Chapter 12

Lena’s POV

I stepped into the royal prison, the chill of the stone corridors pressing against me like a warning. This was where those who had directly wronged the palace were kept—where the worst of the worst were stripped of pretense and forced to face justice.

Three of the attackers from the charity event had been caught. The moment I entered the interrogation chamber, I could see the story written on their bodies: bruises, cuts, and swelling that spoke of the relentless questioning they had endured. The prison wards had clearly left no stone unturned.

The head of the prison ward, Commander Alric, stepped forward, his expression tense but controlled. “Your Highness,” he began, gesturing toward the captured men, “one of them finally broke.”

My brow furrowed as I leaned closer, listening intently.

“They’re from… The Ducaines,” he said, voice low, almost wary. “The syndicate known for human trafficking. They’ve been hunting her… a runaway. For two months now.”

I felt my stomach tighten. My pulse quickened.

“They call her… Miu Lancaster. She seems to be important… very important to their higher-ups. They wouldn’t have gone through all this if she wasn’t.”

Miu Lancaster. Her name echoed in my mind like a distant familiar tune.

I leaned against the cold stone wall of the interrogation chamber, letting the details settle in my mind. The Ducaines. As far as my studies had led me, that name had haunted the Kingdom of Elysia for fifteen years—untouchable, untamed, their crimes whispered about in the shadows but never proven. Until now.

For the first time, a solid lead had landed right on our doorstep. A single thread, but one that could unravel the entire web.

They had begun during King Arthur’s reign. His neglect, his blind eye to the suffering of the people, had been their opening. Justice was weak then. Consequences were easy to escape. And during the war, when chaos reigned and the kingdom’s eyes were elsewhere, they thrived. Women gone without a trace. Children disappearing. The Ducaines used the darkness, blending seamlessly with the disorder to strike.

And now… this woman. Might be the key…

If she survives, if we kept her alive, she could lead us straight to them—the higher-ups who had built this empire of cruelty. The thought made my chest tighten. This wasn’t just a rescue. This was the chance to finally bring justice to fifteen years of suffering. And I wasn’t about to let it slip through my fingers.

She has to survive. And I would make sure she does.

—

Miu’s POV

I didn’t know how long I’d been out cold. Hours? Days? Maybe longer. Everything felt blurred, like I was half-drifting in a memory I didn’t want to wake from. And yet… I knew where I was. The palace. The same walls, the same view from the windows I had memorized a decade ago. I’d spent endless hours staring out from every corner, dreaming of a life I never got to live.

The room was quiet, too quiet, until a soft knock broke the silence. My heart jumped. The first actual person to come see me since I’d regained consciousness. My voice came out hoarse, barely audible.

“C-come in,” I croaked, my throat dry, my body tense.

The door creaked open, and I squinted through the dim light, unsure if I wanted to see who it was—or if I even could.

An elderly woman—clearly part of the household staff—entered slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might startle me.

“You’re awake…” she said gently, pushing a small cart into the room. “I brought you a meal.”

I turned my gaze away at once. I wasn’t sure why. Shyness? Guilt? Or the strange heaviness curling in my chest the moment I realized I was being cared for. I couldn’t tell.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days,” she continued softly as she positioned the cart beside my bed. “You need to eat if you wish to recover faster.”

Silence stretched between us.

Not because I meant to ignore her. Not because I was being rude. There just… wasn’t a single word I could find. My throat felt tight, my thoughts tangled, as if speaking would force something out of me that I wasn’t ready to face yet.

So I stayed quiet. And the room seemed to understand.

“If you need anything,” she said gently, “just call out by the door. My name is Daliah. Rest now, child.”

She poured water from the pitcher into a glass, the sound soft and steady, then turned toward the door as if that was the end of it. As if this kindness could simply pass through me and leave without questions.

Before she could take another step, my voice finally found its way out.

“Why…” I swallowed, my throat aching. “Why am I here?”

Daliah stopped.

She turned slowly, and when she faced me again, there was a warmth in her smile that made something in my chest tighten painfully.

“The Queen,” she said after a brief pause, “is a very good person.”

Her voice softened even more.

“She always chooses to lend a helping hand—whenever she can.”

I looked down at my hands, resting uselessly atop the blankets, her words sinking in deeper than I wanted them to.

A good person.

I wasn’t sure if that frightened me… or if it made everything hurt so much more.

I am closer to her now—closer than I have ever been in ten years. She is within reach. Within the same walls. Breathing the same air.

And yet every part of me is screaming.

This is not my life anymore.

This place… this palace… it belongs to someone I buried long ago. A version of me that was stripped down to bone and left behind in the fire. I have no right to stand here. No right to be seen within these walls ever again.

The night I ran—
the night I chose the dark, the unknown, the road that led anywhere but here—
was the moment I chose survival over belief.

I chose myself over the kingdom.

Over my promises.
Over my vision.
Over everything I once swore I would protect.

I tell myself it was necessary. I tell myself I had no choice.

But the truth is quieter. Crueler.

I was afraid.

I was a coward.
I was weak.
I was… a failure.

And now, standing this close to the life I abandoned, all I can do is wonder—
if surviving was ever the same as living at all.

—

Lena’s POV

I was seated in my study when Doctor Fahlada arrived, the late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and painting everything in soft gold. Papers were spread across my desk—reports, letters, plans for a kingdom that never truly slept.

“You asked to see the progress, Your Highness,” Fahlada said as she approached, placing several thick volumes carefully in front of me.

I looked at them, then back at her. “Tell me we’re closer.”

A small smile curved her lips. “Closer than we have ever been.”

She opened the first volume, flipping to pages marked with neat tabs. “The research team has refined the process. In simple terms—it allows conception through medical intervention rather than… traditional means.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It uses a combination of cellular extraction, preservation, and assisted development. No physical union required.”

I exhaled slowly, my fingers resting atop the pages. “So it’s no longer just theory.”

“No,” she said gently. “It’s practice-ready. Controlled. Ethical. And—most importantly—safe. It offers a future to those who cannot, or should not, be forced into choices their circumstances deny them.”

My chest tightened at that. “And its viability?”

“The success rate has improved significantly in our pre-clinical trials,” Fahlada continued. “Laboratory simulations and controlled biological models are responding exactly as predicted.”

I looked up at her. “Then what’s stopping us?”

She hesitated, then answered honestly. “Approval. We’re awaiting clearance from the World Health Organization to begin human clinical trials. Once granted, we can proceed openly and officially.”

I leaned back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the window, to the sky beyond the palace walls. So close. After years of whispers, pressure, and expectations heavy enough to crush anyone beneath them—we were finally here.

“Let me know the moment they respond,” I said quietly.

Fahlada nodded. “Of course, Your Highness.”

As she turned to leave, my hand lingered on the volumes. On the future bound within ink and careful hope.

For the first time in a long while, the crown on my head felt… lighter.

I do not wish to have a union with anyone.
That truth settled in my heart long before Father ever told me I would sit on the throne the moment I turned twenty.

Even before the crown.
Even before duty learned how to weigh so heavily on my shoulders.

I could never imagine giving myself to anyone else—never allowing another name to replace the one I had already written into my soul. From the very beginning, my heart had made its vow. Quietly. Irrevocably.

There will only ever be one person who owns it.

And if my duty demands an heir… then I will find another way.
A way that does not betray what he and I once were.
A way that does not reduce love into a political offering, or turn my body into a bargaining chip for the throne.

I have sacrificed many things to wear this crown.
But this—this I will not surrender.

Not even for a kingdom.