It hasn't.
It lingers—a silver reminder of what was taken, what will never return. My hand lingers there too, pressing against the faint ridges until the ache blooms. My body remembers even when I wish it wouldn't. My womb aches in phantom rhythm, but my breasts no longer feel heavy with milk that had nowhere to go. My hips feel wrong somehow, too wide for a child who never came.
Four endless months since the dungeons. And still, every dawn feels like the first day after the loss.
The funeral pyre had been small—too small for the grief it held. I remember the smoke rising into the gray dawn sky, carrying away my son before I'd even seen his face. They'd wrapped him in white silk, but I never got to hold him.
I throw the covers aside, unable to stay still another moment. The sheets are cold and smooth where Kaan should be. His side of the bed has been untouched for weeks. He hasn't returned here since that day. Since he chose.
He chose me.
The words are supposed to bring comfort, but instead they twist the knife deeper. He chose my life over our child's. He chose to let our baby die. And every time I breathe, I feel the weight of that choice pressing against my chest.
How do you forgive someone for making you the reason your own child is dead?
This loss stirs an old one. My baby sister—gone before she could draw her first breath. I remember being five years old, watching Mother's face crumble as the healers shook their heads. But I was a child then. This grief is different. This time, I should have been able to protect my baby. This time, the loss carves deeper.
I dress without thought. A simple gown, plain as grief itself. My hands move with the detachment of someone who's forgotten what it means to care. I avoid the mirror, though its pull is magnetic. When I finally glance, a stranger stares back—my own features dulled by exhaustion. My once-golden hair hangs limp. The faint shimmer of light magic beneath my skin flickers weakly, like a candle gasping for air. Even the bond that once connected me to Kaan—the invisible thread of love and power—now hums faintly, strained and fragile.
In the halls, dawn light spills through tall arched windows, painting the marble in rose and amber. The palace looks beautiful this morning, cruelly so. Beauty feels like mockery when your heart is full of ash.
Shadow Court architecture has always favored sharp angles and deep contrasts—black marble veined with silver, jet-black pillars supporting vaulted ceilings where shadow-dancers onceperformed for celebrations. The nursery wing has been sealed off entirely, doors bound with black silk ribbons that none dare cut. Servants hurry past it with averted eyes, as if grief might be contagious.
In corners and alcoves, preparations for conflict have already begun. Maps rolled hastily and secured with wax seals. Messengers with mud-spattered boots whispering to guards. The subtle shift in how the palace guards position themselves—no longer ceremonial, but strategic. Ready.
Servants flatten themselves against the walls as I pass, eyes lowered. No one speaks. I am a living ghost now—the Lady of Shadows who lost her child and rejected her lord.
I find them both where I knew they'd be.
Zoran sits beneath the weeping willow by the reflecting pool, the branches swaying like curtain veils around him. His dark leathers mark him now as Shadow Court, not Light. He traded sunlit silks for night-black armor, loyalty for atonement. His profile is sharp in the misted light—haunted in a way I've never seen before.
Elçin stands nearby, as steady and vigilant as ever, her hand resting near the hilt of her blade. Her golden hair is braided tightly, her posture rigid. She has the look of someone who hasn't slept properly in months but refuses to admit it.
They've developed a wordless routine around me these past months. Elçin with her perpetual vigilance, checking my food before I eat, prowling my chambers for hidden threats while I pretend not to notice. Zoran with his quiet companionship, appearing with books I haven't asked for but somehow need, speaking of inconsequential things when silence grows too heavy.
I remember the night after the healing, when fever gripped me—how Elçin sat with a damp cloth and whispered Light Court battle songs to cool my skin. How Zoran held my hand whenthe pain medications wore off too soon, his own magic threading through my veins to dull the edges. These debts remain unpaid.
"Up early," Zoran says without turning. His voice is low, but the faintest thread of warmth weaves through it. "Or did you ever sleep?"
"Fourth nightmare this week," Elçin answers for me, her tone matter-of-fact. She doesn't bother to soften her words. "You screamed loud enough to wake the east wing."
I manage a weak smile. "Sorry for the disruption."
She snorts softly. "I've heard worse."
I lower myself onto the bench between them. The weight of unspoken grief settles around us, heavy as fog.
"The same dream," I say quietly.
Elçin nods, expression tightening. "The dungeons." It isn't a question. She was there. She saw the blade pierce me, saw my blood on the stones.
"I dream about it too," she admits. "I should've moved faster, should've realized sooner what Banu was?—"
"Don't." My voice breaks the still air. "You saved me, Elçin. Without you, I would've died before Kaan even reached us."
She doesn't argue, but her jaw clenches. Guilt looks different on everyone—on her, it's a blade she holds inward.
Elçin uncaps a small flask and takes a swallow before offering it to me. "It's still dark enough out that this counts as night drinking," she says. "And night drinking doesn't count."
