Chapter 63

Third Person’s POV

Ten years ago, before the fall of the palace…

“I have to go back to the palace, Sir.” Matthew stood rigidly in the grand sitting room of the Silvervein mansion, his jaw tight, eyes burning with urgency.

He had run away that night, desperate to reach Christian, to warn him that his father’s men were moving to capture every suspected member of the rebellion—and their families. Execution was the only word that echoed through the vicious king’s mind.

“But Matthew…” Lena’s voice trembled as she grabbed his arm, her grip firm but pleading. “The people of the rebellion will strike soon. If you return now, it might already be too late… for you to get out of this.”

Her words, soaked with worry, only strengthened his resolve.

“Lena is right,” Christian said, stepping closer, his tone measured, the weight of authority behind it. “It’s safest if you go to your grandparents in Hoswington. They will protect you there.”

Matthew shook his head, the motion sharp. “I came here in a hurry, Sir. My mother… she’s still in the palace. I cannot just leave her there alone. I’m all she has.” His gaze darted between Christian and Lena, desperate for them to understand the gravity of his plea.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Lena’s quiet, unsuccessful attempts to choke back her sobs.

“I beg you, Sir,” Matthew whispered, voice raw but resolute. “Just give me enough time to get her out… to get her to safety without my father noticing. She… she’s suffered enough already.”

Christian’s eyes softened, just slightly, at the boy’s fierce devotion. Lena’s hands trembled as she stood beside him, her own tears falling freely now.

Time seemed to stretch in the room, each second a taut thread between duty and desperation. Outside, the night pressed against the mansion walls, echoing the danger that waited at every shadow of the palace.

Matthew’s determination was quiet but unyielding. He would not abandon his mother—not to tyranny, not to fear, not to death.

—

*SLAP*

The sharp crack of skin against skin echoed through the chamber.

“Try saying that again,” King Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, his hand still raised, trembling with rage. The air between father and son felt like it could ignite at any second.

He had just learned of Matthew’s trip to the Silverveins—a betrayal in his eyes, an unforgivable defiance.

But Matthew did not flinch. Did not crumble. His jaw was set, his posture unyielding, and his gaze cold, like ice cutting through Arthur’s fury. The defiance in his eyes—so calm, so unwavering—felt like a mockery, twisting the King’s anger into something unnameable, unbearable.

“I said you’re a coward,” Matthew’s voice rang out, steady and sharp, every word deliberate.

Arthur’s hand twitched again, his grip tight on the hilt of his temper, but Matthew didn’t cower. He only stepped closer, daring him to strike again.

“Why can’t you give up your greed?” Matthew’s voice rose, raw and aching. “Why can’t you see the destruction you’ve caused? Why can’t you see there’s no turning back now?!”

“You know nothing!” Arthur’s voice cracked, almost pleading beneath the fury. “You’re—You’re just my child—”

Matthew’s face twisted in grief, in anger, in disbelief, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “I asked you why! WHY?!” His scream cut through the chamber like a blade. “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO BE SUCH A USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!”

The words hung in the air, jagged, unforgiving. Silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the echo of Matthew’s rage and the heavy, shaking breath of a father confronted with the pain he could never undo.

—

Back in the present…

“I still remember the look in your eyes that night,” Anastasia’s voice was low, steady, yet heavy with memory. Her gaze never left the graves before them. “All of us were swallowed by grief… but you… you stood there, in front of us.”

Her hands clenched lightly in front of her as she continued, her voice soft but unwavering. “We’d lost far too much. Such a tragedy must never happen again. This madness must end, even if it meant taking matters into my own hands.”

The words hung in the crisp air like an oath carved into stone, worn but unbroken.

“Those were your exact words,” Anastasia said, finally turning to face Lena. Her eyes, glistening, held a fierce admiration. “You were as broken as we were for losing Matthew that night… but your eyes—they burned with resolve. That’s when I knew. You had the eyes of a ruler. A true one. When a person’s will burns with purpose like that, anyone will trust them, follow them… wish to be of service to them.”

Slowly, Anastasia reached out, her hands enclosing Lena’s in a gentle, grounding grip. “Matthew would be so proud of who you’ve become… of what you’ve done.”

Tears welled in Anastasia’s eyes, shimmering with memory and longing. Lena’s throat tightened, a lump rising as if it could choke her entirely. Sobs began to escape before she could hold them back.

“I hope so… I truly hope so,” Lena whispered, her voice trembling, fragile yet honest.

She had come so far. So impossibly far. And yet, here she was—standing amidst the weight of loss and history, feeling a tentative joy take root in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wanted to live—not merely exist, but truly live.

To savor every stolen moment the world would grant her… beside the person she loved most.

Beside Miu.

“Oh dear, enough of this.” Anastasia chuckled, flicking her hand through the air in a familiar gesture, as if dismissing a topic they both revisited too often.

The two women wiped the lingering tears from their cheeks, and a quiet laugh bubbled between them—soft, shared, a fleeting relief after the weight of grief.

When the moment passed, they began walking away from the graves, their steps echoing softly along the garden path. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and blooming roses, carrying the faintest whisper of spring.

“I heard about the events that transpired in Tungsten,” Anastasia said, her voice steady but curious. “Is the Ravaryn showing any signs of counteraction? Do you think Duke Edric has intentions of invading the city?”

Lena’s gaze drifted toward the distant treeline, thoughtful. “Ah… they’ve been unusually quiet of late.”

“Hmmm…” Anastasia hummed, drawing a slow breath. “That… is even more suspicious.”

“Yes,” Lena replied, her tone calm yet tinged with caution. “With the information we have so far, he has gathered enough manpower and influence over the years to act as he wishes along the northern border. It’s not that he’s lost interest. But still… we cannot lower our guard yet.”

Anastasia’s eyes softened, a trace of concern lacing her words. “I see… so you won’t have much time to stay, then?”

Lena forced a small, almost painful smile. “I’m afraid not.”

Anastasia exhaled, a gentle surrender in her sigh. “But… you will be present for most of the Sovereign Accord, yes?”

Lena hesitated, caught in the question. 

The Sovereign Accord

It was a long-standing tradition—one meant to display skill, valor, and prestige. Heirs and champions would stand in place of their houses, competing not just for victory, but for honor. It was where alliances were encouraged, where grievances could be settled without war, where rulers masked tension beneath the guise of sport.

It was meant to be a celebration.

But for Lena, it was something else entirely.

“Will the City of Ravaryn be partaking?” she asked at last.

They slowed to a stop.

Anastasia did not answer right away. Instead, she turned her head slightly, studying Lena’s expression, the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her gaze had gone distant.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, her voice calm but knowing.

Lena’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she said nothing, but the silence itself spoke. Her thoughts had already drifted far from the garden, pulled instead toward memories she could never quite leave behind.

It came back in fragments.

The way Miu had looked that night—fragile, barely holding herself together. The marks on her skin, old and new, telling stories no one had been there to hear. The quiet strength she carried despite it all.

And then comes the person who had inflicted those to her… Marcus.

Lena’s hand curled ever so slightly at her side.

“I have some business of my own with the Valeens,” she said finally, her voice steady, but colder than before.

Her gaze hardened, no longer distant, but focused—sharp with intent.

“A lesson…” she continued, her tone lowering just enough to carry weight, “that I must teach them myself.”

The air seemed to still around them.

Anastasia watched her in silence, the shift in Lena was evident. 

“…The Accord was meant to prevent bloodshed,” Anastasia said carefully, “not invite it.”

Lena let out a quiet breath, something almost resembling a smile touching her lips, though it carried no warmth.

Her eyes flickered briefly, something unspoken passing through them before it vanished just as quickly.

“I have no intention of breaking its rules.”

A pause.

“But I do intend to make them remember their place.”