CHAPTER 460: A WIFE’S DEVOTION?

The palace spoke in hushed voices after Amielle stormed from Reuben’s chamber. Servants muttered about her fury, some with pity, others with awe. Few dared meet her gaze now; there was something unyielding in it, as if grief had burned away all weakness.

She continued to visit Reuben daily, though he often shrank from her presence. He would sit by the window, thin and pale, avoiding her eyes. Yet Amielle never faltered. She spoke little, but when she did, her words cut through his silence like steel.

"You sit in this chair as though the world has ended," she told him, her hands folded tightly before her. "But the world has not ended, Reuben. You are still alive. And while you live, I will not allow you to wither into nothing." Then, like every other day, she left without saying goodbye, and Reuben’s gaze would linger on the door long after she was gone.

Her defiance was not for herself alone—it was for both of them.

That morning, after Amielle left, Reuben received an unexpected visitor. She was unlike anyone he had seen within the palace walls—her attire alone set her apart.

She wore a crisp white blouse with long sleeves and a square neckline, its fabric fine yet oddly plain for the palace. Her long skirt flowed almost like water, but was split cleanly down the center, an unfamiliar design that made it possible for her to ride astride. Her copper-brown hair was tied in a careless knot at the nape of her neck, yet strands escaped in loose waves, glinting like firelit bronze down her back. There was something purposeful in the way she carried herself, a confidence foreign to the women of the court.

Reuben’s eyes widened. His breath caught, then turned sharp."You... What are you doing here?" He twisted away, unwilling to let her glimpse him in his most wretched state.

The woman only chuckled, a sound low and edged with irony."I heard what your precious princess consort told you. You’re fortunate, Reuben. Even after all the pain you caused her, she chose to remain at your side."

Her words struck him like steel, every syllable cutting deeper than the last. He stiffened, jaw tightening, eyes hollowing.

Lara stepped closer, unfazed by his silence. From her backpack, she drew out a strange piece of equipment—something foreign, metallic. Before he could protest, he felt its cold edge press against his back through the thin layer of cloth.

"Breathe in. And out," she instructed, her tone calm but commanding. After several moments, she circled him, her gaze assessing. His pallid complexion seemed to confirm her suspicions.

Without warning, she gripped the handles of his wheelchair and began to push. The guards stationed at the door blinked in confusion, exchanging looks but making no move to stop her.

Reuben’s voice rose in indignation. "Where are you taking me?" His fists clenched white against the armrests.

"You need the morning sun," Lara replied coolly. "It will help your body recover. Especially your bones."

Her words bewildered him, half nonsensical, but her resolve allowed no room for argument. They went down the corridor until the familiar figure of Espiyor appeared.

Relief softened Reuben’s face for the briefest instant as his knight moved to take over, silently steering him alongside Lara toward the east garden.

Espiyor has just recovered from the injuries sustained during the attack on the queen’s birthday. His family, including Malik was not found guilty of colluding with the Barsons.

But the moment they emerged into the training grounds, Reuben’s chest constricted. His blood ran cold. There, gathered on the exclusive field reserved for the royal family, stood his father with his third wife Mariam, Alderan, and his two younger sisters. General Odin and his sons were also present, along with the masters Jethru and Orion. The sight of them—whole, strong, unbroken—made him want to vanish into the depths of his chair.

Reuben’s face turned gloomy and his eyes darkened. "You dragged me here to show me this?" He asked angrily.

His eyes darkened, his face stormed. "You dragged me here... to humiliate me with this display?"

"No," Lara answered evenly. "I brought you here because this is where the morning sun is best."

His knuckles blanched as he clutched the armrest tighter. "Take me back," he hissed. For a flicker of a moment, the authority of a crown prince returned to his voice.

But Lara met him with her own fire. "Do not waste the time I spent saving those legs of yours," she snapped, her tone sharp as a healer scolding a disobedient child.

Reuben was dumbfounded. Was she the one who saved him when he was half-dead in that chamber?

With a sudden impatience, Lara released the chair. "Pathetic. If you wish to rot in the shadows, then so be it." Her words dripped with contempt as she turned her back, striding toward her waiting family.

Reuben was left reeling at the words that Lala said in disappointment.

..

Days passed, and while Reuben’s health improved, the court grew restless. The courtiers and the nobles had already begun to whisper that he was unfit to rule. Heimdal did not voice it aloud, but he, too, questioned whether his second son would ever stand as heir again.

Reueben became depressed again and withdraw to himself. One evening, Amielle confronted Reuben directly.

"Do you know what they say of me in the court?" she asked, her voice steady, though her eyes shimmered. "They call me the forsaken consort. The one you abandoned. The one who stayed when she should have fled."

Reuben winced, unable to meet her gaze.

"And yet, I remain." She knelt before him, her hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Not because I am weak. But because I refuse to let them erase me. Or you."

He blinked at her, startled. Her face was pale, weary, but her eyes burned with life. He realized then that while his spirit had broken under the weight of shame, hers had hardened into steel.

"Despise me if you must," she whispered. "But I will not leave you. I will not be cast aside, Reuben. If you cannot stand, then I will stand for you."

Heimdal noticed too.

At first, he regarded Amielle with quiet suspicion, watching her movements when she accompanied Reuben through the palace gardens or sat silently at his side during meals.

She was no longer the proud princess consort and jealous woman who would compete with Mira. Her poise was different now—more deliberate, more commanding.

One evening, he summoned her privately.

"You could have left," Heimdal said, his voice measured. "After all he has done. After what he allowed."

Amielle lifted her chin, meeting the king’s stern gaze. "I could have. But if I had, I would be no better than those who betrayed you. Reuben faltered, yes—but he is still your son, still my husband. I will not abandon him."

The king’s eyes softened, though only slightly. He saw in her something of himself—a spine unbent by grief, a refusal to surrender.

"You have more strength than he," Heimdal murmured. "Perhaps more than I gave you credit for."

Amielle bowed, but her voice carried quiet defiance. "Then use that strength, Your Majesty. Not for me, but for him. Reuben may be broken, but he is not beyond redemption."

...

In the days that followed, Amielle’s presence began to change Reuben. Slowly, haltingly, he allowed her words to reach him. Where once he sat in silence, now he began to answer. Where once he avoided her eyes, now he held her gaze—if only for moments at a time.

It was neither a swift nor a complete recovery. His body remained frail, his spirit scarred. But he no longer spoke of divorce. He no longer told her to leave.

One night, as Amielle helped him from the chair to his bed, he caught her hand.

"Why?" His voice was hoarse. "Why did you stay? I condemned you and chose her.

"Did you ever regret choosing her?" She asked, her voice almost inaudible.

Reuben looked anywhere but at her. If he could turn back time, he would definitely not choose Mira.

"Yes." He answered, his face full of remorse. "You did not answer my question. Why did you stay, Amielle?"

She looked down at him, her expression soft but unwavering. "Because I love you, foolish man. Not the crown prince. Not the heir. Just you. Didn’t we make a vow that we will be with each other in sickness or in health, in richer or poorer, till death do us part.

Tears stung his eyes, though he quickly looked away. But for the first time in months, his heart felt something other than shame.

He could hear the whispers. They still called her the forsaken consort. Yet, in time, the whispers changed.

They began to say she was the fire that kept Reuben from sinking into the abyss. That was where the heir had failed; his wife endured.

She lost the princess consort crown, but Amielle carried herself as though she bore one heavier than gold.

And in the quiet of the night, when Reuben looked at her beside him—strong, defiant, unbroken—he realized that she had given him a gift he could never repay. Not forgiveness. Not absolution. But the chance to rise, however slowly, from the ruins of his pride.