It began with a letter.
Unmarked. Unsealed. Left on our doorstep with the morning dew still clinging to the edges.
Damien unfolded it slowly. I watched his eyes narrow, his fingers tighten around the parchment.
"What is it?" I asked.
He handed it to me without a word.
The handwriting was elegant. Precise. But the words struck like arrows:
The empire rots.
The new regime falters. Your abdication left a throne without a spine.
Come back. Or watch it fall.
No name. No signature. Just the weight of a kingdom pressing back into our quiet lives.
Damien sat by the fire that night, silent.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared into the flames as if answers might rise from the ashes.
I sat beside him.
"You promised," I said.
He nodded. "I remember."
"So?"
His voice was low. "I don't know what to do."
That frightened me more than anything.
Because Damien Drake always knew what to do.
The next morning, we walked through the almond grove in silence.
The petals had begun to fall.
"If you return," I said, "they'll never let you go again."
He stopped. Looked at me.
"And if I don't, innocent people may die. Corruption may win."
"So you'll go?"
"Only if you ask me to."
I stared at him.
This man who once ruled with iron and cruelty. Who now stood beneath flowering trees, asking for permission.
And I realized something cruel and beautiful:
I didn't want him to go.
But I couldn't ask him to stay.
So I kissed him.
Long. Deep. Final.
"Then go," I whispered. "But come back."
He left that night.
No horses. No guards. Just a man in a gray cloak, walking into a kingdom that still remembered his shadow.
And I stayed.
Every morning, I walked to the stream and waited.
Every night, I lit the lantern by our window.
The days passed. The tree outside grew taller.
And I waited.
For the man who had once broken me.
For the man who had rebuilt himself.
For the man I loved.