Chapter 64
The night in Aethelgar was silent, save for the low crackle of the fire.
Hosea sat by his desk, glancing over old documents without truly reading them. A soft knock came at his door.
"Enter," he called, not bothering to look up.
The maid who entered was young, strikingly beautiful—dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, a delicate face painted with false innocence, a body that many men would have gladly burned kingdoms for. She moved with careful grace, the sway of her hips speaking louder than her words ever could.
Hosea immediately recognized it—the seduction, the invitation.
He leaned back slightly, watching her with cold detachment. Beauty meant nothing to him. It never had. And hers, though striking, only fueled the familiar disgust brewing beneath his composed mask.
She approached him with a tray, offering wine with an over-practiced smile. As she leaned closer, she tipped the glass—whether by accident or design, Hosea didn't care—the wine spilled over his tunic.
"Oh! Forgive me, Your Highness," she gasped, rushing closer with a cloth.
She reached for his chest, but before she could touch him, Hosea caught her wrist firmly. His grip was like iron.
"Leave," he said coldly.
The maid froze, terror flickering in her eyes. She stammered, curtsied awkwardly, and fled from the room, her footsteps a clumsy echo down the corridor.
Hosea rose from his chair, pulling the stained fabric away from his skin with a grimace. As he reached for a cloth, the door burst open again.
King Tommen stepped inside.
He was less extravagant tonight—his robe dark and simple, but there remained an undeniable grace to him, the dignity of a man who had once commanded armies. His pale blue eyes, nearly identical to Hosea's, swept across the room before settling on his son.
"Your Highness," Hosea greeted stiffly.
Tommen moved slowly, his gaze lingering on every corner of the room as if trying to memorize it. Finally, he sat at the edge of the bed, an action that felt strangely out of place, almost... desperate.
"You seem to have made the poor maid cry," Tommen said with a faint, wry smile.
It had been years since he last entered Hosea's chambers. Years since their relationship had been anything more than cold tolerance.
Hosea stared at him, suspicion, confusion, and an unwelcome flicker of curiosity stirring within.
"You sent the maid," Hosea said flatly.
Tommen nodded once. "It was a gift. A way to help you... become a man." His voice was light, but under the words lingered something hollow. "It's a father's duty."
Hosea studied him, the anger simmering beneath his skin.
He thought of the man who claimed to have loved his mother, Celine—the man who claimed to have loved his sister. Yet he had done nothing to save them. Nothing but grieve briefly... and then marry another woman, build another family, as if their memory could be replaced.
Hosea scoffed quietly, his face twisting in bitter disbelief.
"I don't think I need your help with that," he said, voice low.
Tommen heard him clearly. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He stood, the fabric of his cloak brushing the floor.
"I'm trying to be a good father to you, Hosea," Tommen said, almost pleadingly.
Hosea turned his back to him, wiping the wine from his hands with slow, deliberate movements.
"That's a little bit too late for that," came the cold reply.
Tommen stood there, watching the son he could no longer reach. His heart ached with a sharp, piercing regret.
He remembered Hosea as a little boy, golden-haired and bright-eyed, clinging to his leg, refusing to let him leave for court. He remembered how Hosea would beg to follow him, sitting proudly on his lap during meetings until he inevitably fell asleep, drooling on his armor.
That boy was gone. And it was his fault.
Then Hosea turned, facing him again, his eyes sharp and merciless.
"And to think you believe fucking a maid would make me a man," Hosea said, voice dripping in disdain. "It only shows how shitty of a man you are."
The words struck like knives.
Tommen stood very still. Once, he would have beheaded men for saying less. Once, he would have drawn his sword for even a whisper of disrespect.
But this was Hosea. His son. His first fruit. His heir.
And no matter how much he failed to show it, no matter how distant he had become... he loved him. Fiercely. Painfully.
He would have given anything—everything—to go back to those early days. To a time when Celine still laughed in the gardens, when his children ran through the palace, when happiness had seemed like something permanent.
Tommen stepped closer, his hand lifting by instinct—reaching to cup Hosea's face like he once had. But midway, he hesitated. His fingers curled back into a loose fist and fell to his side.
"I'll leave you to yourself," he said quietly, voice heavy with defeat.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him.
Hosea stood there, staring at the closed door.
Slowly, his eyes shifted to the mirror.
He studied his reflection—the golden hair, the sharp jaw, the cold blue eyes.
He looked too much like Tommen.
And part of him despised it.
A deep, burning frustration rose inside him. He turned from the mirror abruptly and stormed out of the room, the cold night swallowing him.
---
It had been three days on the road to Aethelgar.
The journey was long and grueling, cutting through quiet forests, across rivers wrapped in mist, and over lonely stretches of land that whispered only wind. Their party—guards, servants, riders—moved in rhythm, a column of banners and hooves under the ever-changing sky.
They made camp just before dusk near a quiet stream. The horses were watered, tents erected, and the firewood stacked. Alissa stood a little apart from the bustle, pulling her cloak tighter around her as the wind stirred her dark hair. The scent of pine lingered in the air.
Her father approached, dismounting beside her with practiced ease. "You've grown quiet," Mathias said, not unkindly, brushing his gloves clean. "That's rare for you."
Alissa turned her eyes to him. "I think I'm just... thinking too much."
He studied her for a moment. "About Aethelgar?"
She hesitated. "Yes. And no."
Mathias walked with her toward the water's edge, his gait slower now, wearier than years past. "It won't be easy," he said at last. "I wouldn't have let you come if I didn't believe in your strength."
She nodded but said nothing. The sound of the stream filled the silence between them. She wanted to tell him. About Adam. About how her heart beat faster every time he drew near. But the words died in her throat, the same way they had every night before.
She glanced at her father again. He looked older than he used to. Not weak—but worn. Worn from battle, from politics, from the burden of keeping Valla standing in a world that often wanted it brought low.
And how could she add to that weight?
She sighed and looked behind her.
Adam rode near the rear of the procession, close to the guards, speaking little but alert to everything. His eyes met hers for a heartbeat, and he smiled—soft, reassuring.
Alissa's fingers curled around the reins of her horse. The gods knew how much she wanted to be in his arms. Just a moment of peace in a world of decisions she didn't ask for. But not here. Not while she was being taken to a kingdom that might call her "bride." And not with her father a few feet away, oblivious to the storm inside her.
She turned her face forward again, the heat of her feelings trapped beneath her skin.
The sun was beginning to dip, golden against the distant hills. Still, they rode toward it—toward Aethelgar, toward duty, toward the unknown.
And Alissa rode with them, torn between the woman she wanted to be and the one she was expected to become.