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Five Years Later
The royal halls were quiet beneath the weight of dusk.
Outside, the sky was melting into lilac and grey.
Torches lined the corridor walls with a soft flicker, dancing over gold-framed portraits and the silent steps of a man with power in his stride and poison in his intent.
Rye.
He moved with calm precision down the west wing — the king's private military correspondence chamber.
Two guards at the door stiffened at his approach.
"I'll only be a moment," Rye said smoothly.
The guards didn't question him. They never did anymore.
Inside, Rye unfurled the sealed letter that had just arrived by hawk — fresh ink, eastern sigil, military stamped.
His eyes scanned quickly.
"No recent communication from Lieutenant Rowen Caelum.
Presumed location unknown.
Last reported active 3 months ago.
Status: Pending."
Rye exhaled slowly, folding the letter again with care.
Not dead. But not home.
Good.
Rowen was still buried under sand and steel, away from me — where he couldn't ruin anything.
Rye smiled faintly.
That was enough.
For now.
******
Candlelight lit the edges of my private chamber, casting warm shadows across the rose-carved columns and the long velvet drapes that billowed softly from the balcony doors.
I sat by my vanity, still in my evening gown — delicate rose tones with soft silver stitching. my crown was gone, my hair loose.
I looked tired. Beautiful, but distant, like a painting of someone the world had imagined but never truly known.
There was a knock.
I didn't answer.
The door opened anyway.
"Should I start knocking louder?" Rye asked as he entered, carrying a small wine tray and two glasses.
"You never lock it."
"Maybe I should," I said quietly, not turning around.
He walked in with practiced ease, setting the tray down.
"You didn't eat much at dinner."
"I wasn't hungry."
He came to stand behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror — my pale face, my gaze lowered.
"You're always quiet lately," he said, almost teasing.
"Should I be worried?"
I finally looked up, our eyes meeting in the mirror.
"No," I said, softly but firmly. "You shouldn't be."
He studied me for a moment.
Then smiled — that slow, careful smile that never quite reached his eyes anymore.
"Because I have everything I want right here."
He reached to tuck a loose strand of my black hair behind my ear.
I didn't pull away. I never did — but not because I wanted him.
Because it was easier than fighting. Quieter than explaining.
And no one knew.
Not the Queen. Not the court. Not the staff.
Only we knew this relationship was a lie dressed in silk.
Rye stood behind me, eyes locked on my reflection in the mirror.
I hadn't turned him away.
I never did.
Not with words.
And that, in his mind, was enough.
"You're too beautiful to be this sad," he said softly, resting his hands gently on my shoulders.
I flinched — barely — but didn't move away.
"I'm not sad," I replied, voice quiet.
"Liar," Rye whispered, his smile faint as he leaned closer, fingers brushing my collarbone.
"But I love that about you. How quiet your heart is. Like a secret only I get to hear."
He moved closer, kneeling slightly so our faces aligned in the mirror —
"It doesn't have to be this hard," he murmured.
"You don't have to carry all of this alone."
"I'm not alone," I said.
"But you are," he whispered.
"And you have me. That should mean something."
I blinked slowly, my gaze dropping — not in affection, but resignation.
My throat ached with the words I never said.
The truth I never corrected.
The love I never moved on from.
And Rye knew it.
Still, he leaned in — slow, reverent, fingers tilting my chin toward him.
"Let me remind you," he breathed, "that you're not just a crown. You're mine."
I didn't stop him.
And so he kissed me — soft at first, then deeper, more fervent.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, the other to my waist as he stood, pulling me gently to my feet.
The room spun in warmth and silence, but my body remained still, my hands pressed lightly to his chest.
His kiss was possessive, filled with longing.
Mine was a ghost of memory, as if I were kissing through a wall of glass —
When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, smiling faintly.
"You feel it too, don't you?"
I kept my eyes closed.
And lied.
"…Yes."