Some ghosts scream. Others weep. But the ones you've wronged the most? They stare—and ask if you've really changed.
The morning after the ring, Damien lay beside me, limbs tangled in sheets, breath slow, mouth still parted in sleep.
The almond petals clung to his hair.
For the first time, I didn't see the man who once burned kingdoms to the ground.
I saw the man who'd chosen not to rule me.
And yet, peace never lingers without a cost.
The letter came at noon.
A rider, dust-covered and shaking, handed it to me like it might bite.
Damien read it in silence. Then handed it to me without a word.
A border outpost. Burned.
A faction of loyalists to the fallen regent.
Their demand: return Damien Drake in chains. Or watch the countryside burn.
I looked up and saw the old emperor flash in his eyes—not cruelty, but clarity.
"I'll go," he said.
"Not alone."
His jaw set. "I won't let them touch you."
"You don't get to decide that anymore."
He stopped.
Then exhaled.
"Then we ride together."
—
The roads bent under memory.
Villagers watched us pass—some with awe, others with fear. Rumors whispered like wind: The tyrant returns to the ashes he once sowed.
When we reached the outpost ruins, the stench of smoke and blood still clung to the ground.
Ash drifted like gray snow.
A girl emerged from the debris. Sixteen, maybe. Singed hair. Burns on her arm. Grief bleeding from her eyes.
She pointed at Damien.
"You came."
He dismounted slowly. Hands visible. Sword sheathed.
"I came to listen."
"They said you'd punish us."
"No," he said. "I came to answer."
He knelt before her.
And she—slowly, defiantly—spat at his feet.
"They said you used to kill for less."
"They were right."
Her chin trembled. "Then why kneel?"
"Because I can't undo the blood I spilled. But I can choose not to spill yours."
She stared.
A long moment passed.
Then she pulled something from her pocket. A single, charred almond blossom.
"My mother planted a tree before she died. It bloomed last week. Then they burned it."
She pressed the blackened flower into his hand.
"Plant another."
She walked away without waiting for an answer.
Damien stared at the blossom for a long time. Then to me.
His voice cracked.
"I thought atonement would feel heavier."
"It is," I said. "You're just finally strong enough to carry it."
—
We stayed three days.
We buried the dead. Helped the sick. Built a new gate with the villagers, side by side, no titles spoken.
That last morning, as we prepared to leave, the girl came again.
She looked between us. Her voice flat:
"Do you love him?"
Damien opened his mouth.
I answered first.
"Yes. Even when it was hard. Even when I hated what he'd done."
She nodded. Then placed a new blossom in Damien's hand—this one whole, fresh, white.
"Don't mess it up."
—
We rode home through golden fields.
And somewhere between the burning past and the soft rise of our cottage roof, his hand found mine.
It stayed there the rest of the way.
We didn't speak.
We didn't need to.
Sometimes, the strongest vows are the ones made in silence.