Third Arc (Fallen Heart) - 414. Inherited
Dark aura shimmered in the Euphorion King's Chamber like oil poured into moonlight—rippling, slow, and silent.
The room itself—high vaulted ceiling, carved stone pillars, tall stained windows, and embroidered gold curtains swaying faintly from a breeze that didn't exist—seemed to pause the moment it felt the shift.
Then the shadows peeled back like velvet.
And Angel stepped through.
Rose followed half a breath later, her boots tapping softly against the cold marble as the darkness withdrew behind them and dissolved into the corners of the room like a polite servant.
The smell of cedar, ash, and faint iron from the enchanted braziers greeted them. It was past midnight now. The chamber was dimly lit—just enough for shape, not comfort. And in that silence, Angel didn't say a word.
He walked forward without urgency, his coat still damp from the forest mist, his gloves tucked into one hand. But his other hand… was clenched.
Inside it, the bracelet.
The cracked, ancient thing that had haunted him since the moment he saw it glinting on Lady Belle's wrist like it was just a lucky charm and not a key to something wrong.
He didn't even realize he was staring at it until he stopped in the center of the room and the world finally caught up to his breathing.
Rose said nothing at first. She just watched him, quietly. The way his fingers moved around the bracelet. How his gaze wasn't focused on the object, but somewhere far behind it—like he was looking through time.
She stepped a little closer, her voice soft. "Would you like some tea? Something warm, just before bed?"
Angel didn't look up. His voice, when it came, was calm but flat. "No. Thank you."
He walked over to the desk. The one near the tall window with the heavy velvet drapes, usually filled with war plans and court reports.
He opened the drawer slowly, placed the bracelet inside with care, and closed it with a click that felt… too final.
Rose didn't press him.
She'd seen that look before. That silent unraveling that never turned into a storm—but sank. Quiet. Deep. Heavy.
He stood still for another moment, his hand still on the drawer. Then he said, without turning, "I'll change."
It wasn't cold. It wasn't dismissive. But it was clear.
He needed space.
Not distance.
Just… room to think.
Rose didn't leave the room. Instead, she moved quietly toward the closet where the attendants had already laid out nightclothes—simple linen shirt, black sleeping robe, clean trousers. She picked them up carefully and brought them over without a word.
Angel had already unbuckled his coat, shrugging it off his shoulders with the ease of someone who moved like armor was just another layer of skin. He didn't look at her as she approached, but he didn't stop her, either.
She placed the clothes on the bed, but when he didn't reach for them, she stepped forward and slowly started helping.
Not because he asked. Not because he needed help.
But because silence didn't mean he had to be alone in it.
She undid the clasps on his vest. Slid the fabric off his arms, one at a time. Her fingers grazed his skin—still warm from the tension, the magic, the travel—and he didn't flinch.
His shirt was next, the dark linen pulled up and over his head. His back was to her now, bare and scarred.
There was an old line across his shoulder blade—nearly white now—left from a blade she'd never seen, from a battle he never talked about. She'd traced that scar once before and he let it all fall just long enough to lean into her touch.
Tonight, he didn't speak.
But he let her undress him, layer by layer. And that was its own kind of trust.
Angel's thoughts weren't where his body was.
His mind was still in that firelit room. With Silvan's voice echoing—maybe you weren't just given power, Your Majesty. Maybe you inherited it.
He hated how much sense it made.
He hated how much of his life had been shaped by a power he didn't ask for, didn't understand, and now—possibly—didn't even originate inside him.
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