The silence in the room was heavy, charged with the static of an impending storm. Colden sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tight, his eyes fixed on the floorboards before meeting Marco's gaze.
"I have to leave, Marco," Colden said, his voice low but firm. "I am departing for Velloria."
Marco's eyes widened. The color drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic. He sat up straight, the sheets tangling around his legs.
"You can't leave," Marco stammered, his breath hitching. "They will... I mean, you don't have to go. Please, Colden. Not now."
Colden reached out and took Marco's trembling hands. His grip was warm, but it felt like a goodbye. "Listen to me. This is important. For us. For the kingdom. If I can secure this alliance, if I can handle Clamptous, we will be safe. And then..." He offered a small, hopeful smile. "We can go to the inn. Just like previous times. We can be us again."
Marco shook his head violently, pulling his hands back slightly. "No! I meant to see... You can't go. These things I see... they are—" He choked on his words, his eyes darting to the dark corner of the room where the shadows seemed to writhe. "The ghosts. The blood. I can't do this alone."
Before Colden could respond, the heavy oak door swung open with a bang.
Jesta stood in the doorway, her posture perfectly rigid, ignoring the intimacy of the moment. "Your Majesty," she announced, her voice crisp. "Your baggage is ready. The carriage awaits."
Marco froze. He looked from the maid to Colden. The realization hit him like a physical blow. *He's already packed. He was leaving regardless of what I said.*
Colden sighed, his brow furrowing in annoyance at the interruption. He turned to the maid. "Jesta. Wait outside."
Jesta curtsied, her face a mask of obedience, and closed the door.
Marco scrambled off the bed, standing up to face Colden, his fear turning into a hot, burning rage. "You were gonna go anyway, right?" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You didn't need to discuss anything! You just wanted to pat me on the back and walk away while I am inches away from falling into a volcano!"
"Marco, please," Colden said, standing up, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Calm down. I am trying to build a future for us."
"Calm down?" Marco screamed, the sound raw and guttural. "My mother is dead! She died for me! And you—You don't even—"
He was about to unleash a torrent of grief, to scream about how unfair it was that he was left holding the pieces, but Colden snapped.
The stress of the crown, the pressure of the Western Nations, and the helplessness of watching Marco fade away boiled over. Colden stepped forward and clamped his hand over Marco's mouth, shutting him up. His eyes were dark, his voice trembling with suppressed anger.
"Well, if you missed her that much," Colden hissed, the words coming out before he could stop them, "why didn't you go to her grave? Did you even go to your house? Or are you just sitting here weeping while I try to fix our lives?"
The room went dead silent.
Colden removed his hand. He saw the devastation in Marco's eyes, the way the words had sliced through him. But the King couldn't take it back. The damage was done.
Marco stared at him, tears spilling over his cheeks. He didn't scream. He didn't fight back. He just went silent, shrinking into himself.
Colden turned, his jaw tight, grabbing his cloak. "I have to go."
He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Marco alone in the dark.
Marco sank to the floor, clutching the torn piece of Lily's cardigan to his chest. He buried his face in the wool, inhaling the faint, fading scent of his mother, and wept until his ribs ached.
To be continued.