And silence fell.
Viktor’s palm pressed over the ink on his ribs, as if to cage his own heart from tearing free.
He didn't remember crossing to the bath. Didn't recall turning the valve. Only the water—streaming over his head, boots and leathers soaked through. It roared down around him, drowning the world, keeping the break at bay.
His fingers pressed the ring against his chest.
Still there.
Still hers.
Still—somehow—not enough.
His back hit cold marble.
Eyes shut.
Heart pounding like a war drum.
How long until she saw him?
Not the soldier. Not the savior.
Him—the man born to surrender everything he loved to ash.
His chest hollowed.
Amerei was too pure to face his darkness. Her hope, eternal. His shame, abyssal.
Could she look into the void unscathed? Would he dare let her try?
There is no reckoning in grief—only the sainted shadows of what was.
And yet—
She came.
He heard her kneel. Felt her hand on his arm.
“They voted… in favor of my claim.”
Viktor gave a quiet, jagged laugh.
“You are Queen of Casqadia.”
“I am.”
Water soaked her hair. Her gown clung to her body. Still, she came to him—stepped into his turmoil and joined him beneath the downpour.
“How long,” he asked, his voice breaking, “until you regret what we’ve done?”
For a moment she only looked at him—half-clothed beneath the rush of water, head bowed, every line of him straining against collapse.
“Never,” she answered at last, lifting his hand.
“There is but one power Xavien can never overcome.”
She kissed his knuckles.
