The bedchamber had not been touched since she left.
Lucien stood at the door, hand resting on the gilded frame, reluctant to step inside. The room still smelled faintly of lavender and old books—Aurora's scent. A mixture of serenity and sharpness. As if even her silence had a mind of its own.
No servant had dared enter. Not even Seraphina. It had become a shrine and a scar at once—a place haunted not by ghosts, but by absence.
He stepped inside. Quietly. As though afraid to disturb a presence that lingered without form.
The sheets were still folded neatly, the pillow fluffed. Her shawl hung over the chair by the window, as if she'd be back in a moment to wrap it around her slender shoulders. He could almost hear her sigh—the kind she'd release after reading three chapters of a book and finding the world outside still hadn't changed.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
He had ruled wars. Brokered peace with assassins. Conquered rebellions.
But he had never once asked his wife what made her laugh.
And now, the room only reminded him of all the words he hadn't said.
In Moressin, the mornings arrived in silver light and dew-covered stones. Aurora had taken to walking barefoot through the grass behind the schoolhouse—it reminded her of the way the earth felt before it was paved in gold and duty.
The school was modest, but the minds within it were not.
Twelve girls gathered each morning around her voice—girls of mixed heritage, some noble runaways, some daughters of stonemasons and fishermen. All of them hungry.
One morning, as the sun split through the vines, a girl named Sera asked, "Lady Vale… do you miss being Empress?"
Aurora smiled faintly. "I miss the books."
The girls laughed.
She tilted her head. "But I don't miss being ornamental. Or spoken over. Or kissed only in public."
Silence followed. Then, slowly, the youngest girl, barely nine, whispered, "Did he love you?"
Aurora's smile faded. "I think he did. But not the way I needed."
And that was the first time she admitted it aloud.
In the palace, Seraphina's world was cracking beneath the weight of a woman who was no longer even there.
The court still smiled at her, still bowed low, still called her Your Grace. But in the corners of ballrooms and behind the screens of parlor rooms, Aurora's name spread like a second scent in the air.
At first, Seraphina tried to ignore it.
Then she tried to outshine it.
Now, she was trying to silence it.
"Call for Rheston," she snapped at her chambermaid. "Tell him to pull every record—every letter she ever published. I want her dismantled. Word by word."
When the chambermaid hesitated, Seraphina hissed, "You think this Empire has room for two queens?"
Meanwhile, Lucien was unraveling—but differently.
Not with rage. Not with plotting.
With realization.
Each night, he read more of Aurora's writings—old journals, policy memos she had edited behind the scenes, essays hidden beneath titles like "Reflections on Female Rhetoric" or "Letters from the Quiet Room."
She had been changing the Empire long before she walked away.
And he had missed it all.
He stayed up until dawn rereading one particular passage:
"I do not wish to be adored. I wish to be understood. Adoration is fleeting, but understanding... it changes people."
He folded the page and placed it in his coat.
In Moressin, Aurora received a letter with no crest.
Just two words on the outside: From Him.
Inside, it read:
"I watched the sunrise alone today. For the first time, I wondered what it was like through your eyes. The quiet. The ache. The hope.— Lucien"
She did not smile.
But she did not burn it, either.
She placed it on her desk, beside her own unfinished letter. The one she'd started four days ago and couldn't bring herself to complete.
In secret chambers, Seraphina met with Lord Rheston.
"This can't continue," she spat. "Her name is on the lips of every scribe, every merchant, every girl with ink-stained fingers."
Rheston nodded slowly. "She is not just a woman anymore. She's a symbol."
"Then break the symbol," Seraphina said. "Start the rumors. Affairs. Treason. Sorcery if you must. I want her name poisoned."
Rheston frowned. "That's dangerous. If it fails…"
"Then I will do it myself."
Back at the palace, Lucien did something unthinkable.
He summoned the Herald.
And he issued a decree.
One that shook the court more than Aurora's exit ever had.
A formal Imperial pardon for all members of the Free Daughters movement.
A wave of silence crashed across the noble houses.
Some thought he had gone mad.
Others whispered that he finally understood what leadership looked like.
Seraphina screamed behind closed doors.
And in Moressin, Aurora received the news over breakfast, her teacup trembling slightly in her hand.
"He what?" Mireille whispered.
Aurora exhaled slowly.
"He's listening."
The next courier arrived at dawn with a scroll marked Confidential.
Aurora broke the seal.
"Let me come to you. Just once. No guards. No fanfare. Not as Emperor. But as a man who finally wishes to ask what he never did:'How are you, Aurora?'"
She sat for a long time in silence.
Then wrote only three words in reply:
"Come. But humbly."
When Lucien arrived in Moressin, the villagers paused mid-barter. Children tugged their mothers' sleeves. The Emperor—on foot. No carriage. No crown.
He wore a plain gray cloak, mud at its hem, and a look of reverence so raw it felt out of place.
Aurora stood waiting in the field behind the schoolhouse, arms crossed.
When he stopped before her, she studied him like one might study a painting—familiar, but not safe.
"You came," she said.
"I didn't come to win you back," he replied.
Her brow lifted. "No?"
"I came to say I'm sorry."
They walked the gardens in silence. No guards. No ears.
At last, Lucien spoke.
"Do you hate me?"
Aurora stopped beside a lavender bush, her fingers brushing the blossoms.
"No," she said. "But I mourned us long before I left."
He nodded. "I see that now."
They stood beneath the sky like strangers who once knew each other by heart.
"You hurt me," she said.
"I know."
"You never listened."
"I'm trying to."
A long pause passed between them.
"I don't want to go back," she said. "Not to that life. Not to those walls."
"I won't ask you to."
Another pause.
"But maybe," he said quietly, "we could start something… new?"
She looked at him—not with love, but with curiosity.
"You still think in terms of kingdoms," she said. "I think in terms of voices now. Children. Change."
"Then let me be useful," he said. "Not as your husband. But as someone who believes in what you're building."
And that was how the chapter ended—not with rekindled romance.
But with respect.
Earned.