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Chapter 35: Beneath the Ashes
The manor had never been quieter.
Not even during the darkest storms or the loneliest winters had the halls of the Seo estate carried this kind of silence—a pregnant hush filled with whispers unsaid and truths buried far too deep. The air itself felt thick, as if reluctant to move. No servants bustled through the corridors. No music drifted in from the west wing. The warmth that once clung to the windows from the hearths inside had long since faded, replaced with the brittle chill of a fractured household.
Elira stood in the observatory, staring out at the snow-covered maze in the garden, her fingertips gently grazing the frosted glass. She was draped in a black velvet shawl, her expression unreadable—an elegant statue carved from regret and defiance.
The events from the night before had twisted her insides into a painful knot.
Celeste's appearance…
The confession…
The wound it left on Kairo.
And now the veil between what she felt and what she ought to feel had thinned dangerously. The echoes of Kairo's voice still lingered in her ears—the way he'd said her name after Celeste left, almost like he was trying to apologize without words.
She had felt something shatter between them in that moment.
Not loud.
Not messy.
Just... quietly, the way snow falls—heavy but silent.
"Miss Wynne."
Elira turned.
Maelor, Kairo's head steward, stood in the doorway with a bowed head and the stiff posture of a man who disliked what he had to say.
"Yes?" she asked.
"The council has arrived early. Lord Seo is in the strategy hall with the emissaries from Eltaris."
A pulse thudded in her chest. "He didn't tell me."
Maelor's jaw tensed. "He has not spoken to anyone since dawn."
She didn't respond immediately. Just nodded, gathered the shawl around her, and followed him through the cold passageways. Every step rang louder in the silence, like the manor itself was listening—aware of every shift in the wind between them.
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The strategy hall was dimly lit, thick curtains drawn to shield its contents from any wandering eyes. Maps stretched across the long oak table, and at least four strangers sat across Kairo, dressed in royal blue and silver, their posture imperial.
Kairo stood at the head, back to the doorway, his tone as precise as a blade.
"We cannot give them the pass," he was saying. "If we do, the North loses access to the salt routes, and we lose leverage. Wynmar will fold within weeks."
"And if the Crown retaliates?" one of the Eltarisi emissaries countered, his fingers laced before him. "If the boy-king finally grows a spine?"
Kairo scoffed. "Then we break it."
The room chuckled coldly.
Elira didn't make her presence known. She leaned against the carved doorframe, watching him—shoulders broad, hair slightly disheveled, voice darker than usual. The man before her was no longer just the Kairo she had known in his softer moments. This was the strategist. The war-born prince who had spent his entire life rising from blood and betrayal. There was a new fury in him—a kind that brewed slowly, dangerously.
She saw the tightness around his eyes. The strain beneath his collar. The way his hand tightened slightly when the emissary said her name.
"We heard your Lady Wynne has quite the affinity with fire," one of the men said, clearly testing boundaries. "Perhaps she can convince the rebels in the south to yield."
Kairo raised his eyes, cold as winter.
"She is not yours to speak of."
The words sliced through the room like a drawn sword.
The emissary laughed nervously and backed off. But Kairo's mood remained carved in stone. And Elira knew that mood was not born of politics—but from the chaos Celeste had reawakened.
And the guilt Elira hadn't yet voiced.
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Later that evening, she found him alone in the greenhouse behind the estate, sitting in the shadows near the twisted remains of his mother's roses. The once-vibrant garden had withered into a maze of thorn and stem, frost glinting along every edge.
"You used to care for these," she said softly, stepping closer.
Kairo didn't turn. "They die anyway."
She sat beside him on the stone bench. For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Elira whispered, "Did you love her?"
Kairo looked at her then, slow and wary, like a man unearthing a bomb with his bare hands. "I thought I did. But I was young. Reckless. She didn't love me… not truly. She loved power. My power. And she left me with wounds I didn't even know how to bleed from."
Elira nodded, trying to keep her voice steady. "And me?"
Silence.
Then, finally, he whispered, "You terrify me, Elira."
Her breath caught.
"You terrify me because you didn't have to do anything to make me fall. It just happened. It still is happening. And I don't know how to stop being afraid of losing you too."
She reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his.
"We're both a little broken, Kairo," she murmured. "But maybe that's the only way we can fit."
His lips twitched, just slightly, and he didn't pull away.
The frost on the window glass cracked slightly from the heat between them.
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The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time Elira reached the greenhouse behind the estate.
Kairo had always maintained it with an obsessive precision—rare herbs, imported soil, temperature-controlled glass. But now, the place looked overgrown, chaotic. Vines had crept across the glass walls. Wild blooms had overtaken the trimmed rose beds. Yet within that chaos, something felt heartbreakingly real. Untamed. Honest.
She pushed the door open, the rusty hinges crying under pressure. The smell of wet soil and forgotten spring lingered. She found him there, on the wooden bench in the center of it all, coat abandoned beside him, a glass of brandy in his hand. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, collar stained from rain, and the fire in his eyes was gone—only ash remained.
"You knew," Elira whispered.
Kairo didn't move. "I always knew," he replied quietly.
"And you said nothing?"
A long silence followed. His fingers curled around the glass like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.
"I said nothing," he repeated, finally turning to face her, "because I knew what it would cost you to hear the truth."
Her steps echoed as she crossed the moss-streaked floor and stopped before him. "You let me love you while I stood on a trapdoor."
Kairo tilted his head back. "I let you choose. That's the one thing they never let me have, Elira—choice."
She knelt before him, gripping the edges of his knees. "Then choose now. Speak it. All of it. No more riddles. No more silence."
He looked down at her—this girl with fire in her veins and storms in her eyes. For a moment, he forgot the weight of the empire, the legacy of blood, the prophecy that shadowed them both.
"There was a pact," he began. "Between our families. Sealed with ash and iron. Before you were born. Before I was ever old enough to understand what sacrifice meant."
Her brows furrowed. "A pact?"
"Yes. A blood vow made in the ruins of the ancient war. Your family, the Wynnes, bound to mine through power... and tragedy. You weren't supposed to live past your sixteenth year."
Elira reeled back. "What?"
"They were meant to kill you the moment the mark awakened. It was the only way to keep balance. To keep the Veins from choosing you."
A chill scraped down her spine. "Then why am I still alive?"
"Because I broke the vow," he said simply. "I hid you. I erased records. I burned the name Elira Wynne from every ledger. I killed the sentinels meant to end your life."
Tears blurred her vision. "You... did all of that for me?"
He cupped her face with hands scarred by secrets. "I did it for us. I couldn't let you die, not when the world already felt hollow without your voice in it."
"But now the order knows. The Elders saw me. Celeste... she warned me—"
Kairo's jaw clenched. "Celeste serves her bloodline, not you. Her loyalty lies with prophecy, not love."
Elira shook her head. "So what now? What does this mean?"
"It means," Kairo said grimly, "the war we tried to prevent is already on its way. And they'll come for you first."
He stood, towering over her like a storm given form. The shadows of the greenhouse flickered as wind howled through the cracks in the glass.
"And this time," he continued, "we won't hide."
Elira rose with him, spine straight, tears forgotten. "Then let them come. I'm done running from the ashes."
They didn't touch, but their breath shared the same rhythm—fast, fierce, and forged in fire.
Outside, thunder rumbled low like a drumbeat of war.
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End of chapter 35