can’t quite bring myself to pry deeper.
“Are you okay?” I ask after a long pause, my voice tentative, unsure if I am asking the right thing.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies flatly, his eyes focused ahead. “I was given an order, and I executed it.”
Whose order? Oberon’s? The King’s? Does it even matter?
Is it any easier to swallow if it is just an order and not a choice?
Maybe it is better not to have to choose.
Maybe it is a mercy to be told what to do instead of being asked.
I ponder this for a moment, as my next question starts burning on my tongue.
“Is he okay?” I whisper, testing, trying to gauge how much he truly understands about Oberon’s torment, the weight that seems to be crushing him.
Zander looks away for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he is choosing his words carefully or perhaps weighing whether he should speak at all. “It’s different for him,” he says slowly.
“Why?” I press, feeling the weight of the question on my chest.
Zander turns his head slightly, avoiding my eyes for a moment before he speaks again, his voice measured. “I was ordered to do something by my commander, my leader. I trust them to make sure it’s the right thing, I don’t feel guilty about it after.”
He pauses, his face unreadable. “Oberon . . . he had to make the choice. He has to keep making those choices, not only as the king’s son but also as the leader of the rebellion.” He stops again, letting the depth of those words settle between us. There is something unsaid there, something heavy.
Zander has said it without saying it: Oberon’s burden is not just one of duty, but of constant inner conflict. And that is the part that tears him apart, the part that no one can really see.
“His choices are what determine the outcome of both. They weigh on him, especially the hard ones,” Zander says quietly as we walk the rest of the way in silence, heading to the meeting room.
The tension is thick. I can feel it pressing on my chest with every step. My mind lingers on Zander's words. I can’t help but wonder just how heavy Oberon’s burden truly is. The thought doesn’t have much time to settle before we reach the doors.
When we enter, the room is filled with a low hum of conversation as the Fae gather around, taking their seats. Despite the noise, I can feel the eyes on me, on us.
Everyone seems to be waiting, watching for something, maybe a reaction, a hint, a clue about what happened.
As the minutes drag on and Oberon still doesn’t appear, the murmurs in the room grow more restless. The gathered Fae shift in their seats, their eyes darting around, lips whispering secrets and suspicions.
The tension is palpable, and I can feel my own anxiety building with each passing second. I excuse myself quietly, ignoring the curious glances that follow me as I slip out of the chamber. My boots echo softly in the stone corridor, the muted sounds of the meeting fading behind me.
My steps quicken as I start checking nearby rooms that I know he frequents. I pause at a split in the hall, uncertainty tugging at me before the cool breeze catches my attention. I turn toward it, following the draft like a tether pulling me forward, toward the eastern balcony.
Oberon stands alone, facing the horizon where the sun has already claimed the sky. His hands grip the railing, knuckles pale, jaw clenched. The light paints gold into the dark strands of his hair.
I hover at the threshold for a breath before calling out softly, “Oberon?”
He doesn’t turn. Just let out a breath as if it hurts. “You shouldn’t be here,” His voice comes out hoarse.
I ignore the warning and step out beside him. “They’re waiting for you. We all are.”
“I know,” he snaps through gritted teeth. “I just needed a moment . . . to remember how to breathe.”
I turn to face him fully, trying to meet his gaze. “What happened?”