The council met in silence.
For hours, they argued behind closed doors. Some demanded Damien reclaim the throne formally. Others accused him of orchestrating the unrest. Still others wanted him exiled again—to protect their fragile grip on what remained of power.
Damien didn't flinch.
"Let them decide," he told me. "I didn't come back for their blessing. Only their truth."
Meanwhile, the people began to gather.
Not in protest—but in hope.
Word of his speech spread faster than the fire that had once consumed the south wing of the palace. Merchants, veterans, farmers, children—they came not for spectacle, but for something rarer: sincerity.
They lined the courtyard, watching the balcony where Damien had once stood as Emperor.
But he didn't return to it.
Instead, he came to the courtyard.
Among them.
"If you want a king," he said, "look elsewhere. I'm not here to rule. I'm here to build."
He raised Elias's hand in his own.
"With him."
A hush fell over the crowd. And then—applause. Not thunderous. But true.
The regent, cornered and stripped of allies, attempted escape that night.
He didn't make it far.
By week's end, a new council was formed—not of nobles, but of representatives. Farmers. Scribes. Soldiers. A girl from the village who once sold fruit to Elias. A boy who'd lost both parents in the war.
And Damien and I stood not at the head—but among them.
No thrones. No crowns. No chains.
Just choices.
That night, we returned to our old cottage.
The almond tree outside had begun to bloom again.
I looked at him across the candlelit table.
"You ever think we'd make it here?"
Damien smiled softly.
"Not once. But I never stopped hoping."
I reached for his hand.
"Then let's not stop now."
Love isn't always tender. Sometimes, it claws. Sometimes, it bleeds. But if it dares to stay, even broken love can grow roots.
Spring thickened around us. The almond tree outside our cottage bloomed in full—its branches heavy with pale petals, like snow that had forgotten how to melt.
Children played beneath its canopy, laughter rising like music.
They called me Uncle Elias.
They called Damien Uncle, too.
But every time he heard my name, his jaw clenched—so slightly, no one but me noticed.
—
The council thrived. The village grew. The wars had ended.
And yet, I watched him begin to fray.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But in the smallest ways.
He stood longer at the window after meetings. He stared at the stream as if it held a reflection he couldn't recognize.
One night, I woke to find him gone from bed. I followed the cold air to the garden, where he knelt in the dirt, fists buried in earth, shoulders shaking.
"Another dream?" I asked gently, kneeling beside him.
He didn't look at me. His voice was low, wrecked.
"I keep seeing you walk away."
"That already happened."
"No. This time you don't come back."
He turned then, grabbed me with hands full of tremor, held me so tightly I couldn't breathe.
"Say you're mine."
"I'm here."
But he didn't let go.
"Say it."
I closed my arms around him and whispered what he needed, even if it terrified me.
"I'm yours."
—
The next day, he was calm again. Polite. Gentle.
But the quiet had changed.
It was the kind of quiet that follows an earthquake—still, but not stable.
Later that week, I found him in the study, burning parchment.
Ash drifted in the air like spent prayers.
"Damien?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then:
"Journals. Letters. Orders I once signed. I read them, and I see... him."
"The emperor."
"The animal."
He turned, eyes wild and gleaming.
"Do you know what it's like, Elias? To have tasted power so complete that losing it feels like death? To love someone and still want to lock them in a box just to be sure they'll never leave?"
I swallowed. "Yes. Because I lived in that box."
His hands dropped. He sank to the floor, all fury drained.
"I don't want to be him again. But I miss how safe it felt—to own everything. Even you."
There it was.
Not a confession.
A wound.
Open. Unfiltered.
"Then you have to choose," I said softly. "Not between love and power. Between control and trust."
He stared at me for a long time.
Then, with shaking fingers, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver box.
Inside: a simple ring.
Worn. Hand-shaped. Engraved inside: No more crowns.
"I was going to wait," he whispered. "For some calm day. Some perfect moment. But I'm not calm. I'm not perfect. And this isn't peace. It's war—against what I used to be."
He held it out.
"Elias Quinn. Be mine. Not my subject. Not my shadow. Not my prisoner. Just mine."
I didn't answer.
I walked past him.
His eyes closed, like I'd struck him.
But when he opened them, I was there—kneeling.
I took the ring.
And I slid it onto his finger.
"I've always been yours," I said. "I just needed to hear you ask. Without a sword."
He laughed—shaky, wet.
And beneath the almond tree, with petals drifting like blessings, we didn't promise forever.
We promised this:
To keep choosing each other.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.