Moonlight crept through the narrow windows of the abandoned chamber, washing the walls in silver-blue. Dust hung motionless in the air. The room, once the sanctum of a king, now felt like the hollow of a man lost between grief and fury.
Gwi sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands trembling above the floor. His armor was gone. The royal cloak folded in the corner. His crown had not been touched since the night of the attack.
On a nearby table lay the pendant—bloodstained and cracked. Once a gift from Siera, it had always anchored him. Now, it mocked him.
He had not slept.
The knock was barely a sound.
He didn’t look up.
“It’s just me.”
The voice was low—measured. A presence that could only be Lyn.
The door creaked as she slipped inside, clad in a muted cloak, the hood casting a shadow over her sharp features. She moved like a ghost across the room and sat opposite him. Her breath came slow, as though every step cost her something.
“You look worse than I expected,” she said, her voice dry.
Gwi tried to muster a smile, something sarcastic, but it fell apart before it reached his lips. His voice cracked under disuse.
“You shouldn’t be walking yet.”
“And you shouldn’t be alone.”
That silenced him. They sat like that—two remnants of a shattered night. Lyn stared at the floor. Gwi stared at her, as if making sense of her presence might anchor him to the moment.
“They think I killed him,” Gwi murmured, not even sure if he was speaking to her or to the ghost of his title.
“I know.”
Her tone was gentle, but a sharper layer pulsed beneath it, a quiet tension. She looked up and met his eyes.
“And someone made sure they'd believe it.”
His jaw clenched. The betrayal still felt raw.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
And he did.
He told her of the pendant, how he found it beside Maren’s body. Of the way the council looked at him, like they were already digging a pit to bury him. Of People’s words—razor-sharp, accusing. Of Siera’s silence that night, so still it wounded him more than her blade ever could.
Lyn didn’t interrupt. Her eyes narrowed at key moments, but she held her reactions in. When he finished, a heavy stillness filled the space.
“They want to see the beast in you,” she said.
She stood and approached the table. Her fingers ghosted over the pendant, lingering on the blood.
“I’ll find out who did this,” she said, softly. “For you.”
Gwi’s breath hitched.
“Why would you do that?”
She turned to him. Her hood had fallen back, revealing the bruises still darkening her temple, the pale bandage across her collarbone. But her eyes glowed—not with vengeance, but clarity.
“Because you saved me,” she said. “And because I know you’d never spill blood without reason.”
He said nothing.
She stepped closer, leaning down until her lips were close to his ear.
“They’ve all forgotten your heart, Gwi. I haven’t.”
Then she was gone. A wisp of shadow against moonlight.
And he was left staring after her.
For the first time in days, something stirred inside him—fragile, flickering.
Trust.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Morning was gentle over the Queen’s wing. A hush blanketed the palace, a lull between chaos and consequence.
Siera lay reclined on a pale velvet chaise, her skin paler than usual, one hand pressed lightly over her chest. Her breath was shallow but steady. Eros sat beside her, back straight, fingers wrapped around her hand as if anchoring her to the realm of the living.
Catelyn stood vigil near the arched window, eyes trained on the gardens below, sword within arm’s reach.
The royal physician closed his satchel with trembling fingers, then turned. His face was composed, but a slight quiver in his jaw betrayed the gravity of what he was about to say.
“Your Majesty…” he began quietly. “There is no injury. No fever. Your vitals are… stable.”
He hesitated.
“But your pulse, your breath—there’s… a shift in your body.”
Siera’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“What kind of shift?”
He bowed slightly.
“You are with child.”
The silence was immediate.
Eros blinked, hand tightening around hers. Catelyn’s eyes flicked toward the bed but she didn’t move.
Siera sat up slowly. Though the dizziness returned, she willed it away, spine straightening with practiced poise.
“Does anyone else know?”
The physician shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. I came straight here, as ordered.”
“Good,” she said. “Then keep it that way.”
She looked between them—her eyes sharp now, commanding.
“Not a word. Not to the council. Not to the court. Not even to the king’s circle.”
Catelyn gave a slow nod, hand resting on her hilt. Eros was quiet, his gaze unreadable, lips parted slightly as if he wanted to speak but dared not.
“This must remain between us,” Siera continued. “Until I say otherwise.”
The physician bowed deeply. “As you wish.”
He backed out of the chamber with careful steps.
Silence returned.
Catelyn shifted toward the door but paused. “I’ll stand guard.”
She left quietly, and Siera finally exhaled—only when alone with Eros.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on the window, on the light, the roses in bloom.
He spoke first, voice low.
“Is it Gwi's?”
Siera turned to him. There was no offense in her face, no flare of anger—just quiet certainty.
“It couldn’t be anyone else.”
Eros looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Then why the secrecy?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because this kingdom is in flames, Eros. Because wolves walk our halls in skin that isn’t theirs. Because if they know, they’ll use it.”
Her hand drifted to her abdomen. Barely a flutter beneath her palm—but she felt it now. A ripple of something deeper than fear.
“I can’t protect both the crown and a child. Not yet.”
Eros reached for her hand again. She let him.
“Then I will,” he said.
She opened her eyes.
The sunlight framed her face. In that moment, she looked neither queen nor warrior—just a woman torn between duty and an uncertain future.
She nodded once.
But her gaze had already shifted beyond the room—toward the shadows she knew were still watching. Toward the throne where Gwi once stood.
And toward the blood she would have to spill to ensure her child was never born into a world ruled by fear.
The hush lingered.
Siera’s hand was still in Eros’s. Her fingers didn’t curl, didn’t pull away, but they didn’t return the grip either. They simply rested there—like a ghost of trust, not a promise.
Eros finally broke the silence.
“Do you want him to know?”
Siera hesitated. Not because she didn’t know the answer—but because it hurt to say it.
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” she admitted.
That was the truth. Brutal and bitter.
“I only know what must be done.”
Eros studied her face. The weight she carried. The defiance and the exhaustion braided into her bones. Then he let go of her hand.
“I’ve followed you into fire before,” he said. “And I would again.”
She turned away at that—gaze out the window, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
He stood slowly, watching her.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said after a moment. “I never have.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“But that’s why it’s dangerous, Eros. Because if you did… I might have said yes. A long time ago.”
That was the closest she would ever come to admitting it—that in another life, one not soaked in blood and ruin, he might have stood beside her for more than duty.
But not in this one.
Eros bowed slightly—not the deep bend of a subject, but something quieter. Sadder. Resigned.
“Then I’ll keep standing behind you,” he said. “Until you fall. Or until you don’t.”
She didn’t stop him as he walked to the door.
Just before it closed, he looked back, voice gentler now. “You’ll have to tell him eventually.”
Siera didn’t turn.
“I know.”
The door shut behind him, and for the first time that morning, she let her shoulders sag.
She pressed her hand once more to her stomach, then whispered into the silence:
“I just don’t know if he’ll still be standing when I do.”