CHAPTER 83: STAY

For a long moment, Eris did not move.

The courtyard was still caught in that sacred hush that follows worship, that pause between devotion and disbelief. Her eyes swept over the sea of bowed heads, the gleam of armor catching the first light of dawn, the soft mist curling above the breath of a hundred men who dared to kneel before her.

It was not fear she felt. Not pride either.

It was something quieter. Stranger.

Surprise.

As though she had forgotten what respect looked like when it wasn’t tainted by terror.

Her lips parted faintly, but no words came.

And then, a voice, soft enough to brush against her ear without touching.

Soren leaned closer, his breath cool against the heat of her skin.

"Why do you look so astonished, Your Majesty?" he murmured, tone smooth as frost over flame. "You are the future Empress of Nevareth now."

The words curled between them, edged with amusement, undercut by something heavier, pride and possession, intertwined so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

She turned her head slightly, enough to meet his gaze, the faintest flicker of defiance in her eyes. But before either could speak, the moment broke.

It broke with sound, sharp, deliberate, thunderous.

The march of boots.

Dozens of them, cutting through the morning stillness, their rhythm like war drums echoing across marble. The Winter Knights tensed, a ripple of unease running through their ranks as the sound grew nearer, heavier.

The crowd parted in instinctive waves.

And through that living corridor of silence came Caelen.

He walked at the head of his guard, his cape trailing behind him like the shadow of a fallen crown. The soldiers flanking him moved in perfect unison , polished armor, faces grim, eyes forward a wall of duty wrapped in steel.

But it was Caelen’s face that silenced the world.

Blank. Unreadable.

The face of a man who had already lost everything worth saving.

Eris froze where she stood. Every part of her, her heartbeat, her breathing, her flame, went utterly still.

Soren’s hand tightened around hers, subtle, protective, the smallest promise of violence resting in his grip.

The air between the two men shifted, charged and electric.

Two nations met in that silence.

Ice and fire.

Past and future.

A friendship turned to fracture, now balanced on the blade of one woman’s choice.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then Eris stepped forward.

It wasn’t bravery, not exactly, more like inevitability. A queen’s reflex to face what she had broken.

But before she could take a full step, Soren’s hand came up, firm but wordless, stopping her mid-motion.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t need to.

His gaze was locked on Caelen, cold and sharp as winter glass.

The Ice Emperor stepped forward instead, two strides, unhurried, precise, until he stood toe to toe with the man who once called him brother.

The courtyard strained under the weight of it.

Caelen’s eyes flickered, not toward Soren, but toward Eris.

Just a glance.

Barely a heartbeat long.

But it was enough.

Defeat was written in every line of his face, exhaustion carved deep beneath his eyes. There was no malice in his expression, no anger left, only sorrow, hollow and heavy, that almost made her falter.

Almost.

Because she remembered.

She remembered the heat of his grip. The taste of wine and regret. The way he’d left her standing against cold stone, bruised and forgotten, the echo of Ophelia’s name still ringing in the distance.

So she straightened. Lifted her chin. Let her fury burn through the weakness clawing at her chest.

When their eyes met again, it was not as lovers, nor as ghosts of what they had been. It was as equals standing on opposite sides of a grave.

Her irises caught the morning light, igniting in molten gold, a spark of fire alive beneath her skin.

Soren saw it. And his eyes answered in kind.

That impossible blue, sharp as a blade drawn in vengeance.

Ice meeting flame.

His anger was a quiet, deliberate thing, the kind that could raze kingdoms without ever raising its voice.

He wore it like armor, but beneath the polish was something raw, unspoken: fury at the man who had hurt her, touched her, and then dared to abandon her in ruin.

Yet when he finally spoke, it wasn’t rage that filled the space.

It was something colder.

Playful, even.

Deadly in its poise.

"You must have gotten my letter quite fast."

Across from him, Caelen nodded once.

"Yes."

The answer was simple, but his gaze never left Eris.

Not for a heartbeat.

He stood as though his body had forgotten how to breathe. His eyes, once proud, once cutting were quiet now. The kind of quiet that begged without words, that pleaded for something already lost. Stay, they said. Come back. Don’t make this real.

But reality had already been written.

Soren saw the look. Of course he did. His smile didn’t falter, but it sharpened, a blade wrapped in silk.

"I don’t enjoy my best friend eyeing my future bride like that," he said lightly. The words glided out smooth as ice, but underneath, there was an edge that could have sliced stone.

A flicker crossed Caelen’s face, barely there, but visible.

The instinct to reply, to say the words ’She was my wife first’ to stake a claim that no longer held weight. But he stopped himself.

He exhaled slowly, carefully, drawing the mask of royalty back over the ruins of a man. When he spoke again, his tone was formal, distant, the sort of practiced civility learned only by those who’ve mastered the art of grief.

"I wish you both safe travels," he said. "May this alliance strengthen the peace between Solmire and Nevareth. Our gates will always remain open for diplomatic counsel."

The kind of farewell meant to be recorded in state archives, polished, forgettable, sterile.

But the words hung lifeless in the air.

Soren inclined his head slightly, that same unshakable composure in place.

"How thoughtful," he replied. "Then allow me to promise that soon, gifts from Nevareth will be delivered to celebrate your coronation... and your marriage to Lady Ophelia."

A pause. A gleam.

"Along with invitations to our own wedding."

The moment quivered. The Winter Knights shifted. Somewhere, metal creaked beneath a tightening grip.

Caelen didn’t rise to the bait. His voice, when it came, was stripped bare of irony.

"I only have one request," he said quietly.

"Take care of Eris."

Eris blinked, startled. The words fell on her like cold rain, unexpected, undeserved.

Soren, however, was far less moved. His smile flattened, the ice in his eyes hardening.

"I don’t need you to tell me that your majesty," he replied, voice threaded with disdain. Then, softer, deadlier, he turned to Eris.

"By the looks of it," he murmured, "everyone can already tell that ice was made for fire."

The courtyard seemed to still. Even the wind drew back.

It was a statement and a claim all at once, and every soul present felt its weight.

Soren and Eris, standing side by side, the elements themselves bowing in reluctant harmony, looked, in that instant, like something divine.

Like the story poets would one day write about.

Caelen saw it.

Saw what he’d lost, what he’d destroyed.

Saw how perfectly she fit into a world that had never been his to hold.

His chest ached, but he swallowed it. Pain had no place here.

Only formality.

He drew in a careful breath and said, "Visit Solmire often, Eris. For Rael’s sake."

A faint tremor touched his tone. "So he doesn’t miss you too much."

Her response came sharp and immediate, laced with ice and fire both.

"I’m sure there’ll be no need," she said, voice smooth as venom. "You always make sure Rael forgets his mother after all."

The color drained from his face.

He stood there, guilt hollowing him out from the inside.

Eris turned slightly, her expression cooling into distance.

"If that is all," she said softly, "then I wish to leave."

Soren inclined his head in silent agreement, his hand returning to hers.

But before turning away, he added one final thing, his voice light, but pointed.

"Oh, and Your Majesty," he said, almost offhandedly, "regarding the fighter from the Duel of Cinders... Jorel’s father. You’ve freed him, I assume?"

Caelen’s jaw tightened.

"I have," he said. "His release was ordered this morning."

Soren’s smile returned, charming and merciless.

"I knew I could trust my friend to make the right decision."

The words hung there, sharp and hollow.

Then the moment broke.

Eris turned toward the waiting carriage. Soren followed, his presence towering, his shadow wrapping around hers like a silent vow. She trembled, just slightly, the kind of trembling one hides behind poise.

For a fleeting second, Soren wanted to gather her close.

To shield her.

To touch his lips to her hair and whisper that the worst was over.

But he wondered if she’d let him.

If she’d see comfort as pity, protection as weakness.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he opened the carriage door, his movements smooth, almost reverent.

"Your Majesty," he said, offering his hand.

Eris took it without hesitation and stepped inside.

Soren followed, the air shifting around them, heat and cold, tension and finality, all tangled in one breath.

Outside, the trumpets began to sound.

Long, slow notes, the Solmire farewell.

The carriages lurched forward.

Wheels rolling over stone. Hooves striking rhythm. The kingdom of fire slowly disappearing behind the rising dust.

Caelen stood there, unmoving, as the sound faded into distance.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t speak.

He simply watched the carriage shrink into the horizon, carrying with it the woman who had once burned his world and the man who now held her flame.

When they were gone, he turned back toward the palace, his men falling into step behind him, shadows following a hollow king.

And above them, the dawn broke.

Pale, merciless, and unbearably beautiful.