The Cost Of The Crown

Chapter 16 Where Death Stands Equal

The garden does not ask questions.

It never has.

It only breathes slow and patient around me as I sit where Alexander left me, palms pressed flat into the earth, knees drawn close, spine straight but exhausted.

The oak above me creaks softly, its leaves whispering secrets to one another, as they always do.

Somewhere nearby, water trickles over stone.

Somewhere farther away, the palace hums with people who want something from me.

Here, at least, the ground does not lie.

I exhale slowly through my nose, counting the way I was taught when I was young before crowns, before treaties, before death.

One.

Two.

Three—

I stop.

The air changes.

It's subtle. Almost imperceptible. The kind of thing you only notice after you've been hunted once—or twice—and lived to remember it.

I don't look up right away.

I don't move.

Instead, I tilt my head slightly and speak to the space beside me, voice flat and unimpressed.

"Hiding in a tree," I say. "Your thing?"

Silence.

Then—

Laughter.

Not polite. Not restrained. Not courtly in the slightest.

It spills out of the branches above me like something uncontained, low, rich, and utterly unapologetic. Leaves rustle sharply as a shadow shifts overhead.

Before I can look up, something drops.

Dante lands a few paces away from me with infuriating ease, boots barely disturbing the grass.

He straightens smoothly, one hand already occupied with a thick vine heavy with ripe grapes.

He plucks one free and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, as if I am no more alarming than the weather.

"Well," he says around the grape, "if you're going to threaten to destroy kingdoms in public gardens, you can't expect privacy."

I rise to my feet in one smooth motion, brushing grass from my trousers, every instinct screaming awareness now. "You were listening."

He lifts a brow. "You were loud."

"That was a private conversation between a couple."

He plucks another grape, inspects it briefly, then eats it. "If that's how lovers talk," he says casually, "I'd rather die alone."

I turn fully to face him.

Up close, he is just as irritating as before, too relaxed, too sharp-eyed, too clearly enjoying himself. He leans back against the oak now, one boot braced against the trunk, vine slung over his shoulder like a prize stolen rather than grown.

"You're rude," I say coolly. "Listening to a couple's personal exchange."

"Personal?" He snorts. "That man was negotiating like a merchant with a failing stall."

I fold my arms. "You should have left."

"And miss that?" He gestures vaguely, popping another grape into his mouth. "Absolutely not."

I narrow my eyes. "How long were you there?"

He pretends to think about it. "Long enough to know you weren't meditating."

"That is not your concern."

"Everything interesting is my concern."

I step closer slowly, deliberately. He doesn't move. Doesn't straighten. Doesn't so much as blink.

"You enjoy provoking people with power," I say.

"I enjoy provoking people, I find it interesting," he counters.

The words hit closer than I like.

I stop a few steps away, meeting his gaze. "You make a habit of spying on foreign queens?"

"Only the ones who look like they might stab their fiancé before dinner."

I scoff despite myself. "You find that amusing?"

"I find it refreshing," he replies. "Most people smile while they plan murders."

I tilt my head. "You think I was planning murder?"

He shrugs. "If you weren't, you should start. That man's dangerous."

My jaw tightens. "You heard more than you should have."

Instead, I say, "You shouldn't have listened."

"You shouldn't threaten treaties where trees can hear you."

I take another step closer. "You're trespassing."

"And yet," he says, "you haven't called the guards."

"I don't need them."

His smile sharpens. "I noticed."

I stop directly in front of him now, close enough to see the faint scar near his jaw, the crease between his brows that only appears when he's thinking rather than performing. He smells faintly of apples and crushed leaves and something darker beneath—iron, maybe. Or blood.

"You enjoy being difficult," I say.

"I enjoy being honest," he replies. "You should try it more often."

"You're different from what I expected."

That makes his smile falter just slightly.

"So are you," he says.

The silence stretches not uncomfortably, but charged. The garden seems to lean in around us, leaves stilling, birds pausing mid-song.

I broke it first. "You shouldn't have stayed."

He plucks another grape and holds the vine out toward me in exaggerated courtesy. "Want one?"

I glance at it. Then back at him. "No."

He shrugs, unbothered. "Not your thing."

I study him carefully now. "You don't behave like a king."

"Good," he says. "Kings are boring me."

"And yet you are one."

"Unfortunately."

I scoff. "Your people tolerate this?"

"They don't get a vote."

The words fall from Dante's mouth with the ease of someone commenting on the weather. No hesitation. No apology. No need to soften it for delicate ears.

He says it like a fact carved into the bones of the world long before either of us learned how to speak.

The air in the garden shifts.

It isn't the wind, though the leaves above us rustle, whispering against one another.

The humor that had been lounging in his eyes drains out as if someone pulled a curtain. His posture straightens subtly, the lazy lean replaced by a stillness that feels like a blade being drawn halfway from its sheath.

I face him fully, studying him the way I've learned to study men.

Not for charm.

For danger.

He watches me watch him, unbothered by scrutiny. If anything, he looks entertained by it.

"They don't get a vote," he repeats, quieter now.

My lips part, but no sound comes out.

He continues anyway, voice low, curling around the edges of the garden like smoke.

"Votes are for men who think safety is guaranteed. For kings who have never felt the throne wobble beneath them. For courts that believe words can replace steel."

He takes a step away from the oak. Boots crunch softly on grass. The sound is slight, but the movement is not.

"My people fear me," he says.

Not proudly. Not defensively.

Just... truthfully.

"And they should."

The way he says it makes my stomach tighten.

Fear is not an accident in his kingdom. It is policy.

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. "And yet you believe they love you."

His mouth twitches. Not a smile, something sharper.

"They do."

"That's absurd," I say before I can stop myself. "If they fear you, they can't love you."

Dante's eyes narrow slightly, amused at my certainty.

"Your world is soft," he says. "Soft enough to confuse comfort with love."

My jaw tightens. "And yours is... what? Hard enough to confuse cruelty with loyalty?"

He makes a thoughtful sound, like he's tasting the argument.

Then he says, "Yes."

I blink. "You admit that?"

"I don't admit," he corrects. "I accept," he plucks a small leaf from the oak and crushes it between his fingers absently, releasing a bitter green scent.

"My people know exactly what I am," he continues. "I do not pretend to be gentle. I do not pretend to be forgiving. I do not pretend that my affection is free."

"And that is why they would die for me."

The words sink into the air like stones into water.

I can almost see it—a kingdom shaped by war and hunger. Men hardened by loss. Women who have buried too many children. A ruler who didn't promise them softness, only survival.

"They'd die for you," I repeat slowly. "Because they're afraid of you."

Dante shakes his head once, almost disappointed that I still don't understand.

"No," he says. "They'd die for me because they know I would die for them first."

I feel my breath catch. Not because I believe him, but because some part of me does, and I hate that it makes sense.

"They starve, I starve," he says, voice turning darker, colder, as if he's stepping into a memory made of blood. "They bleed, I bleed. When war comes, I don't sit on a throne polishing my crown while boys who cannot grow beards yet march to die."

He takes another step closer, and the garden suddenly feels smaller.

"I lead."

"When the enemy charges," he continues, "I am the first to meet them."

"I fight beside lords who could buy cities," he says, voice steady, almost calm again, "and peasants who couldn't buy bread."

He lifts his chin slightly, eyes hard as stone.

"Because death doesn't care who you are."

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost like a prayer spoken to something that has never listened

"Death knows no crown."

The sentence lands in my chest like an arrow.

Because I know exactly what he means.

I have watched death kneel for no one.

I have watched it take kings and bakers and children and queens with the same indifferent hands.

For a moment, I don't speak.

I don't breathe.

I stand there, damp sleeves clinging to my forearms, and stare at the man in front of me who looks like cruelty shaped into a crown.

And the worst part?

The image of him, bloodied, leading, standing between his people and slaughter, doesn't repulse me.

I force myself to swallow. "But yet you punish them for the smallest of disloyalty ."

His eyes flash, sharp. "No."

"Then why?"

"Because I punish betrayal," he corrects. "I punish weakness that endangers others. I punish men who harm children. I punish lords who steal bread from starving mouths."

His voice drops another degree.

"And I punish anyone who forgets that a king is not sacred."

My spine stiffens.

He's not talking about myth. He's talking about the kind of world where a ruler must constantly remind his kingdom that he is not a symbol.

He is a blade.

"And you think that earns love?"

"It earns trust," he says.

He taps his chest lightly with two fingers. "They trust that I will do what must be done."

He taps his temple. "They trust that I will not pretend otherwise."

He tilts his head, gaze narrowing. "Can your people say the same of you?"

The question is not an insult.

It's a knife.

I inhale slowly, refusing to let it cut deeper than it already has.

"My people would die for me too," I say, though the words taste uncertain.

Dante's mouth curves faintly. "Would they?"

I glare. "Yes."

He doesn't argue. That's worse.

He looks at me like he's already seen the answer written in my future.

I step back, breaking the moment. "Why are you here?"

His expression shifts, darkness instantly sliding away as if he's bored with honesty already.

"Well," he says, gesturing lazily toward the palace, "the festival."

I blink. "That's your reason?"

"Yes."

I stare at him. "You traveled to my kingdom for a festival."

"Anyone who's anyone is here," he says as if that's an explanation enough. "My court insisted it would be good for me to be seen outside of battlefields and execution grounds."

I snort. "You're doing a horrible job at it."

He grins. "Am I?"

"Yes," I say flatly. "People talk on the ground. Not perched in trees like birds."

That earns a laugh—real, sharp, unrestrained.

"Old habits," he says. "Trees give better vantage points."

"For what?" I ask.

"For disappointment," he replies smoothly.

I roll my eyes. "You're insufferable."

"And you," he says, stepping closer, "still smell like pond water."

"Mention it again, and I'll have you thrown in it."

He looks delighted. "Threats are my love language, be careful, i might fall for you."

Then he straightens abruptly.

"So," he says with exaggerated seriousness, "I should probably be polite."

Before I can reply, he bows.

Deep.

Ridiculously deep.

So deep it borders on mockery—and yet it's flawless, perfect in form, as if he learned court etiquette purely so he could weaponize it.

I blink. "What are you doing?"

He stays bowed. "I would hate to get on Your Majesty's bad side by forgetting proper address."

His eyes tilt upward slightly while he remains in that low bow, and I see the smirk pulling at his mouth.

"I hear you threatened to destroy kingdoms," he adds softly, "when men displease you in gardens."

I narrow my eyes. "Get up."

He doesn't.

He clears his throat dramatically. "Your Majesty."

I exhale slowly. "Dante."

He hums. "Yes."

Then—still bowed—he asks with insufferable innocence, "Are you not going to bow back? After all, royalty bows to royalty."

He straightens only to bow again, more dramatically this time, arms sweeping, posture exaggerated like a performer in a cheap play.

I stare at him, disbelief fighting amusement.

"You are ridiculous."

"And you are rude," he says, still bowed. "I offered you grapes."

"You offered me disrespect first."

"That was a gift too."

I inhale sharply, trying to keep my face cold.

Then I remember the bouquet.

Alexander's bouquet lies discarded on the grass near the stone path, bruised from my earlier throw—petals scattered like fallen promises.

Without thinking too much, because if I think, I'll stop, I pick it up and throw it at Dante.

It hits his shoulder and explodes apart in a spray of petals.

He freezes, blinking once.

Then he looks down at the flowers with mild fascination.

"Well," he remarks, "lover boy took so much care picking those out."

I lift my chin. "They make excellent weapons."

He hums thoughtfully. "Women can be so cruel."

"You sound offended."

"I'm impressed."

I take a step closer. "Do you just like getting on my nerves?"

"Yes," he says immediately.

I stop. "You didn't even hesitate."

"It's one of my finer hobbies," he replies.

I shake my head, fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

He steps closer too, voice lowering slightly. "And you're pretending you're unaffected."

My heart stutters—just once.

I force my expression to remain composed.

"You don't know me," I say.

"I know you're lonely," he says.

The words slice straight through the armor I didn't realize was showing.

I stiffen. "You're guessing."

He shrugs. "I'm observing."

I look away first—because if I don't, he might see something I can't afford him to see.

Something soft. Something old.

Something that remembers his hands in mine behind bars that haven't happened yet.

I swallow hard.

Dante notices. Of course he does.

"Careful," he murmurs. "You're thinking too loudly."

I snap my gaze back to him. "You can't read minds."

"No," he agrees. "But I can read faces. And yours looks like it's carrying ghosts."

The garden goes quiet around us. Even the fountain seems softer, as if it's listening.

I force a laugh, bitter and thin. "You're dramatic."

"I'm accurate."

I step back, needing distance before the unspoken becomes visible.

"You should leave," I say quietly.

"And you should stop threatening men who think treaties are collars," he counters.

I narrow my eyes. "Are you giving me advice?"

"I'm giving you options."

I scoff. "And what are your options, King of Trees?"

Dante's smile returns—dark and amused.

"Murder," he says easily.

I stare. "Of course."

"It solves most problems," he adds, utterly sincere.

"I'm not murdering my fiancé."

"Why not?" he asks, like I've said I won't eat bread.

"Because it would start a war."

He shrugs. "Win it."

"That's not—"

"Murder," he repeats. "Or blackmail. Or poison. I'm flexible."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You're insane."

"Perhaps," he says cheerfully. "But I'm rarely wrong."

He takes a step backward, glancing up into the branches as if searching for his next perch.

"Well," he says, tone brightening, "I should go. I need another tree to spectate from."

I fold my arms. "Spectate?"

"Yes," he says. "Watching powerful people implode is excellent entertainment."

He turns, already moving away through the grass, as he belongs to every shadow.

"Oh—and Queen?" he calls over his shoulder.

I don't answer.

He smirks anyway, because he doesn't require permission for anything.

"If you decide murder is the solution," he says lightly, "I have excellent suggestions."

Then he's gone, vanishing into the greenery like a predator slipping back into the forest.

I stand there long after he leaves, petals crushed at my feet, damp sleeves cooling in the breeze.

My heart is doing something reckless.

It's remembering.

Because the cruel truth is this

I trusted him once.

And some treacherous, broken part of me still does.