At banquets, they stood beneath moon-crystal chandeliers, perfectly matched.
And I—awkward, out of place—clutched my goblet in the shadows like a fool.
Back then, Draven would still take my hand and declare before everyone.
“This is my betrothed.”
He helped build my craft, defended me from jealous wolves, even crossed entire territories to care for me when I was ill.
I never doubted his love. Until now.
Looking at his cold, unyielding face, hearing his threats, I realized—all that tenderness was guilt.
Not love.
His heart had always been Myrielle’s.
And I… I had been nothing but a debt to repay. A wildflower he pitied.
My love was a cruel joke.
“Three… two—”
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.”
Draven paused, then smiled faintly. He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on my head.
“Good girl. Just endure this one last time. I’ll make it up to you.”
But as he held me, my gaze caught the back of his crystal communicator.
A charm—etched with a picture of him and Myrielle, younger, faces pressed together, smiling.
My heart stopped.
He had never liked using charms. I begged him once, but he refused, calling them childish.
Yet now… he carried her face everywhere.