The rain came softly that afternoon—mist-like, as if the sky wept without anger. The palace halls grew dim, and golden candlelight flickered against the stone walls like memory made flame.
Elira waited in the old music chamber, where no instruments had been played in years. A room half-forgotten, yet full of echoes. She stood beside the window, her green dress trailing like ivy, her reflection faint in the glass.
When Lucien entered, the door clicked softly behind him.
"You wanted to speak," he said, voice cautious. Wary. "After all this time, I didn't think…"
"I didn't ask to forget," she cut in. "Only to be free."
She turned to face him fully. Her eyes—green and steady—held none of the fear he once remembered. But neither did they hold warmth.
"You still don't understand what you did to me."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I never hurt you—"
"But you did," she whispered. "Every time I second-guessed my thoughts. Every time I apologized for something that wasn't wrong. Every time I kept my laughter quiet because I didn't know if it would annoy you."
Her voice didn't shake—but something in the air did.
"I was afraid of you, Lucien. Afraid to speak. Afraid to breathe too freely. I used to look in the mirror and not recognize myself—because I'd shaped myself around your storms."
Lucien stepped forward. His voice cracked.
"I didn't mean to—Elira, I didn't—"
"You told me once that you felt small when I spoke to other people," she said, cutting him off. "And I tried so hard to make you feel bigger. But you shrank me instead."
That hit him like a slap—his breath caught, his chest rose.
"You always looked so happy," he murmured, eyes glazed with disbelief.
"I smiled because it was the only safe thing to do."
And now, she stepped closer—not cruelly, not bitterly. But with a calm that came only from surviving.
"I don't hate you," she said. "But I can't carry the version of me that loved you anymore. She's tired. And she's not coming back."
Lucien's composure faltered. His shoulders dropped. His hands, which had always been so still in public, now trembled.
"I thought if I tried harder… if I just showed you—"
"You don't need to show me anything, Lucien," she said gently. "You need to see yourself."
He looked at her then—truly looked. For the first time without hunger, or sorrow, or want. And what he saw left him silent.
She turned and left, her steps soft, but certain.
She didn't look back.
---
Later, Axellan found Lucien still in the music chamber.
He sat slumped in the window seat, rain running down the glass like something broken inside him had finally been mirrored by the world outside. His coat was soaked at the shoulders. The letter he'd once written to Elira lay torn in half on the floor.
Axellan said nothing.
He sat beside him.
Not as a prince's advisor. Not as a witness. Just as a friend.
And in the quiet, they let the rain fall.