The grand doors of the dining hall closed softly behind Lysandra, but the sound echoed like thunder in her chest.
Her boots clicked sharply against the stone floor of Ravenshade's corridor as she made her way to her chamber. She held her head high, each step forced and mechanical, determined not to let her façade crack—not here, not in front of the guards, not under this cursed roof where the past had finally caught up to her.
The moment her door shut behind her, she collapsed.
She fell against it, back pressed to the wood as a choked sob escaped her lips. Her hand covered her mouth to smother the sound, but it was no use. The pain clawed its way out.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lantern flickering on the bedside table. The fire in the hearth had died out, leaving cold shadows in every corner.
Lysandra stumbled to the edge of her bed and sank to her knees, palms pressed tightly to her eyes.
"Elara…" she whispered, voice trembling. "Mama's so sorry."
Her daughter was safe, tucked away under Maika's protection at the Landon estate. That thought was the only fragile comfort she had now. But the guilt weighed heavier than steel.
"I did what I had to do," she whispered again, as if saying it would make the pain less sharp.
But Caveen's voice haunted her—cold, accusing, distant. The way he had looked at her across the dinner table as if she were a stranger… no, worse—an enemy.
She gripped the bedpost, forcing herself to breathe. Her knuckles were white.
Lysandra had fought through war, betrayal, exile. She had faced the Council, stood against assassins, and buried the man who protected her like a brother.
But none of it hurt as much as the hatred in Caveen's eyes.
She had loved him—still did, though she buried it like a corpse beneath layers of duty and defiance.
They were doomed from the start, torn apart by bloodlines, politics, and secrets. And now the biggest secret of all—Elara—had detonated in silence between them.
She got up and walked to the window. The moonlight streamed in gently, as if mocking her with its calmness. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, hollow-eyed and haunted.
"I couldn't tell you," she murmured. "You were already gone… married… I was alone."
She pressed a hand to her chest, aching. "I only wanted her to be safe."
Outside, wind stirred the leaves in the courtyard. Inside, Lysandra cried silently, tears slipping down her cheeks like broken promises.
She was just a mother with a fractured heart, mourning the love she had buried and the child she had let go.
The night hung heavy in Ravenshade, the only sound the faint whisper of wind brushing against stone walls.
Lysandra sat at the edge of her bed, her eyes still red from the tears she had shed moments ago. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table—but then she felt it.
A presence.
Before she could even turn her head, the door creaked open.
Caveen stood in the doorway, his silhouette bathed in moonlight. His eyes burned like wildfire—dark, unreadable, brimming with something between rage and longing.
"Caveen—" she began, rising from the bed.
But he said nothing.
In two strides, he closed the distance between them, and without warning, his lips crashed against hers—hard, desperate, angry.
Lysandra gasped, her hands pressing against his chest, trying to push him back. "W–Wait—"
But his grip only tightened, his mouth moving against hers like a storm refusing to be tamed. She felt herself spiraling—her heart racing, her thoughts scattering like ashes.
She knew she should resist.
She should push him away, say something, scream even.
But the weight of years—their history, their heartbreak, the pain and love knotted between them—exploded into this one kiss, raw and wild.
And she shattered.
Her hands clutched the front of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her with ease as if she weighed nothing.
She didn't remember when her back hit the mattress.
She only remembered the way his mouth never left hers, even as his hands worked with rough determination, undoing layers of fabric between them.
"Caveen…" she whispered breathlessly, her voice trembling as he hovered above her, their foreheads brushing.
His eyes locked with hers—feral, possessive, vulnerable.
"For hiding my child from me…" he murmured, voice low and dangerous, "let's make more... as compensation."
Her breath hitched. "You're cruel."
"You were cruel first," he growled, pressing his lips to her throat.
She closed her eyes, tears threatening again, but this time they burned for a different reason. His hands, his kisses, the warmth of his body—everything overwhelmed her.
And slowly, she stopped fighting.
Her heart gave in long before her body did.
Whatever war they waged with words, with betrayal, with silence—it vanished in the heat of their union, where pain transformed into passion, and the void between them burned bright again, even if only for the night.