CHAPTER 108: WAR CLOUDS GATHERING

The Queen of Corvalith fell like a petal cut from its stem as an arrow hit her.

The arrow was buried deep, her blood pooling fast into the dust, turning it into red clay. She trembled, hand lifting weakly to graze her husband’s face, a touch that never landed. Her arm slipped down, lifeless.

Dead.

The King of Corvalith’s wail split the arena. Not merely grief, it was a raw, primeval cry of fury, echoing through the arena’s walls. His broad shoulders curled protectively over her, but it was too late. His Queen lay still in his arms.

Leroy had frozen, sword slack in his grip, an arrow streaking past him unnoticed. Dust swirled around his boots. He did not even raise his guard, did not seem to remember he was a target. Lorraine’s chest hollowed out. For one aching heartbeat, he looked like a boy again, not a prince or a warrior, but a boy robbed of certainty, staring at death too close to home.

Another war would come. It had to.

The Queen of a vassal state, slain under the eye of the Emperor, during a ceremony meant only to stroke imperial vanity? Lorraine saw the threads pulling taut already, the silence before the storm, when the whole world holds its breath.

Her gaze shifted, unwillingly, inevitably, to Sylvia. Lorraine exhaled sharply through her nose. A bitter sigh. With Corvalith’s grief bound in blood and fury, no bridge could stand unburned. She had hoped for a kingdom far enough to be free, warm enough to begin again. Now its gates had slammed shut before her eyes, barred by grief and vengeance she could never hope to wash away.

But that grief, Lorraine realized, wasn’t the only weapon that got loosed this day.

Her eyes locked on him... Hadrian Arvand. Her father. His eagle gaze roved over the chaos, untroubled, his fingers brushing idly across the bridge of his nose. A signal, perhaps. A habit. Or a quiet satisfaction.

He hadn’t flinched when the Queen fell. Why would he? Whether Leroy lived or died, Hadrian had already won. The Vaelorian Emperor would shoulder the blame. Disorder meant opportunity, and what better chance for the great Hadrian Arvand to reclaim his place, the indispensable counselor whose wisdom the Emperor must crawl back to?

Lorraine’s jaw tightened until her teeth ached. Her father’s ambition was a rot that cared nothing for nations or crowns. He had found a way to make this carnage serve him.

But this time, it was not about crowns. Not about politics.

It was personal.

She could forgive her father’s cruelty toward her. She had endured it. Survived it. Learned from it. But now he had reached for Leroy. Her husband. He reached for her escape.

Lorraine’s hands curled into fists. The rage in her chest was almost clean—sharp as a blade.

You should have left him out of this, Father. You should have let me go. But now...

Her breath shivered through her teeth.

... now I will not let you go. Not until you writhe. Not until you understand what it means to cry in pain. You will feel pain.

She turned—and there he was. Damian. His face was drawn taut, the same realization etched into his eyes.

"We have to bring him down," he whispered.

Lorraine’s gaze drifted upward, to the imperial box. The dowager stood there, unmoving, carved from shadow and stone. No smile, no glee, no mask of pity—only a silence that chilled more than laughter ever could. At least she wasn’t averting her eyes from the carnage. She watched it unfold, every cruel note of it, as though waiting for the world to strike its final chord.

Lorraine’s jaw tightened. Her bosom friend and her son, had unleashed this devastation. How long could she keep her silence wrapped around that truth? How long before it strangled her?

Then, the dowager leaned forward, resting her hands against the cold stone rail. Her gaze found Leroy across the chaos below, pinning him like prey in a snare.

"What is she plotting?" Damian’s breath ghosted against her ear. Lorraine barely heard him. A shiver ran down her spine, an instinct she could not smother. Something was coming—closer with each heartbeat. She could feel it pressing down, suffocating her chest.

Her mind stumbled back to that dream, the one she had tried so hard to bury: Leroy in a battlefield, fire devouring him, glory burning into ruin.

Her lips parted, but no sound left her.

Is war truly coming?

-----

Leroy, on the other hand, wanted nothing but grounding. He was not ready—not for another war, not for another forced parting from his wife, not when he had only just gotten her back.

He had borne it before, clenched his jaw and swallowed the ache, but no... not this time. He would not be dragged into yet another needless war, one that tore him from her.

His heart pounded; his thoughts fractured. In that chaos, he searched for her—the only calm he knew. When the dais lurched beneath him, when the arrows rained down, there had been one brief instant he thought death had come for him. But the shafts had missed. The fall had spared him. And through it all, he had felt her presence—like a shield unseen, like love stretched taut around him, keeping the world at bay.

Of course she was here. She was always here.

And he knew how to find her. Where others scrambled, she stood. Where panic reigned, she calculated. Lips pressed, eyes sharp, waiting for the next move on a chessboard only she could see.

He scanned the storm of bodies, the shrieking crowd. And there—he found her.

But...

His jaw clenched. What was she doing with him?

Lorraine felt it then, like a hand pressing against the back of her neck... the unmistakable weight of his stare. She turned. Their eyes met.

Her heart skipped, traitorously. How did he find me? And before she could think, she did what she had always done best.

She ran.

Leroy could only sigh, a sharp exhale slipping through clenched teeth. What a stupid mouseling!

His gaze flicked, inevitably, to the man beside her. Damian. The prince stood frozen, eyes wide, shock flickering across his face at the sight of the runaway wife.

Leroy arched a brow, slow and deliberate, then lifted a hand. With a single gesture, he claimed what words could not. He pointed at her fleeing figure, then pressed his palm hard against his chest.

Mine.

Mine alone.

Damian’s lips parted, breath escaping as though something inside him cracked. For a heartbeat, he wondered: Did that brilliant, terrible woman truly give her heart to someone so unassuming, so... human? A man who bled, who faltered, who lacked a crown?

But then again, perhaps that was precisely the point. Perhaps, she already knew the worth of the one she chose.

Damian let his hand rise, pressing it firmly over his own heart in silent answer. Not as a rival’s claim, but as acknowledgment. As a surrender.