"Her Majesty is sick," the head maid announced, her voice tight, guarded like a soldier stepping onto thin ice.
Yen didn't look up immediately. His eyes scanned the parchment in his hand with cold precision, a subtle flick of his gaze noting every word, every number.
"For what. Fatigue?" he asked, finally releasing the paper, letting it drift to the polished surface of his desk like a falling leaf.
"Hunger."
The silence that followed was immediate. Dense. His fingers stopped moving for just a breath before they resumed—tapping slowly against the edge of the desk, each tap deliberate, echoing like a countdown.
"I was reported daily that she finishes her meal."
His voice cracked sharp as a whip. His eyes sliced to Colla, who stood just behind the head maid, her expression composed but her hands trembling at her sides.
The butler—old, rigid, and always loyal—stepped forward, his voice calm but weighted.
"I just found out during my weekly inspections, Your Grace."
Yen didn't answer. Instead, his fingers stopped their tapping and came down hard with a sharp crack on the wood as Colla dared to open her mouth.
She flinched. Bowed low. Her lips clamped shut.
"Your loyalty," he said, his voice a thread of restrained fury, "is useless when it acts as a double-edged sword."
He tilted his head, predator-smooth. Calculating.
Colla hesitated, then spoke softly.
"I assumed forcing Her Majesty would only deepen her burdens. I chose to feed her soup instead… quietly."
His brows lifted. Slowly. Dangerously.
"And who," he asked with terrifying calm, "do you think you are?"
Colla's breath caught. She blinked, lips parting, but no words came.
Yen sighed and pushed up from his chair. The sound of it scraping against the floor was sudden and sharp.
"I'll feed her myself."
Colla, even in her fear, stepped forward instinctively, searching for a way to plead, to reason.
"Please, Your Grace—"
But one glare from Yen—cold as a blade's kiss—shut her down. She folded like paper.
"Be grateful she's fond of you," he snapped. "Now bring me food."
Without waiting for another word, he turned and stormed from the room, his strides echoing like thunder against the stone floor.
------
He pushed the door to their chambers open with force.
There she was.
Blanket in hand. Again.
That same blanket she refused to let go of. Her fingers gently smoothing the frayed edges. Whispering, humming—lost in a memory that had never fully formed.
Yen's eye twitched.
The fury was sudden. Explosive.
He crossed the room in seconds and yanked the blanket from her hands.
"Yen?" Her voice was small, panicked. "Give her back."
She reached for his arm, desperation cracking through her calm.
But he threw the blanket to the floor like it was filth.
"Wake up."
"Yen… why are you doing this?" she asked, barely a whisper, falling to her knees to gather the crumpled fabric.
"Please, Your Majesty," Arkon said, stepping in, his voice gentle, almost pleading. "It doesn't harm anyone—"
Yen didn't even look.
The shadows answered for him.
With a sharp crack of magic, Arkon was thrown across the room, his armor slamming against the wall, his breath knocked from him in a harsh grunt.
"No." Yen leaned down to her, eyes wild. "Why are you doing this?"
Her lips quivered. Still, she smiled. Sweet. Fragile. Hollow.
She reached for his chest, rubbing slow circles like she always did when trying to soothe him.
"Are you mad?" she asked gently, coaxing him.
His heart clenched at her touch—soft and familiar—but then he saw her glance again at the blanket on the floor. Her fingers twitched toward it.
And that's when he snapped.
He grabbed it and tore it apart.
The sound was deafening. The rip of fabric like a scream in the silence.
"Enough," he snarled. "This. Is not our daughter."
Her hand struck him without thought.
A clean slap across his face.
Then silence. Her fingers clutched to her chest, horrified.
"I—I didn't mean—"
Yen didn't react. Not a blink. Not a flinch.
He simply grabbed both her wrists in one hand—too strong to resist—and dragged her out of the room.
Through the halls.
Past the tapestries and chandeliers and servants frozen in place.
Lily stumbled, barefoot, barely able to keep up, her legs trembling with every step.
But he didn't slow.
Not until they broke through the palace doors into the blinding daylight.
Across the wide green fields.
To the willow.
That ancient tree they used to play beneath, long before the thrones and crowns and broken things.
And there, beneath its drooping boughs—
A tiny tombstone.
Lily froze. Her breath hitched.
Yen released her.
She staggered forward, legs weak, eyes wide, and reached out to touch the stone. Her fingers traced the letters. Her lips parted but no sound came.
"You want to see her?" Yen asked. "Talk to her?"
She didn't answer.
So he dropped to his knees.
And began to dig.
With his bare hands.
"Yen! Stop!" She shrieked, lunging toward him. "You're hurting her!"
She clawed at his arms, his shoulders, sobbing, shaking, but he kept digging. Dirt flew. His breath came in ragged bursts. Her fists pounded against his back.
Finally, he stopped.
Silence fell, heavy and raw.
She clung to him, both of them covered in earth and grief.
"I want you in peace," he whispered. "For being bound to someone like me. I love you so much, Lily. I did everything. I had to leave. For wars. For diplomacy. For inspections. For meetings. FOR FUCKING GATHERINGS!"
He slammed his fists into the dirt, making the soil jump.
"I planted the same flowers here I brought you that day," he choked. "You didn't see her. I couldn't let you. She had your face."
His voice cracked. He reached forward and began smoothing the dirt again, his movements gentle now. Reverent. "She had your face."
Lily knelt beside him, wiping her cheeks with shaking hands.
"You could've let me see her…"
"Silence."
The word cut sharp. Cold. But she didn't flinch.
She looked at the stone, soft and heartbroken.
"I think your father's losing himself too," she whispered to the grave.
He laughed. A bitter, unhinged sound.
"No. I won't let it happen."
He turned to her, his grin wide and wrong. "Everything's perfect when it's under control. Let's start with that."
Her eyes met his, unreadable.
He crouched, patting the tomb gently, like a child playing house.
"I always told your mother to eat," he muttered. "She never listened. So I cooked. Or I fed her myself. Maybe that's what she wants now?"
He nodded to himself. Whispered things only he could hear. Then turned.
"Yen?" Lily whispered as he scooped her effortlessly into his arms.
"Come. Let's feed you," he murmured. "Let's visit her again sometime."
But Lily's eyes remained on the stone. Her arms clung to him, but her gaze was far away.
"If I see you talking to that blanket one more time," he added softly, "we'll start with your tongue."
She shivered.
Yen used to threaten her with laughter in his voice. With smiles.
Now, it felt like a promise.
And she believed him.