Ophelia's POV
I have done my part.
The kingdom is not mourning today.
The black veils have been lifted, the funeral incense replaced with the scent of polished wood and burning torches. The streets are swept clean, banners of gold and ivory draped across the palace walls. Musicians play a melody that is neither joyous nor sorrowful, just something to fill the silence, something to make the people believe that today is not a funeral of its own kind.
Samuel stands at the end of the grand hall, his back straight, his face carved from stone. The boy from yesterday—the one who cried into the dirt and cursed the weight of his fate—is gone. In his place stands a prince prepared to become a king.
But I see it.
The way his fingers twitch at his sides. The way his throat bobs as he swallows hard. The way his shoulders remain stiff, not with pride, but with restraint—like a bird standing on the edge of a cage it does not want to enter.
I watch in silence.
I do not need to say anything. This moment does not belong to me.
The hall is grand, filled with nobles and advisors, all standing as the high priest recites the old words. The same words spoken to every ruler before him. The same words that will be spoken long after we are dust. The torches cast flickering light across the marble floors, across the faces of those who cheer for their new king.
Samuel kneels, bowing his head, and the priest lifts the crown.
It is smaller than his father's—a ceremonial piece made for the occasion, meant to be replaced later with the true crown. But even this one, light as it is, weighs heavier than anything he has ever carried.
I see it in the way his shoulders stiffen as the cold metal brushes against his skin.
I hear it in the breath he holds as they lower it onto his head.
He stays kneeling for a moment too long. Perhaps he is praying. Perhaps he is waiting. Perhaps he is still convincing himself that this is real.
And then, slowly, he rises.
The hall erupts in cheers. "Long live the king!" The voices clash against one another, loud and eager, as if saying it enough times will make it true, as if it will make him strong, will make him willing.
I say nothing.
Samuel does not look at me. He only looks ahead, past the golden throne, past the crowd, past the world he once dreamed of escaping.
I wonder if he is thinking of the ocean.
I wonder if he is imagining the feel of the wind against his face as he stands at the helm of a ship, sailing into the unknown, free of duty, free of responsibility.
I wonder if, even as they call him King, he still feels like a prisoner.
The cheers still echo through the hall, a deafening chorus of voices proclaiming Samuel as their new ruler. Every noble, every advisor, every knight stands with reverence, their eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to ascend the throne.
He does not move.
Samuel stands at the center, the new crown gleaming under the torchlight, his expression unreadable. I can feel the way the air shifts, heavy with something I could not quite put a name on.
Then, to the shock of all, he turns away from the throne.
He steps down the marble dais, moving with purpose, his ceremonial robes trailing behind him. Gasps ripple through the crowd, whispers snapping like the crackle of fire.
"Where is he going?"
"Why isn't he taking his seat?"
"Something is wrong."
I remain still, watching as he strides across the hall—toward me.
More whispers. Some urgent, others scandalized. A noblewoman presses a hand to her mouth, an advisor's eyes widen in horror. The nobles glance at one another, uncertain of what this means, uncertain of what their king intends to do.
Samuel stops before me.
The hall holds its breath.
I look up at him, expression unchanging. His eyes are distant, filled with something heavy—something human. Something I do not understand.
Without a word, he drops to one knee.
A collective gasp sweeps through the hall. Someone lets out a muffled exclamation. Others are too stunned to react at all. The sight of a king kneeling—not before his throne, but before me—sends a wave of uncertainty through the crowd.
I watch him, numb as ever. I do not flinch. I do not react.
Samuel takes my hand, his fingers trembling as he presses something into my palm.
A ring.
Smooth metal, cool against my skin.
I stare at it, then back at him. I do not understand. I do not understand what this means.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. Low enough that the audience does not hear, but I do.
"If I must be king, then let me choose something for myself."
I do not respond.
I do not know how.
This is something I am not capable of responding to.
Everything feels weird...
The room around us swirls with tension, voices rising in confusion, in shock, in whispered theories.
Those that I am not ready to hear.
Engagement. Devotion. Love.
These things are foreign to me. Meaningless. I am an immortal. I do not feel as they do. I do not understand what Samuel is asking, what his gesture is supposed to signify.
But he does.
And so does everyone else in this room.
The weight of a hundred stares presses down on me. The whispers are a storm gathering in the grand hall, circling like vultures over something they believe to be profound. I do not understand.
I lower my gaze to the ring in my hand. It is simple, silver with an inlaid gemstone that catches the torchlight. An object. A thing of metal and stone. Nothing more.
Samuel's fingers are still curled around mine, his grip tense, desperate. He is waiting for something.
So, I do what is expected.
I slide the ring onto my finger.
A hush falls over the room. The air shifts again, charged with something new, something heavier than grief, heavier than duty. The whispers stop, replaced by an unnatural silence.
Samuel exhales sharply, as if he had been holding his breath. His shoulders fall, his posture loosening as though some great weight has been lifted.
I do not know why.
I look at him, at the relief in his eyes, the way something unspoken settles over his expression. He feels something. Something I cannot name. Something I cannot mimic.
"It fits," I remark simply. It is the only thing I can think to say.
His lips part, his expression faltering for the briefest second before his head tilts downward, a quiet laugh slipping from his throat. Not amusement. Something else. Something sad.
"Yes," he murmurs. "It does."
The room remains still, yet beneath the silence, tension crackles like a waiting storm. They all understand something I do not. The way Samuel could only smile faintly as he continued to look over my ring finger was making me feel like he wanted to hear something I could say at all.
I glance down at the ring again. A gift. A simple, material offering. Perhaps it is a human custom, some kind of royal tradition. Perhaps it is his way of thanking me.
It does not matter. A ring is a ring. It just had this unique gemstone that makes me feel like it was recharging every bits of energy I have lost in my body. It refreshes my being… where did he get this? Where did he found such a thing?
I close my hand over it and step back, expecting the moment to pass, expecting Samuel to rise and return to his throne. Because that is what he must do… a King should not kneel before anyone or else, his position will be in danger. He must no worship me…
But he doesn't stand at all.
He stays kneeling for just a moment longer, as if he is memorizing this moment, as if something irreversible has happened. Then, slowly, he stands, his face returning to the carefully composed expression of a ruler.
He turns back toward his people, the ones who now watch him not just as their king—but as a man who has chosen.
Something is wrong. I do not know what I have done.
Why do I feel like I had just tied myself to something over a piece of metal that will just fade away before I could even die? As if there was something that chained me to him even though there was no words spoken between us. Even though all he said was that… he wanted to choose for himself.
What kind of decision is that? What did he choose for himself?