Draven's pulse hammered against his throat, a frantic, uneven rhythm. He was losing—not to an army, but to the suffocating stillness of the woman standing before him. He reached for the only weapon he had left: his memory of the day he broke her.
"Don't you dare rewrite the past," Draven growled, stepping closer until he was inches from the dark veil. "Don't forget that I am the one who discarded you. I am the one who tore up the contract. I am the one who ended us."
Regina didn't flinch. She didn't even shift her weight. Through the thin obsidian silk, she looked at him with the pity one might afford a dying insect.
"No, Draven," she said, her voice dropping to a haunting, quiet depth. "You didn't discard me. You simply opened the door, and I was the one who walked away from your weak soul. You didn't lose a wife; you lost the only thing that was keeping you upright."
Draven's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He fought to find an answer, his pride thrashing like a cornered animal. "You know nothing about me! You know nothing of the weight I carry—of how hard I have labored to strengthen my position as Crown Prince. You were a weight, Iris. This veiled presence of yours holds no value in my life!"
Regina let out a short, soft sound—not quite a laugh, but something far more cutting.
"A person's worth is found in the mind and the heart, Draven," she said, her veiled face tilting toward the palace where Eliosa was likely waiting. "Not in sweet words and an empty smile."
The words hit Draven straight to the core. It was a physical blow, stripping away his excuses. He understood immediately—she wasn't just talking about him; she was mocking his decision. She was pointing at the "Saintess" he had chosen—the woman of sugar-coated lies—and comparing her to the raw, ancient power he had thrown away.
"I didn't—I don't care for smiles!" Draven stammered, his refusal coming out too fast, too desperate. "I chose what was best for the Empire! I chose power!"
"You chose a mirror that tells you what you want to hear," Regina countered. She turned back to the carriage, her movement final. "I have no need to argue with you, Draven. Your own heart already knows the truth, and that is a far worse punishment than any curse I could lay upon you."
She stepped into the dark interior of the carriage. This time, Draven didn't move to stop her. He couldn't. He stood frozen on the gravel, the cold night air filling his lungs as he watched the carriage pull away.
He was the Crown Prince of Emberclaw, but as the shadows of the carriage vanished into the mist, he felt like a beggar standing in the wake of a Queen.