Chapter 62

Third Person’s POV

“Oh dear, you are here! My neck was beginning to feel sore from watching for your arrival.”

The voice rang through the Grand Hall just as Lena stepped past the towering doors, rich with warmth and unmistakable flair. Heads turned almost instinctively, but Lena didn’t need to search for the source.

Royal Duchess Anastasia Vantheir was already making her way toward them.

Elegant as ever, she moved with effortless grace despite her age, her presence commanding attention without ever demanding it. Her gown flowed behind her like a quiet statement of lineage and pride, and her eyes—sharp, lively—landed on Lena with unmistakable fondness.

She was one of the few.

One of the very few who had stood close to Lena through the years—not as a subject, but as something far more personal.

And more than that—

She is basically Miu’s grandmother.

Lena’s expression softened almost immediately, the tension she had carried since the journey easing as her steps quickened to meet her halfway.

“Your Grace,” Lena greeted, though the formality barely held as she leaned in and wrapped her arms around the older woman.

Anastasia returned the embrace without hesitation, patting her back lightly as if greeting a child she had not seen in far too long.

“Good heavens—Christian!” Anastasia exclaimed as soon as she pulled away, her gaze snapping toward him. “You seem to have aged ten years since I last saw you.”

“I—what?” Christian blinked, caught completely off guard.

Despite the words, her tone carried such effortless charm that it sounded less like an insult and more like a performance.

“Is it because she’s been giving you a hard time?” Anastasia continued, gesturing lightly toward Lena. “Well, you don’t even have to answer. I can see it in the wrinkles.”

Christian stared at her, momentarily speechless.

Lena let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Now that’s hardly fair, Your Grace. How is it my fault he’s getting old?”

“Oh, so you admit it,” Anastasia replied smoothly.

Christian’s mouth opened—then closed—then opened again, as if searching desperately for a response that refused to come.

Why are they like this… he thought, looking between the two of them like a man personally betrayed by time itself.

The laughter between Lena and Anastasia lingered, light and easy, echoing softly against the high ceilings of the hall. For a moment, the weight of titles and responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by something far more familiar.

Then, as the laughter began to settle, Anastasia turned back to Christian.

The expression on his face—somewhere between offense and quiet despair—was enough to set her off again.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said between a soft laugh, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m only joking.”

Her smile softened as she glanced between the two of them.

“I’m simply glad to see you both well.”

And for all the teasing, for all the lightness in her words—

There was sincerity in that.

“And here I was afraid you’d never consider settling down until it was too late.” Anastasia clasped her hands gracefully before her, her eyes softening as they studied Lena with an affection that was almost maternal.

“But the air around you feels… different. Could it be because of your—” The Duchess paused, glancing briefly at Christian, whose attention was more fixed on the exchange than he would admit.

Anastasia leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Lena could hear. “New spouse?“

The simple whisper drew a genuine smile from Lena—a smile unguarded, warm, and entirely hers. For the first time in ages, she felt free to speak of her marriage without hesitation.

“Yes… Your Grace,” Lena admitted softly.

“I cannot remember feeling happier than I do now. My heart feels… home,” she added, shoulders loosening as fleeting images of Miu’s face danced in her mind. The longing to return to the palace, to the life waiting there, tugged sharply at her.

Anastasia’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability brushing across her features. For the first time, she saw true happiness blooming in Lena—the kind she had feared grief would always overshadow. Warmth, unrecognizable yet comforting, swelled in her chest.

“I… never thought I’d see you smile like this,” Anastasia murmured, her voice gentler now.

Turning to Christian, she said, “I would like to speak with the Queen in private.”

“Of course,” Lena replied before her father could even respond.

“But Your Majesty—” Christian began.

“I’ll be fine, Father,” Lena interrupted, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Please attend to the other matters while I’m away.”

For a few quiet seconds, they exchanged a look—an unspoken understanding passing between them—before Christian finally nodded, acceptance settling across his features.

Anastasia’s lips curved into a warm smile. “Shall we take a walk through the garden?”

—

“I apologize for not visiting more often. I had not paid my respects for a while.” Lena’s voice was soft, almost reverent, as she stood side by side with Royal Duchess Anastasia in front of the graves.

Royal Duke Mclaren Vantheir.
Royal Princess Alice Vantheir.
Crown Prince Matthew Forger.

The names etched in stone pressed heavier on Lena’s chest now than they ever had before. Things had changed—Matthew was back in her life, living as Miu, a truth only she knew. The world around her remained blissfully unaware.

“It’s been… far too long,” Anastasia’s voice wavered, fragile as old paper. “I still remember the first time you and your father stood before me and my husband, staring at… our daughter and our grandson’s corpses…”

The memory cut sharper than the chill in the morning air.

—

“YOU GAVE ME YOUR WORD, CHRISTIAN!” Mclaren’s voice thundered through the halls of the Vantheir castle, shaking the very air with grief and rage. He towered over the burnt, lifeless forms of his child and grandchild, the scent of smoke and ash clinging to his nostrils.

“I FOUGHT WITH YOU! I RAISED MY FLAG ALONGSIDE YOURS! I THOUGHT THAT MEANT I COULD—”

The words died in his throat as another wail tore from Anastasia, raw and ragged, her tears scorching her cheeks. She knelt beside Alice and Matthew’s scorched corpses, clutching them as though sheer will could bend reality.

“My child… what have they done to you…” Her voice was a broken thread, swallowed by despair.

“—Bring my daughter back home…” Mclaren’s voice trembled, his chest heaving with a mixture of fury and despair. Reality had arrived with cruel finality.

In his hand, he clutched an envelope—the letter inside partially singed, its edges curled and brittle from the flames. Christian had recovered it from the palace, holding it like a fragile fragment of a life that had been stolen too soon. 

They had been too late. The words inside—Alice’s desperate call for help—had never reached them. King Arthur had anticipated her move, intercepting it before it could even leave the palace walls.

Alice had planned an escape. She had a way out, a rendezvous carefully outlined in the letter, a slim thread of hope they never knew existed. 

And now, faced with the harsh reality, Mclaren and Anastasia were left to imagine the fear and loneliness she must have felt in her final moments. That she had believed herself abandoned—by them, by the only people who should have been her sanctuary—was a thought that drove a cold, gnawing ache straight into their bones.

They had tried. 

When the rebellion erupted, they had fought, maneuvered, pleaded—every effort made in a frantic, desperate attempt to pull her from the torment that had been forced upon her. 

And yet, they were too late. 

Mclaren’s hands shook as he pressed the letter closer, as if sheer grip could somehow mend the past. 

Anastasia melted into the marble floorbeneath her as she bowed her head, helpless against the flood of grief. The world they had known—orderly, just, filled with hope for their daughter—had been swallowed by flames and betrayal.

And now… it was too late. Too late to atone for the mistakes, too late to rewrite the past, too late to save her from the fate they vested upon her. The realization settled over them like a suffocating shroud, endless and unyielding, a grief without relief, a wound that would never close.

“She was not alone.” 

Lena burst through the grand entrance of the castle, her breath ragged, chest heaving as though she had run for miles. 

Her cheeks glistened with the marks of freshly shed tears, and her swollen eyes betrayed hours of relentless crying. The weight of grief betrayed the stoicism she had tried so hard to maintain.

“Matthew… he—he stayed with her through it all.” Her voice trembled, weak, but threaded with unshakable resolve. She took a step closer, hands clenching at her sides as if anchoring herself against the tide of emotion that threatened to topple her.

Mclaren and Anastasia froze, staring at her, the raw intensity in her words cutting deeper than any sword. Lena’s presence, so fragile yet so fierce, carried a truth they had both yearned to hear for a decade.

“He… he loved her more then himself.” Lena continued, her voice steadier now, carrying conviction over despair. “Matthew never let her feel weak. Every fear she had, every moment of doubt, he was there. He made sure she didn’t face the cruelty of that man alone. Every choice, every risk he took, he put her first. Always her safety, always her happiness. Even when it could have cost him everything.”

Anastasia’s hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a sob that threatened to break free. Mclaren’s jaw clenched, eyes glistening with unspilled tears, as the words stitched together a long-lost tapestry of hope and love, piercing through the guilt that had gnawed at them for years.

Lena’s chest heaved again, and she forced a small, trembling smile, trying to ease the weight she saw reflected in their faces. “He never faltered. He never let her down. I… I want you to know that. She was loved. Loved more than you—or I—could ever fully measure.”