Damien entered the capital alone.
No trumpets. No procession. Just boots caked with dust and a heart weighed down by memories.
He wore no crown. Spoke no title. But the guards at the gate still bowed before his eyes.
News of his return spread like wildfire.
By nightfall, every hall whispered his name.
The throne room had changed.
New banners. New officials. But the same throne. Empty.
The regent, a nervous man with too much gold on his robe, met Damien in the chamber of state. "We didn't think you'd come back."
"Neither did I," Damien replied.
They spoke of unrest. Of provinces on the brink of rebellion. Of a court crumbling under its own indecision.
"They need someone who can rule. Someone they fear."
Damien shook his head. "They need someone they trust."
The regent sneered. "Then you're not that man."
That night, Damien walked the palace alone.
Past portraits he remembered commissioning. Past rooms where his cruelty had once echoed.
He paused at a window overlooking the courtyard.
"I'm not here to take back power," he whispered. "I'm here to stop it from taking everything else."
Meanwhile, in the village, I waited.
The days stretched long. Letters arrived sporadically. Short notes in his hand:
Spoke with the generals. They remember.
The regent won't last.
I miss you.
One letter changed everything:
They tried to poison me last night.
I'm fine.
I think.
I dropped the parchment.
The past returned like a flood.
The blood. The betrayal. The blade.
And I knew I couldn't wait anymore.
I packed what little we had. Wrapped the almond branch he once planted.
And I left.
Toward the capital.
Toward him.
Toward whatever waited.
Because love wasn't just waiting.
It was walking into fire.