The throne room still echoed with the memory of her footsteps. Though she had walked out hours ago, the sound of her heels on marble played on a loop in Lucien's mind, each tap louder than the last. The room wasn't empty—servants tiptoed about, guards stood rigid at the pillars, and ministers came and went—but it felt deserted in a way that unsettled him.
It was the first time Lucien Thorne Valerius truly felt the space between what he ruled and what he had lost.
He sat on the Dragon Throne, spine straight, expression unreadable, as if carved into the seat itself. But his hand betrayed him. It remained closed, curled tightly around the ring she had left behind, the ruby crest of House Valerius catching occasional shards of light. He didn't look at it. He didn't have to.
He could feel its weight.
"She's really gone," he murmured to himself.
The Chancellor stood nearby, pretending to review documents while casting nervous glances at the Emperor. Everyone had heard the rumors, but no one had imagined Aurora would leave. She had always been a quiet presence—graceful, measured, dignified. A shadow beside Lucien, loyal and unnoticed.
Until she stepped into the light and burned the whole illusion down.
"Your Majesty," the Chancellor ventured carefully. "The Council has assembled in the Lesser Court to proceed with formal recognition of the dissolution. All they require is your presence… or a signature."
Lucien didn't look at him. "Later."
"But the Empire—"
"I said later."
The Chancellor bowed and withdrew.
Lucien finally opened his palm, staring at the ring resting there. It was a symbol of power. Of union. Of control.
Yet it had never meant love.
Not to him.
Not to her.
And now, it was just metal.
He stood and descended the steps of the throne with slow, deliberate steps. As he reached the floor where she had stood that morning—where she had looked at him with steel and sadness in her eyes—he found himself staring at the emptiness she left behind.
Aurora.
She had said his silence screamed. And she had been right.
He'd thought withholding his emotions would protect them both. That detachment was necessary for rule. For survival. For discipline.
But in shielding himself, he had built a wall too high for her to climb. And now she had walked away instead of trying to scale it one more time.
He turned and strode out of the hall.
Elsewhere in the palace, Seraphina Leclair stood at the window of her suite, watching the sun dip beyond the rooftops of Vareth. Her hand cradled her belly, her face tight with discomfort—not from the child, but from the silence.
Lucien hadn't come.
She had expected him to visit after Aurora's departure. To celebrate the Empress's exit. To speak of the child growing inside her. To begin, officially, what had been a secret for so long.
But the throne room had remained distant. His chambers, closed.
The palace buzzed with whispers. Not of Seraphina's future as a consort—but of Aurora's courage.
Even the servants moved differently now. They no longer bowed as deeply when Seraphina passed. The respect that had always been begrudging was now laced with pity… or worse, disdain.
She touched the polished glass with her fingertips. "They still talk about her," she whispered.
"You shouldn't be standing so long, my lady," her maid, Lila, said gently from behind.
Seraphina didn't move. "Has he sent for me?"
Lila hesitated. "No, my lady."
Of course not.
The great Emperor Lucien Thorne Valerius was grieving a woman he had never publicly claimed to love. And Seraphina was left to wait. Again.
She walked back to her chair and sat heavily. "Prepare the dress. The deep green velvet. I want the court to see me at tomorrow's audience."
"My lady—"
"He will not hide me anymore," Seraphina said coldly. "If I am to carry the next heir, then I will be seen."
"Yes, my lady."
Meanwhile, beyond the palace gates and high walls, in a quiet estate nestled between two pine-covered hills, Aurora sat in a modest sunroom bathed in warm gold light. The villa was peaceful. Not grand. But the air felt real, not filtered through ceremony and fear.
Mireille D'Ashe paced nearby with a glass of pear wine, her braid swinging with each step. "You are officially the most whispered-about woman in the Empire."
"I imagine the nobles are furious."
"They're confused," Mireille said, grinning. "Terrified. And perhaps… inspired."
Aurora raised a brow. "Inspired?"
"Do you know how many noblewomen have written secret letters to you? We received seven yesterday. All anonymous. But the tone is clear—they envy your boldness. Your escape."
"I didn't do it for them."
"No. But you did it. And now they can imagine doing the same."
Aurora turned her gaze to the garden outside. The roses were blooming—soft pink and cream, her favorites.
"I didn't expect the quiet to be this loud," she admitted.
"It's the sound of your soul stretching after being caged."
Aurora smiled faintly. "It aches."
"It should. You've never had space for it to move before."
She didn't know how to live for herself yet. She'd been a consort, a figurehead, a symbol. Now she had to remember how to be a person. To write again. To laugh without fear of being called frivolous. To eat without a table of etiquette-trained eyes dissecting her every move.
Later that evening, Aurora stood at the writing desk in her bedroom. A single candle lit the space, casting soft shadows along the shelves of books she hadn't touched in years.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a small box of letters. All unsent. All addressed to Lucien.
She opened the top one.
You didn't notice I wore blue for you again today. It's your favorite color, you said, once. I wonder if you even remember.
She folded it back up and set it aside. Another followed.
I dreamed last night that you reached for me in your sleep. When I woke, your back was turned. I almost cried. But I didn't. You'd never know.
And another.
Today I laughed at a joke at court. You didn't look my way. I think you resented the sound.
She read through them one by one until the tears blurred her vision.
Finally, she took out a blank parchment.
This time, she did not write to him.
She wrote to herself.
Dear Aurora,
He was never going to reach for you.
You were always reaching alone.
But now, your hands are free to hold something real.
Back in the palace, Lucien stood outside her old quarters again. The guards didn't question him this time. He entered slowly.
Her scent still lingered—jasmine, ink, warmth.
He walked to the bed she once slept in alone. He remembered how he used to hear her turn pages late into the night. How the light under her door stayed on long after he'd gone to bed.
He thought she was restless.
Now he knew better.
She had been lonely.
And still, she had stayed for years.
Until today.
He opened the drawer beside her bed and found a book with a pressed flower tucked inside—a pale purple pansy, flattened and preserved.
He turned the page.
A note was written in the margin.
You cannot grow where you are not watered.
He closed the book slowly.
In the distance, the bells of Vareth tolled midnight.
For the first time in five years, the Emperor of the Valerian Empire felt truly, utterly alone.
And he didn't know what to do with the silence.