Chapter 408: Ophelia

Hours later, the moonlight shifted across the floor, silvering the heavy furs of the bed. Eris stirred. It wasn’t a full awakening, but a slow, sluggish climb out of the depths of her mana-exhaustion.

She felt a weight, a presence that was different from the clinical air of the ritual room. She felt the feeling of a hand holding hers.

Her eyes flickered, barely opening, her vision clouded by the remnants of sleep. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety, the lingering residue of the sadness she’d felt in the dreamscape. Her hand searched the sheets, fingers brushing against Soren’s. She squeezed his hand weakly, her touch desperate and grounding.

“Soren…?” her voice was a ghost of a sound, barely a rasp.

Soren, who hadn’t moved a muscle for hours, immediately squeezed back. He leaned in, his face close to hers, masking the wreckage of his own heart with a mask of calm. “I’m here, Eris. I’m right here.”

Eris didn’t fully open her eyes. She was still half-lost in the fog. She tugged on his hand, her movements uncoordinated and sleepy. “Come to bed…” she murmured. Her voice was soft, devoid of the Empress’s edge. “…need you…”

The words hit Soren like a physical impact. They were sleep-addled, subconscious, and undeniably genuine. In her weakest moment, when the mask was gone and the pride was stripped away, she reached for him. She needed him.

He couldn’t refuse her. He never could. He stood up, moving with a mechanical grace as he removed his boots and his outer layers, the cold air of the room amplified by his skin. He climbed into the bed beside her, and the moment his weight settled into the mattress, Eris moved.

She curled into him with the instinct of a creature seeking warmth except he was cold just the way she liked it. She tucked her head against his chest, her arm winding around his waist, pulling him as close as the physical world would allow.

“…missed you…” she whispered against his skin.

Soren wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tight it might have been painful if she weren’t so tired. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of smoke and jasmine that always lingered on her. “I’m right here,” he answered, his voice cracking.

But as he felt her breath even out, as she fell back into a deep, safe slumber in his arms, the thought remained like a splinter in his mind.

Am I here? he wondered, staring into the dark. Or am I just holding the body while the soul is still under?

The night was long. It was the kind of quiet that felt like a scream.

In the East Wing, the morning sun began to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains of the King Consort’s chambers. It was a soft, golden light, filtered through the morning mist of the capital.

Caelen’s eyes opened.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of weight. The crushing, nauseating pressure of the dark magic was gone. His body felt light, terribly weak, as if his bones were made of glass, but he was healing. The air in his lungs felt clean for the first time in days.

He blinked against the sunlight, his mind slowly cataloging the transition from the golden field of his dream to the reality of his room. The dream was still there, a vivid, aching memory of Eris’s face, but the room was real. The stone walls were real.

And the woman beside him was real.

He turned his head slowly, the movement sending a dull throb through his neck. Ophelia was there. She had pulled a chair flush against the bed, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. She looked smaller than he remembered.

She was asleep, or so he thought, her face peaceful but marred by the sheer physical toll of her vigil. The dark circles under her eyes were like bruises. His gaze drifted down to her lap, where her hands rested near her pregnant belly. She was four months along now, the curve of her child, his child, visible beneath her silk gown.

The guilt hit him then, a tidal wave that far exceeded any physical pain the ritual had caused.

What have I done?

The realization crashed down on him with a sickening weight. For months, he had been a ghost in his own life. He had been chasing Eris, obsessing over a woman who had clearly moved on, a woman who looked at him with nothing but professional pity. He had risked his life, his title, and his sanity for a ring that promised him a return to a past that was already ash.

And all the while, Ophelia had waited.

She had carried his child through the stress of everything, through the terror of his collapse, through the cold indifference he had shown her for weeks.

He had used her.

In the beginning, he had convinced himself he loved her to escape the pain of Eris, but it had always been a lie of convenience. He had used her as a distraction, a soft place to land when the fire of Eris Igniva became too hot to bear.

She deserved better, he thought, his chest tightening. She deserves so much better than a man who dreams of another woman while she holds his hand.

He reached out, his fingers trembling, and barely touched the edge of her sleeve. He didn’t want to wake her; he just needed to acknowledge her presence.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The words were barely audible, a ragged breath in the quiet room. He wasn’t sure if she could hear him, but he needed to say them into the light of day.

“I’ll take care of you,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “And our child. I promise. With what’s left of my heart.”

He knew the weight of that statement. He knew he couldn’t give her the kind of soul-deep, world-altering love that Eris had once given him, or the kind of passion he still felt for the memory of the woman under the tree.

That part of him was burned out, scarred over by the dark magic and the extraction. But he would give her his loyalty. He would give her his protection. He would be the husband he had been pretending to be.

“I know I can’t give you everything,” he murmured, a tear escaping and trailing into his hairline. “But I’ll give you what I can. I promise, Ophelia.”

Beside him, Ophelia didn’t move. Her breathing remained steady, her eyes closed.

But she was awake.

She had been awake the moment his breathing had shifted. She had heard every word. Every syllable hit her like a stone dropped into a deep, still well.

He meant it. She could hear the sincerity in his broken voice. He would try. He would be a good husband, a dutiful father. He would be present in a way he hadn’t been since before the hunt.

But she didn’t feel happy. She didn’t feel the relief she had expected when he finally chose her.

Instead, she felt a hollow, aching void. Why do I always lose to Eris? she wondered, her heart feeling like a cold stone in her chest.

Even his apology was centered around the Empress. “With what’s left of my heart.” Because the rest, the best part, the strongest part, still belonged to the woman who had just walked out the door with another man.

Ophelia lay there, pretending to sleep, listening to the man she loved promise her his scraps. She had won, technically. He was alive, and he was hers. But it was a victory that felt like a funeral.

She didn’t cry. She was too tired for tears. She just felt hollow, a vessel carrying a child for a man who would always be looking over her shoulder for a ghost.

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