You didn't weep that night.
There was no need.
The grief had settled into something colder now — not fury, not despair, but finality. You moved through your chambers with practiced calm, instructing Mira what to fold, what to leave behind. Only essentials. Only what belonged to you, not the crown.
No gowns sewn in the capital. No sapphires gifted on your wedding day. Not even the gold comb he once left at your dressing table.
Only what was yours before — before palaces and protocols, before titles weighed on your name.
A wool cloak stitched by your mother's hand.
A leather-bound ledger from your father's court.
Your childhood seal ring — modest, iron-set, worn smooth with age.
A small carved box of herbs and incense from your home province.
A single volume of poetry, pages weathered by use.
No jewels. No silks from his treasury. Nothing from him.
The rest, you told Mira, could be given away, left or burned.
The palace had grown silent since the letter arrived — or perhaps you had grown deaf to its sounds. Every polished whisper and soft-footed servant now felt like wind passing through a mausoleum.
Casian's silence had stretched too long.
His absence, too loud.
And your hope — the flicker you nursed like a foolish girl — had guttered out somewhere between her name and his seal.
You dressed in plain travel garments, your house colors stitched subtly at the hem. No gold, no embroidery. No royal seal.
Only yours.
You would not leave as a queen.
You would leave as the daughter of a fallen king.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when the Queen Dowager summoned you.
Not with fanfare or attendants — just a quiet message brought by one of her own handmaidens: Join me for tea. East pavilion.
You hesitated, letter to Lord Elair already sent, Mira quietly packing your trunks beneath the guise of seasonal sorting. The plan was in motion. Dawn tomorrow, you'd be gone.
Still, you went.
It was late dusk when you slipped away from your wing and found yourself in the Queen Dowager's garden — a quiet square lined with old roses and marble lions, where she often took her evening tea. Mira followed behind you, carrying your satchel, her steps cautious but loyal.
The Queen Dowager sat beneath the ivy-draped pergola, a steaming cup in her hand. Her ladies were gone. As if she knew you would come.
She did not rise when she saw you. Only lifted her eyes — calm, cutting.
She sat beneath the jasmine-covered arch, her shawl draped neatly across her shoulders, a single cup of chrysanthemum tea steaming beside her. The morning was cool, the hush of the garden broken only by birdsong and the distant clatter of training swords in the courtyard beyond.
"I thought we'd speak plainly today," she said, gesturing to the seat across from her.
You lowered yourself onto the bench, spine straight, fingers folded in your lap.
"You intend to leave," the Dowager said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
You didn't answer.
She studied you, eyes older than your crown, sharper than your silence.
"I served three kings before my son. I know the look of a woman retreating with dignity." She poured herself another cup. "The court will think he sent you away."
You lowered your eyes. "I know what the court will say — that I'm ungrateful, that I'm abandoning my duties. But I can't stay."
Still, she said nothing.
You drew a slow breath. And offered her a shield of half-truths.
"I haven't given him an heir. I've failed in the one thing this marriage was meant to secure. Perhaps that's all there is to it."
But when you looked up, her eyes had narrowed — not in anger, but in recognition.
She leaned forward.
The Queen Dowager did not raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
You stood before her in the twilight hush of her solar, the air thick with the scent of lavender and firewood, when she finally said it.
"I have watched you suffer in silence, child."
Her voice was low, even — the kind of quiet that cut deeper than anger ever could.
"For two years, you've borne the weight of a crown with no one to share it. I watched you sit beside an empty throne at banquet, watched you light incense in an empty chamber, watched your eyes search for him every time the doors opened — and watched him never come."
She moved to pour herself tea, slow and methodical, but her hand trembled slightly as she set the kettle down.
"He made excuses. Campaigns. Strategy. Trade routes. Always something too important to delay. But a man who wants to come home will find a way."
Her gaze lifted to yours, sharp and unflinching.
"Instead, he left you with titles and silence. He denied you not just affection, but presence. Even his shadow, he refused you."
She paused, the porcelain clinking faintly as she set the teacup down untouched.
"You were invisible in your own palace, and still, you wore grace like armor. You played the part they gave you, and did not falter."
A breath.
"I was patient. I thought — perhaps — he needed time. War leaves men half-alive. But time passed. And still, he would not look at you."
A flicker of pain crossed her face — quick, but real.
"He is my son. I will always love him. But I do not lie to myself. Not anymore."
She stepped closer, the weight of her years wrapped in velvet and grief.
"I know what he did. Or rather — what he didn't do. He let your chambers grow cold. He let you fade, little by little, until all that remained was duty."
And then softer, more human:
"He wronged you. Even if he never meant to."
She rested a hand gently against your cheek, her thumb brushing just under your eye.
"You deserved to be cherished. And he gave you nothing."
"I made a vow to my father," you whispered. "That I would protect our kingdom, even if it meant marrying into a cold one. That I would not let his legacy fade."
"And you've done that," she said. "Brilliantly, quietly. So quietly, most men mistook it for obedience. But not me."
You let out a slow, tremulous breath.
Her fingers tightened slightly around yours. "Go," she said. "Not as an exile. Not as a wife discarded. Go as a queen who still remembers her name."
"What will you tell them?" you asked.
"That you needed air," she said. "That your estate requires tending. That the Festival of Remembrance is your sacred duty."
Your throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just don't return weaker than when you left." She reached forward, placed a firm hand over yours. "And if he comes after you… do not make it easy."
You nodded once — not with pride, but with understanding. With grief.
She understood.
You stepped through the archway, down the servants' stair, through the eastern passage where Lord Elair waited with the carriage cloaked in your house colors. The air was sharp with the scent of morning frost, the world still hushed.
You didn't look back.
And now, as the carriage pulled into the darkness, your heart beat with the kind of ache that doesn't scream — only burns. You did not know what would happen next. Whether he would come after you. Whether he would let you go. Whether love — if it had ever stirred — could survive silence, pride, and distance.
But you knew this:
You could not stay and vanish.
You had to leave to breathe.
And so you rode — not as a queen in exile, but as a daughter returning to her father's land. To the city you had quietly reclaimed, the people you had quietly protected, and the name you had never truly surrendered.
You rode into uncertainty.
But at least… it was yours.