Chapter 24 What I Must Offer
Sleep never comes.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling as the last of the candles burn low, their flames guttering softly as if even fire grows tired of witnessing me like this.
Wax drips in slow, uneven trails, pooling like pale scars along the holders.
The room smells faintly of smoke, parchment, and night air drifting through the open window but none of it grounds me.
Because if I close my eyes
I see him.
Not the king the world whispers about with fear curling in their tongues.
Not the man perched in trees like a predatory god, watching chaos unfold with amusement.
Not the conqueror whose name makes borders tremble.
I see the man who sat on a cold stone floor beside my cell.
The one who cried when I died.
In my past life, Dante offered his help.
And I refused it.
I told myself it was dignity. That I would not barter my sovereignty for protection. That I would not turn another man into collateral damage for my failures. That I would endure that I should endure.
I told myself I was strong.
I was wrong.
This time, I don't have the luxury of pride masquerading as virtue.
In this life, Dante and I are barely acquaintances. Strangers, really. A handful of sharp exchanges that dance dangerously close to insult. Smirks sharpened into threats. Words layered with meaning neither of us acknowledges out loud.
There is no friendship between us now.
No shared memories at least, not ones he remembers.
No quiet nights where the world felt smaller because someone finally understood the weight I carried. No moments of laughter stolen between disasters. No trust.
And yet—
I need him.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I push myself upright with a frustrated groan, dragging my hands down my face until my palms burn against my skin. My reflection in the polished surface of the wardrobe looks back at me eyes too sharp, mouth drawn tight, crown nowhere in sight yet somehow still heavy on my head.
How do you ask a man like Dante for help?
You can't beg.
He would despise weakness.
You can't threaten.
He would enjoy the challenge far too much.
You can't flatter.
He sees through lies like glass and cuts himself on the shards for sport.
I rise and begin to pace, bare feet silent against the stone floor, my thoughts spiraling faster with every step. The hem of my night robe brushes my ankles as I move, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged thing.
Gold?
Useless.
Dante's coffers swell from conquest alone. Gold flows into his kingdom the way rivers flow to the sea inevitable, unstoppable. Anything I offered would be an insult disguised as generosity.
Trade?
Pointless.
He already controls the southern routes. Ports, caravans, sea lanes his reach stretches farther than most kings dare to admit. My merchants would benefit, yes, but he would barely notice the difference.
Land?
I almost laugh.
Dante doesn't bargain for land.
He takes it.
Military aid?
The thought borders on absurd.
His armies could swallow mine whole and still have men left to guard his borders. His royal guard alone elite, brutal, fiercely loyal could raze my capital before my generals finished arguing over strategy.
Every path ends the same way.
There is nothing I can give him
that he does not already possess.
The realization hits like a blow to the chest.
I stop pacing so abruptly that the silence feels louder for it. My breath catches, shallow and uneven, as the truth rises slowly, mercilessly, from the depths of my thoughts.
There is one thing.
One thing even a king like Dante lacks.
A child.
He has no queen.
No heir.
No continuation of his bloodline.
No one to inherit his crown when death finally claims him.
Women fear him.
Not the playful fear born of rumor or reputation but the deep, instinctive kind. The kind that keeps them from sitting across a table from him, from sharing a meal, from imagining what it would mean to wake beside him.
He is a dead end.
Powerful. Absolute.
And alone.
And I—
I am not.
The thought coils through my chest, sharp and unwelcome, cutting deeper the longer I sit with it.
A marriage alliance.
Not love. Not romance.
Power.
If I marry him, our kingdoms become bound—north and south fused into a single axis of control. Resources would flow freely between us. Armies would move as one. Trade routes that once required endless negotiations would become internal roads, protected by shared interests and shared steel.
If Alexander attacks me
Dante has justification.
Not diplomacy.
Not empty threats.
War.
And conquest.
Alexander would not simply lose a bride.
He would lose his throne.
His kingdom would be swallowed, absorbed, repurposed into something stronger and far more terrifying.
Two territories for the cost of one crown.
Dante would gain everything.
And I would gain survival.
I sink into a chair, the weight of the realization crushing down on me until breathing feels difficult. My hands curl into the fabric of my robe, knuckles white, as the truth settles deeper.
I am doing exactly what my parents did to me.
What their parents did before them.
What every monarch in history has done when faced with extinction.
I swore I would never become this kind of queen.
I swore I would be different.
Kinder.
Better.
But the truth is ancient and unforgiving:
Queens do not marry for love.
They marry so their people live.
I am twenty-five years old.
Old enough to rule. Old enough to bleed. Old enough to understand that choice is a luxury rarely afforded to women like me.
Dante is twenty-eight.
Young, by kingly standards. Already feared. Already legendary. Old enough to understand exactly what this offer would meanand ruthless enough to accept it if it serves him.
Michael is forty-six.
A relic.
A ghost of a political path that no longer serves me. His relevance has faded with the shifting of borders and alliances. The board has changed.
So have the rules.
I press my fingers into my temples, eyes burning as the memories creep in uninvited.
In another life, Dante loved me quietly.
Hopelessly.
He never asked for anything in return. Never demanded. Never tried to claim what wasn't offered. He stood beside me in silence, in loyalty, in grief.
In this life, I am about to offer him something far colder.
Not affection.
Not devotion.
A throne.
A bloodline.
A future written in iron and necessity.
A future where my body becomes a treaty.
A bitter laugh slips from my throat, low and humorless.
I wanted to break my chains.
Instead, I am choosing which ones I will wear.
The difference small but vital is that this time, the lock is in my hands.
If I do this, it will not be because I am forced.
It will be because I decide that my kingdom is worth the cost.
I rise again, moving toward the window, looking out at the sleeping city below. Torches flicker along the walls. Guards patrol in steady rhythms. Somewhere, a child dreams without knowing how close they are to war.
I will not let them pay for my hesitation.
If I must become what history demands
Then so be it.
Tomorrow, I will speak to Dante.
And I will offer him the one thing no king can refuse:
Someone to pass his legacy down to.