Tristan sat in the king’s study, quietly staring at Rhett. His friend had been awake all night, either pacing around in an agitated state or sitting motionless, staring down at Emmett’s declaration of war. It was difficult—painful—to watch Rhett crumble before his eyes. The new king had barely spoken since Julian left the day before.

  At first, Rhett had been furious—furious with Amara for placing him on the throne. His voice had gone hoarse from all the shouting. None of this would have happened if she had just listened to him. And now, it was her fault Emmett was going to war against them.

  But eventually, the rage faded, leaving behind the overwhelming guilt. It wouldn’t have mattered who Amara had chosen as king—Rhett knew this. With Drurus’s grip on Emmett, a war had been inevitable. They would have poisoned his brother’s mind against any ruler, whether it was Rhett, Julian, or someone else entirely.

  And yet, that knowledge didn’t bring the young king any comfort. Because deep down, he knew—he had known something was wrong. Rhett had seen the signs, the sickness in his brother’s eyes, the way Emmett had become unrecognizable. But he hadn’t fought hard enough to stop it. He had been too distracted, too consumed by Amara. His obsession with her, his overwhelming need to be with her, had blinded him. And because of it, his brother was lost.

  Now, Rhett sat slumped in his chair, elbows on the desk, and fingers gripped onto his disheveled hair. His gaze was fixed on Emmett’s signature, which was barely legible. He had been like this for nearly an hour, and it was making Tristan anxious.

  “Rhett?” He finally said.

  But there was no response. Tristan exhaled and leaned forward.

  “Rhett… why don’t you lie down on the couch for a few hours? You need to get some sleep.”

  “Sleep?” Rhett repeated, letting out a bitter laugh. “My brother is dying in another kingdom, surrounded by the very people who did this to him. And you think I should sleep?”

  “Yes,” the young lord nodded, holding his ground. “Because if you don’t, you’ll burn yourself out before you even have the chance to help him.”

  “As if it matters!” Rhett snapped as he finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. “I know my father won’t be coming home with Emmett. He’ll return empty-handed, and I’ll have no choice but to go to war with Drurus.”

  He paused, taking a deep breath as his lips began to quiver. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow, fighting against the tears that threatened to fall as he recalled the image of Emmett leaving the Great Hall.

  “That was the last time I’ll ever see him, wasn’t it? If… if I had known, maybe I could have done things differently…”

  Tristan didn’t know what to say to that. There wasn’t anything to say. He wasn’t particularly close to Emmett, but he still saw him as a younger brother. And now, hearing Rhett voice his regrets and guilt only made Tristan’s anger rise. Because if Rhett was right—if it had been Cerys, or others, who had been poisoning Emmett’s mind—then they had all failed him.

  A gentle knock at the door pulled Tristan’s attention away from his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder as a servant stepped inside, bowing deeply to the two men.

  “My lord,” the servant said, addressing Tristan. “Your wife is here to speak to you.”

  Tristan exhaled heavily, already anticipating that Molly Rose was here to confront Rhett—perhaps even berate him—and he wasn’t too eager to deal with the fallout.

  “You can send her in—”

  “Speak to her outside,” Rhett interrupted, not bothering to look up from the desk. “I am barely holding on as it is, and if that woman so much as looks at me the wrong way, I might just lose control.”

  “Fair enough,” Tristan conceded, raising his hands in surrender. Pushing back from his chair, he stood and stretched before going to the door. “I’ll be back. Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

  “No,” the king replied curtly.

  Tristan sighed but didn’t argue before stepping into the corridor. Within seconds, Molly Rose approached him. By her expression, the young lord knew she was upset, though not outright angry, which allowed Tristan to relax—slightly.

  “Flower,” he murmured, reaching out to take her arm before she could march past him. He felt the subtle tension in her muscles as she glanced toward the door, clearly expecting to be let inside. Instead, Tristan steered her a few steps away, toward a quieter section of the hall, where the gathered nobles and guards wouldn’t overhear them. “Now isn’t a good time.”

  “At this rate, it’ll never be a good time,” she snapped, planting her feet stubbornly. “And that’s not fair to Amara.”

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

  “I know. I do. But what do you expect Rhett to do? He’s barely keeping himself together. For Eena’s sake, the man thinks that he may never see his own brother again. I’m sorry, my love, but whatever you came to say to him, it can wait.”

  Molly Rose huffed, but instead of arguing, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment.

  “I wasn’t here to speak to him,” she said, pressing the letter into Tristan’s hand. “Not much, anyway. I came to give him this—Amara wrote it.”

  Tristan glanced between the letter and his wife before finally taking it. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “How is she?”

  “Not well,” Molly Rose admitted quietly. “She blames herself for Emmett declaring war. She spent the entire night crying until she made herself sick. I can’t get her to eat anything, and she’s barely had any water. It got so bad that I had to call the Mistress of Herbs to give her a tonic just to make her sleep.”

  “It’s not her fault,” he murmured before quickly glancing around the corridor, making sure they were alone before lowering his voice. “At least, not directly. Rhett believes Drurus had a hand in this—poisoning Emmett’s mind, warping his thoughts, pushing him away from his family. If that’s true, then it wouldn’t have mattered who Amara named king. Emmett would have declared war regardless.”

  “If it wouldn’t have mattered who Amara named king, then why is Rhett still punishing her by staying away?” Molly Rose questioned with a deep frown.

  Tristan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he searched for the right words.

  “Because he’s still angry at her. Because he’s afraid—afraid of taking out his guilt and frustrations on her. Because he’s scared of what the future holds.”

  Molly Rose let out a deep breath, leaning back against the stone wall.

  “I don’t want to sound insensitive,” she sighed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I know Rhett is struggling, and I know he’s hurting… but Amara spent most of the night crying, Tristan. Begging Rhett to annul their marriage, thinking it would make him forgive her. She honestly believes that letting him go is the only way to fix this. Hearing that broke my heart. I can’t stand this.”

  Without hesitation, Tristan stepped forward and pulled Molly Rose into his arms. She stiffened for only a moment before sinking into him, burying her face against his shoulder as tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “I know, my flower,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple as he held her close. “It’s hard to watch the people we love fall apart, especially when there’s nothing we can do to stop it. But this won’t last forever. Rhett and Amara… they belong together. I’ve never seen two people so perfectly made for one another. We just need to hold out hope that Julian can return with Emmett and that this war Drurus is pushing on us will either go quickly or end before it even starts.”

  After holding onto his wife for a minute, Tristan pulled back slightly, cradling her face.

  “Go on back to Amara,” he said, brushing his thumbs over the damp trails left by her tears. “She needs you right now, and I need to return to Rhett. I don’t like leaving him alone with his thoughts for too long.”

  “But you’ll give him the letter?” She inquired with a sniffle.

  “Of course, flower,” Tristan assured her, offering a smile. “Though I can’t promise he’ll actually read it.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” she exhaled as her shoulders sagged. Then, without another word, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips before stepping back. With one last glance, she turned and walked down the corridor.

  Tristan stayed in place, watching until she disappeared around the corner. Only then did he turn back toward the king’s study. Once at the door, he knocked once before pushing it open.

  Unsurprisingly, Rhett hadn’t moved an inch from where Tristan had left him. He remained hunched over his desk; his fingers pressed hard against his temple.

  “So,” Rhett muttered. “What did Molly Rose have to say about me?”

  “Nothing about you,” Tristan replied, walking forward. Without hesitation, he tossed the folded parchment onto the desk. “But your wife wrote to you.”

  “I don’t want it,” Rhett grumbled, looking away from it.

  “You don’t have to read it,” Tristan said simply as he sank into the chair across from him. “But I’m not taking it back.”

  Rhett’s jaw clenched, and his knuckles turned white as his hands curled into fists against the desk. He wanted to ignore the letter and debated ordering Tristan to take it away. However, he knew his friend would refuse to obey, which meant that Rhett would be forced to endure Amara’s scent. Her soft honey and wildflower smell that drifted up from the parchment. It wrapped around him like an embrace, making it harder and harder to fight against the urge to see her.

  Then, as if acting against his will, Rhett reached forward. His fingertips touched the letter, and he hesitated—just for a moment—before lifting it. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Suddenly, the tension in his shoulders loosened, and the tight, suffocating grip around his chest eased.

  Tristan, who had been watching closely, took this opportunity to speak up.

  “You should go see her. Molly Rose said Amara has been beside herself since the news broke. She’s struggling too, Rhett. Maybe if you see each other—”

  “No.”

  The single word came out in a growl. Rhett tossed the letter back onto the desk as if he no longer cared about it. Tristan frowned, opening his mouth to argue, but Rhett shook his head.

  “Not right now,” he said.

  Tristan exhaled through his nose, clearly unhappy, but he knew better than to push any further. He settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest when a sudden, loud knocking echoed in the room. The door swung open before Rhett could call out, and an unknown young man stumbled inside, carrying a medium-sized chest tightly in his arms.

  Rhett shot to his feet as the scent of iron hit him. Oblivious to the smell, Tristan rushed over to the man instantly, grabbing him roughly by the collar before pushing him back against the nearest bookshelf.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in on your king like this? That’s a punishable offense.”

  “I—I rode all the way from W-w-wellins,” the young man stuttered as he eyed the chest in his arms. “A d-d-dragon dropped it off. She told me to bring it to the king.”

  Tristan exchanged a look with Rhett, but the king didn’t move. His attention remained locked on the chest as his heart started to race.

  Tristan took the box from the man before motioning his head to the door.

  “Get out,” he ordered. The man hesitated, glancing at Rhett, but when Tristan glared at him, he hurried out of the study.

  However, as Tristan watched the man leave, he suddenly realized the bottom of the chest was sticky. He quickly set it on the desk and looked down at the red stains on his hand.

  “What the—”

  “Blood…” Rhett murmured as his throat went dry.

  “From what?” Tristan questioned as he stiffened.

  Rhett forced himself to look away from the chest, meeting his friend’s gaze.

  “A human…”

  Tristan’s stomach dropped. He turned his gaze downward, staring at the wooden box. His fingers twitched at his sides before he cleared his throat.

  “Do you want me to open it?”

  Rhett couldn’t speak, and only nodded. Tristan inhaled deeply, bracing himself. Slowly, he reached out, gripping the lid. He hesitated for a second before lifting it.

  Inside the chest, set on a bed of straw, was Julian’s severed head. The Crown Father’s lifeless hazel eyes stared up, almost directly at Rhett.

  “Rhett—”

  “Don’t,” The young king growled, frozen as his gaze remained on his father’s severed head. He breathed heavily, moving his jaw as he thought to himself.

  Finally, after a long silence, Rhett forced himself to move. He reached out, trembling slightly as he brushed a hand over Julian’s face and closed his father’s eyes. Then, without a word, he took the lid of the chest and shut it.

  Turning away, he crossed the room, rummaging through cabinets and chests. When he finally found a piece of rope, he pulled it out and returned to his desk. He wrapped the rope tightly around the chest, securing it shut. After carefully lifting the box in his arms, he turned to Tristan.

  “You are to send Amara back to Onlon,” he ordered firmly. “Then, send messenger pigeons across the kingdom. Every able-bodied soldier is to report for duty immediately. Those from the south will wait in Estoneshire. Those in the north will gather in Wellins. I will return in a few days.”

  “Where are you going?” Tristan questioned with furrowed brows.

  “To Vespera,” Rhett answered as he walked toward the door. “We’re going to war… and I’m going to need Mathias and Kenna’s help.”