Night had settled heavily over Arkenfall.
The moon was pale, thin behind clouds, and the torches lining the castle's outer walls sputtered in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, the last watch bell rang.
Inside her chamber — not the king's — Neriah lay still.
She hadn't eaten.
She hadn't spoken since she ran from the balcony.
Her gown was soft, layered with silken comfort, her hair brushed and loosely braided by Gwen's gentle hands. All the ritual of winding down the day had been followed. But it felt wrong. All of it felt wrong.
She did not belong here tonight — in this chamber, on this bed, with its polished marble floors and the perfumed pillows.
She belonged in his bed.
That's where she should be. That's where she had been, every night since her wedding. Since the soft days of subtle kisses and lazy morning banter. She belonged in his arms — and she hated that the thought made her feel hollow.
Because now, every time she closed her eyes… she saw the axe.
"My lady?" Gwen's voice piped up again from beside the dressing table, warm and chirping as always. The small handmaid had been setting out Neriah's robe, flitting around the room like a bird who didn't know where to land.
"You sure you're sleeping here tonight?" Gwen asked, blinking. "I mean—since the wedding you've never really—" she hesitated, grinning a little too knowingly, "—you know…slept alone."
Neriah sat at the edge of the bed, still dressed, her arms hugging her knees. "I just… thought I might, tonight."
Gwen tilted her head. "But why? Is the king upset with you? Or are you—" her voice dropped with mock drama, "—with him?"
"No," Neriah said quickly, shaking her head. "It's nothing like that."
"Well, that's very odd,"
Neriah smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Gwen…"
The handmaiden paused. "Yes, my lady?"
"I'd like to be alone for the night."
The smile dropped from Gwen's face immediately. "Of course." She dipped into a small curtsey. "If you need anything, I'll be just outside."
"Thank you." Neriah whispered.
The door shut gently behind her.
Silence fell.
Neriah curled onto her side, her knees tucked up toward her chest as the fire cracked low in the hearth. The soft amber light flickered across the walls, casting long shadows that danced like phantoms.
She hated how much she missed him.
She hated that she longed to feel his arms around her — his breath warm against the back of her neck, her heart still stuttered at the thought of his voice.
And yet…
The image returned.
The arc of the axe. The sound it made. The way Damon didn't flinch. The way he stepped through blood like it meant nothing.
She had never known real violence before. Not like this.
In Halemond, her world had been gentle. Controlled. Protected. Her father shielded her from war, from hardship, from anything beyond books and quiet gardens and simple court dinners. She had read of execution. She had heard whispers of kings who did what was "necessary."
But this…
This was the man who smiled at her like she was the only peace he knew.
And he had taken a man's life without blinking.
Not in battle.
Not in defense.
But in judgment.
As a king.
Neriah closed her eyes, gripping the edge of her blanket tight.
Had she fallen for a lie?
Was she just a naive girl, dazzled by charm and pretty words? A fool who believed love could exist in a place where blood painted the floor?
Or…
Or had she seen something true in him?
Because Damon didn't smile easily. His affection was real, hard-won and honest. He never pretended to be soft. He never hid the weight of his crown. And yet, he held her like she was breakable.
So which was it?
The monster with the axe? Or the man who whispered her name like a prayer?
Neriah pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the strange ache swell again. She had never felt anything like this before — not for anyone. And now she didn't know what to do with it.
What to do with him.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself.
She didn't know if she could sleep. She didn't know if she could face him in the morning. She didn't know if she even wanted to.
But she knew one thing.
She loved him.
And that might be the most frightening part of all.
********************
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, tired shadows across the royal study. The windows, high and arched, whispered with wind, the velvet curtains occasionally stirring as if they too were weary of the hour.
Damon sat alone, still draped in his dark doublet, its collar loosened and sleeves rolled to his forearms. His fingers ink-stained, his expression unreadable. His eyes scanned another parchment with practiced calculation — stamp, sign, seal.
He had thought the execution would be the hardest part of the day.
It wasn't.
It was this — the endless governance. A tower of messages from the outer provinces. Updates from Leon on border drills. A new map from Corrin with coin projections. Petition after petition. The burden of kingship was rarely in the blood; it was in the paper.
He exhaled slowly, leaned back, and let his hand fall over his brow.
Gods, he was tired.
The thought that kept him going, the quiet flicker behind his exhaustion, was her.
Riah.
He would finish here, then return to his chamber. She would be already curled up in bed...her face half smiling as she slept.The very thought warmed something inside him.
He was sealing the final scroll when the door opened — too smoothly to be urgent, too deliberately to be casual.
He didn't look up.
"You're awake late," came Lady Rhea's voice, silken and composed as ever. "Even kings deserve sleep, don't they?"
"I'll rest soon," Damon said without turning. He picked up the wax and pressed it into the seal. "What is it, Rhea?"
She walked in, her soft lavender gown whispering against the stone floor, her long silver earrings catching the firelight.
"There are matters from Braemorin that require your signature," she said, placing a thin stack of papers on the edge of his table. "Trade agreements. Merchant sanctions. The usual."
He nodded, rubbing his temple.
But Rhea didn't move to leave.
She lingered by the edge of the table, watching him carefully. "You don't know, do you?"
Damon finally looked up, his brow knitting. "Know what?"
She tilted her head, the faintest curve to her lips. "That Neriah saw the execution."
Silence.
Damon's eyes froze. For a moment, he didn't breathe.
"…What?"
Rhea stepped closer, voice low. "She was on the upper gallery with me. She saw the whole thing. From the moment they dragged Lord Travis to the block, to the moment your axe came down."
His gaze sharpened. "You brought her."
Rhea lifted a brow, unashamed. "She wanted to. I didn't force her to stay," she replied smoothly. "And I didn't lie to her either. You're the King, Damon. You cannot expect the girl to live in a dream forever."
Damon said nothing.
"She likes the carefully lit part of you. She needed to see the rest."
His jaw flexed. His hands clenched and unclenched.
Rhea's eyes softened — or pretended to. "You know I've never lied to you. I've known every side of you, even before the crown. The steel, the blood, the fire. I've seen it. And I don't mind."
She reached for his hand — slow, practiced.
He pulled back.
Her fingers hung awkward in the air.
"I'm glad you came, Rhea," Damon said as he stood, quietly he stepped away from the table, back turned. "But I think you should leave."
She didn't move immediately. But when she finally did, she bowed, perfectly measured. "Your Majesty."
Then she turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the corridor like fading judgment.
Damon stood alone in the firelight, the silence ringing louder than anything she'd said. He turned his gaze toward the window — where the wind still howled softly outside.
Neriah had seen everything.
And he wasn't sure how he felt about that.