The Emberclaw estate was a hive of frantic, hushed activity. Servants moved like ghosts, their eyes downcast as they packed the remnants of a life that was being erased in real-time.
Iris stood in the center of the bedchamber, a sanctuary that now felt like a tomb. She watched the silk gowns being folded, her expression as still as a frozen lake.
She placed a hand over the swell of her stomach, feeling the faint, rhythmic heartbeat of the life within. It was a secret pulse, a drumming rhythm of a future they could not yet imagine.
"Don't worry, my child," she whispered, the words intended only for the ears of the unborn. "Mother is not upset. Anger is a luxury we do not need today."
She traced the fine embroidery of her sleeve, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. "You do not need a father who trades blood for scripture. I will give you a kingdom he could never dream of conquering."
The servants paused, sensing a shift in the air, but Iris simply turned to the window. The sun was dipping low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard where her carriage waited.
She walked toward the vanity, picking up a small, silver-handled brush before setting it down. She took nothing but what she had brought with her as a bride—her pride and her name.
As she descended the grand staircase, the clicking of her heels was the only sound in the cavernous hall. Draven was waiting at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed, his jaw tight with an agitation he couldn't hide.
He looked for the redness of eyes. He looked for the tremor in her hands. He looked for the frantic, desperate energy of a woman whose world had just been shattered.
He found nothing. Iris descended with the grace of a queen approaching her throne, not a wife being exiled to the wilderness.
The carriage stood at the open doors, its dark wood gleaming under the lanterns. Iris stopped a few paces from Draven, the air between them thick with the scent of ozone and unsaid things.
With a slow, deliberate motion, she reached for her left hand. She slid the imperial wedding ring—a heavy band of gold and rubies—from her finger.
It was the only thing that tied her to the Emberclaw line. She held it out to him, the metal catching the dying light of the afternoon.
Draven stared at the ring in her open palm. His throat tightened. He had expected her to throw it, to curse it, or to cling to it as a bargaining chip for her child's future.
Instead, she handed it back as if it were a borrowed trinket of no particular value. "This belongs to the future Empress," she said softly. "I have no further use for it."
Draven took the ring, his fingers brushing hers. Her skin was as cool as marble. The lack of heat, of friction, of pain, was starting to claw at his nerves.
"Why?" he blurted out, the word escaping him before he could check his royal pride. "Why aren't you sad, Iris? Does our marriage mean so little to you now?"
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. "Don't you care that you are being cast out? Don't you feel the weight of leaving me for another woman?"
Iris looked up at him. For the first time, she truly studied his face—the sharpness of his nose, the restless fire in his eyes. She saw him not as her husband, but as a man struggling to maintain a narrative.
"I understand your reasons, Your Highness," she replied, her voice steady and clear. "You seek power through the Saintess. It is a logical move for a Crown Prince."
She adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, her movements economical. "I told you: I will not make things difficult for you. Your path is set, and so is mine."
Draven's frustration boiled over. He didn't want her understanding; he wanted her broken. He wanted a reason to feel like the victim of her 'instability' rather than the architect of her ruin.
He had planned for this. He had hoped she would scream, that she would strike him or Eliosa. Then, he could tell the court she was unfit—that the Valtorien blood was too volatile for the throne.
He pushed further, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "You are acting like a stone, Iris. Is there no heart in there? Or are you simply too proud to admit I've destroyed you?"
A faint, ghostly smile touched Iris's lips—a flash of genuine realization. She saw the trap he had laid, the invisible nets of "anger" he wanted her to stumble into.
She leaned in slightly, not out of aggression, but to ensure he heard every syllable. The stillness she radiated was more terrifying than any storm.
"I have taken nothing from this house, Draven," she said, using his name for the last time. "Not the jewels, not the titles, not even the memories."
She stepped toward the carriage, her silhouette framed by the darkening sky. "Let me at least have my dignity. It is the one thing your Empire cannot afford to buy back from me."
The words hit him with the force of a physical blow. It was a dismissal so absolute that it stripped him of his power. He stood on the steps of his great estate, and he felt suddenly small.
Iris entered the carriage without looking back. She did not wave. She did not peek through the curtains as the horses began to pull away.
She sat in the darkness of the cabin, the rhythmic jarring of the wheels marking the distance between her past and her future.
The Emberclaw estate vanished into the mist behind her. Ahead, the trees began to thicken, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.