Grief doesn't knock.
It seeps in, like rainwater through cracked stone, slow, then all at once. At Wild Villa, it has no witnesses. No Queen. No Cassian. No mother.
Just me… and the unbearable stillness of being the only one left after the storm.
The doctors had said, "There was… a placental abruption. The placenta separated from the uterine wall prematurely. It caused a sudden and severe loss of oxygen."
there was no clear reason. That sometimes it just happens.
But no one told me how I would ache. How silence would roar. How even blinking would feel like betrayal.
I didn't cry anymore. Not out loud. The tears had dried somewhere inside my bones, and now I moved through the days like a shadow, dressed, breathing, empty.
And yet, last night, something changed.
I had fallen asleep on the couch, wearing Cassian's old hoodie, the sleeves pulled over my knuckles. The fire had long died out. The wind scratched against the windowpanes. And sleep; real sleep, came like a thief.
Then I dreamt.
I knew the room the moment I opened my eyes.
The palace library.
Polished wooden floors. Shelves that climbed to the sky. The scent of old books and deeper memories.
And his portrait, centered above the grand fireplace.
The Judge King.
Cassian's father. The man I had whispered to in the hardest seasons of my life. The man whose eyes in that painted canvas seemed to follow me through law school, through heartbreak, through hidden victories.
In the dream, the portrait glowed faintly. The fire beneath it roared silently. And I was no longer alone.
He stepped forward, not a ghost, not a shadow but real, as though the canvas had birthed him.
Clad in full judicial robes, a scroll in one hand and a glowing signet ring on the other. His white hood framed a face as stern as it was kind.
"Celeste."
The sound of my name from his mouth made my knees buckle. I stood frozen as he approached, tall and steady, the embodiment of law and grace.
"Your sorrow reached the gates of the unseen," he said gently. "Even the earth trembled."
My lips parted, but no words came.
"She was not lost," he said before I could ask.
I blinked at him. "But… she didn't even…she didn't…"
"Breathe?" he finished for me. "Cry? Open her eyes?"
I nodded.
"Because this world was not yet ready for her."
A sob threatened to break through my chest. "Then why send her at all?"
He studied me for a long moment, then walked toward the portrait, toward himself. He placed his hand on the painting, and it shimmered.
"She was a sign. A flame that flickered in your womb to awaken what had grown dormant in you. She was never meant to stay. Not yet."
"But she was mine…" I choked out. "I held her. She was warm. She had my mouth."
"And you will hold her again."
I stared at him, not daring to breathe.
"Celeste… she will return. Whole. Bright. Chosen. Just as you were."
He stepped closer, and I felt the same presence that had always emanated from the portrait, only now it pulsed like a heartbeat in the room.
"You have called me the Judge King. You looked into my painted eyes and sought truth. But now… I speak to you not just as a judge."
He paused.
"I speak as your father."
The world seemed to pause. My blood roared in my ears.
"You are my daughter. My legacy. My blood."
"No…" I shook my head, stunned. "That's not possible. My mother never…"
"She hid you for your safety. But your fire, your voice, your call to justice were never coincidence. They are inherited. You were born to carry forward what I began."
"And my baby?" I whispered.
He smiled, not with lips, but with light. He reached out and placed something invisible on my head. It felt like warmth and gold.
"Your daughter will return. And when she does, she will not only carry your name. She will carry mine."
"How will I know her?"
"You will know her by the way she looks at the stars. And the way she weeps at injustice. She will be like you. And like me."
I covered my mouth, tears now flowing freely.
"This pain is real," he said. "But it is not the end. Let grief run its course. Let silence teach you. Let love rebuild you."
"I don't feel strong."
"You don't need to feel it. You already are."
"Will you stay?" I asked.
He reached for my hand. His fingers wrapped around mine, strong and certain.
"Every time you look into justice's face… I will be there."
The fire dimmed. The library began to fade. His image shimmered — not gone, just receding into something deeper.
"Rise, my daughter. Not just to live. But to prepare."
I woke up with a gasp. The cold morning air stung my cheeks.
***
Outside, the trees dance in the wind, but something inside me has shifted.
The ache is still there. So is the emptiness. But now, something else lives beside them.
Purpose.
And promise.
My daughter… my child… will return.
Not now.
But when the world is ready.
And when I am.
And I will be waiting.
A day after the dream, I wake up differently.
Not lighter. Not healed. But… anchored.
Something in me, quiet and stubborn, remembers how to stand again.
My grief hasn't vanished. The ache still settles in my ribs. The emptiness still curls beneath my skin. But the Judge King's words echo in the places that had been quiet for too long.
She will return.
And so will I.
The days that follow are soft and uneventful. I don't rush them. I don't ask for company. I just let the wind move through the villa, let the sun spill across the floor, let my soul unfold like something wounded but still breathing.
I barely eat. I hardly move. But I sit by the window each evening, watching the clouds change. I pray without words. I remember every second of her short existence, the weight of her frame, the shape of her lips, the warmth of the silence she left behind.
And then… he comes.
Cassian.
Not in a convoy. Not with guards. Not with fanfare.
Just him.
I hear the quiet rumble of an engine outside, his personal car and I know.
I stay on the couch, knees tucked to my chest, wrapped in my own silence.
He opens the door with the key only the two of us have. When I turn, our eyes meet.
No words.
Not yet.
His eyes are tired, not from sleepless nights, but from the kind of grief that no crown can soften.
He closes the door gently behind him and places something on the counter. A grocery bag.
Then he walks over and sits, a few feet away on the other couch.
"I came to feed you," he says, his voice low and steady.
I blink. "You didn't have to."
"I needed to."
He stands and moves to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients, fumbling through drawers. I watch him; this man born into opulence, searches for pots and spoons like someone trying to learn a foreign language by feel.
It's almost absurd. Almost funny. Almost sweet.
He turns once and catches me watching. "I've never cooked for anyone before. So if it's terrible, lie to me."
And I almost smile.
He makes curried rice. The smell of tomatoes and spices fills the villa like something holy. He grills chicken too, burns the edges a little, but I say nothing.
When it's ready, he serves it in bowls, brings mine to me, then sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch.
"Eat, Celeste."
I take the spoon. One bite. Then another. It's warm. Spicy. Clumsy in the best way. But made with hands that once held swords and signed decrees.
"It's good," I say.
"Liar."
"But honest."
We both chuckle; small, cracked sounds but real.
Then silence again.
He watches me for a long moment. "I've been dreaming of her," he says.
I don't respond.
"A girl… maybe five, six. Hair like yours. She's always running ahead of me, laughing. I never catch her."
I set my bowl down.
"I had a dream too," I whisper. "Your father. He came to me."
His brows lift slightly. He listens.
"He said she wasn't meant to stay. Not yet. But she'll return."
Cassian reaches for my hand; gently, as if asking permission first. Our fingers touch.
"Then I'll wait with you," he says.
And that does it.
The tears come again, silent and full.
He doesn't try to stop them. He doesn't tell me to be strong. He just leans closer until my head rests on his shoulder, and we sit like that; a broken couple, mended only by presence.
After a long while, he says quietly, "Whatever life throws at us; joy or pain, loss or more, we go through it together. You and me."
I nod.
"You and me."
He kisses my temple. The touch doesn't ignite fire.
It breathes peace. A quiet promise.
We don't speak of the palace. Or duties. Or what comes next.
We just sit; two people touched by death, choosing life.
Together.