The road to Southdale was dust-choked and winding, its stonework cracked from years of neglect — a road the King had once sworn to repair. A vow buried beneath more pressing wars.
Now, he rode it alone.
Casian's cloak was drawn tight around his frame, concealing the bruises that mottled his ribs. The injury from his fall — cracked bone, breath catching with every jolt — ached with every step of the stallion beneath him. But he had not slowed. He had not dared.
The morning sun spilled gold across the valley as Southdale came into view. The city looked different. Cleaner. Quieter. As if it had learned not just to endure but to hold its breath. Banners for the Festival of Remembrance swayed gently above the gates. Smoke curled skyward in sacred spirals. Even the air felt restrained, laced with incense and silence.
He expected resistance.
He did not expect to be stopped at the gate.
A temple guard stepped forward, cloaked and unarmed, and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty. The Festival of Remembrance is in full observance. Entry is permitted only to those who have completed the rites of purification."
Casian's brows narrowed. "I've crossed half the kingdom. I don't require ritual bathing to speak to my wife."
Another voice — calm, level — joined the exchange. "Your Majesty."
Casian turned.
"Elair."
The man wore ceremonial white, his posture solemn, his gaze steady. Not deferential, not arrogant — but resolute. The man Casian remembered from court had grown sharper. Rooted.
"We were not expecting you," Elair said.
Casian's jaw tightened. "She didn't speak of my coming?"
"She hasn't spoken your name in days."
The silence between them was brief, but heavy.
Casian looked him over. The cut of his robes, the confidence in his stance, the way he stood as if the ground itself belonged to him. Elair had once asked for her hand.
The council had laughed.
A minor noble, they'd said.
But she hadn't laughed.
And now here he stood — not at court, but in her city. Trusted. Present. Wearing white.
Casian's voice dipped lower. "Is she well?"
"She leads."
"She leads," Casian echoed, his tone unreadable.
Elair met his gaze evenly. "You did not undergo the rites. Entry is forbidden until purification is completed. The sacred must be honored."
"I am her husband. Her King."
"And this city serves the sacred, not the sovereign. Until you are purified, even your crown must wait."
Casian stepped forward — slowly, stiff with pain.
"Then tell her I'll wait at the bridge."
A flicker passed through Elair's face. "The bridge collapsed during the rebellion. Two years ago. It has not been rebuilt."
Casian said nothing.
He hadn't known.
The bridge — once arched and ancient, carved with symbols of union — lay in ruin. Stones cracked, moss growing in the crevices. A wound left to fester. Forgotten by the very king who had once sworn to protect it.
Casian stood still, the weight of memory and mistake settling like dust on his shoulders.
In the early days of their union, he had focused all his fury and cunning on reclaiming her reach — her bloodright. He stripped rebel lords of their titles. Crushed the pockets of dissent that had sprung up in the wake of her coronation. He bribed border lords to realign their loyalties. Redrew lines of power to ensure that, should he one day lose her, she would still have a kingdom to stand on.
It was his way of protecting her.
But he had overlooked this place — the heart of her.
Southdale had burned during the rebellion. And while he secured her borders, he had let this city stay in ruin. The bridge — the one they had crossed as children, where she once dragged him to every stall and every sweet vendor, where he had stood idly beside her father's festival — was gone.
A city she once called home — and he had turned his back on it.
His gaze drifted toward the valley, where the broken stones lay like forgotten bones.
He turned back. "You arranged her departure from the palace. Her carriage."
"I ensured her safety," Elair replied.
There was no pride in it. No apology either.
Jealousy flared, ugly and quiet. Not just because Elair had been near her — but because Casian hadn't. Because Elair had stayed. Because while Casian distanced himself in the name of protection, others had stood beside her, unflinching.
Elair stepped aside. "Your men may rest outside the city. We will ensure they are tended to."
Casian gave a stiff nod. "I'll wait here."
He remounted, pain burning under his ribs. His hands trembled now, though he hid it.
When he reached the valley, he dismounted in silence.
The bridge — once arched and ancient, carved with symbols of union — lay in ruin. Stones cracked, moss growing in the crevices. A wound left to fester. Forgotten by the very king who once promised he would care for it.
He turned to his page. "Send for masons. Quiet ones. Skilled. Begin work immediately."
"Sire?"
"I want the bridge rebuilt. Stone by stone. No noise. No banners."
"You need a physician. That fall—"
"I'll rest when the bridge stands."
He stared down at the scattered rubble — at the fracture between what had been and what might still be.
He would not return to the palace.
Not yet.
He would wait here, among dust and memory, until the path between them was made whole again.
Even if it meant beginning from ruins.