CHAPTER 366: TEARS THE EMPIRE WON’T SEE

"Are you out of your mind? It’s the exact opposite!" Griswold bellowed, his voice echoing with raw emotion. "If we hadn’t gotten involved, we wouldn’t be standing in the middle of this nightmare!"

Killing enemies was one thing—watching your own fall was something else entirely.

"Oh, please," Lennix snapped back. "Still making it all about you, even now."

"Enough!" Madam Silvia’s voice cut through the tension, sharp but measured. She stepped between them, raising her hands to stop the argument before it ignited further. "We’ve all lost something. No one is pretending this is easy. But turning on each other won’t fix anything."

She let her gaze sweep across the group, firm but not unkind.

"For now, we help the new queen. Whatever she needs—we give it."

***

It was a strange, tangled feeling. King Valentin—no, Uncle Valentin—had been protecting Riona all this time.

Shortly after their arrival in Eira, Lady Maris had sat her down and told her everything. She could no longer bear the thought of the late king being remembered only as a cruel or distant uncle.

"I know his love didn’t look like the kind you’re used to," Lady Maris had said gently. "But it was love, Riona. Twisted, yes—damaged, even—but it was the only way he knew how to show it. You were the most important person in his life. More than his own daughter. He just... didn’t know how to let go of his sister. That’s why he clung to you so tightly."

Riona lowered her gaze, her voice a whisper. "But Lisbeth..."

"He loved her," Lady Maris said without hesitation. "I believe that with all my heart. But sometimes, pain blinds us to the truth. He was chasing a ghost—so consumed by the loss of his sister that he failed to see the family still in front of him."

What astonished Riona most was not the story itself, but Lady Maris’s unwavering compassion. After everything King Valentin had done, especially to Lisbeth, Riona had expected at least a trace of bitterness. But there was none. Only sorrow and understanding.

"I know it’s hard for you to accept," Lady Maris continued. "You don’t have to. I understand him, and that’s enough for me. All I ask is that you know this: your uncle didn’t hate you. What he did... it came from fear. Fear of losing you. But you also reminded him of everything he lost. You were his salvation and his wound, all at once."

Even after everything Lady Maris had told her, Riona couldn’t mirror the love her uncle had once felt for her. It wasn’t that simple. She remembered the moment he let her escape the palace, choosing to defy Elder Alfred, who had been determined to see her dead.

In that moment, she’d seen a glimpse of the real King Valentin. But she had never fully grasped the depth of his feelings until now.

In the days of mourning before the funeral, Riona found herself quietly unraveling. Processing it all—his affection, his pain, her confusion. She often needed to be alone, to sit with emotions she’d never taken the time to feel before.

She had never done this—never stopped to simply be with herself. In the past, her focus had always been Florian. Protecting him had given her purpose, direction. But now Florian didn’t need her protection. He had grown into himself, and there was no longer anyone left to hurt him.

For the first time, Riona had space to ask herself what she needed. Who she was without someone else to guard.

Of course, she wasn’t truly alone. Thorin remained by her side, steady as ever. So did her brother, and many of the werewolves who had chosen to stay at the palace to help in the aftermath of the war.

It was strange, almost surreal, to witness the growing cooperation between vampires and werewolves. Once, under King Valentin, that alliance had been little more than a performance.

Behind the scenes, he had always regarded the werewolves with quiet disdain. And the werewolves, in turn, had come not as true allies, but with their own hidden motives.

But now, things were different. The facades had crumbled. There were no hidden agendas, no political masks. What connected them now was far simpler and far stronger: shared trauma, survival, and a desire to build something better.

Most of the werewolves had returned to Wintertooth. Thorin had entrusted Charna with leading the pack in his absence, choosing to remain in Eira himself. Puck and Trudy insisted on staying as well, while Zane, Morgan, and Warren opted to return home.

They couldn’t leave Wintertooth unattended for long. The world may have been saved, but their home still needed guardians. Who else would protect it, if not them?

True to their word, the Nightshade Coven elders remained in Eira to assist with the aftermath. Their presence alone lent Lisbeth the authority she needed to hold her head high as she stepped into the role of ruler. Any kingdom eyeing Eira’s transition as an opportunity to strike would think twice with the elders watching.

Once the mourning period ended and the funeral rites were complete, preparations would begin for Lisbeth’s investiture—the ceremony that would formally crown her as the Imperial Queen of Eira.

Though the week of mourning was meant to give the nation time to grieve, Lisbeth herself had little room for sorrow. Duty weighed heavily on her shoulders. As the soon-to-be queen, she had too much to manage—and too many people depending on her—to fully surrender to grief.

But at the end of each day, when she finally lay down to rest, sleep never came easily. She would stare up at the ceiling in silence, eyes wide open, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

And then, quietly, the tears would come, slipping from the corners of her eyes, trailing into her hair, until exhaustion finally pulled her under.

***

The funeral was closed to the public, but the empire arranged designated spaces where locals could pay their respects to the late king.

Each day of the week-long funeral was assigned to different groups. The first five days were reserved for nobles and dignitaries; the final two were set aside for the common folk.

Even then, the commoners weren’t allowed inside the palace gates. Instead, they gathered outside the entrance, tossing flowers through the bars if they wished, their gestures quiet but heartfelt.

Some still chose to make the journey to the palace, even though closer memorial sites had been prepared throughout the realm.

For them, the palace wasn’t just the seat of power—it was the place where King Valentin had ruled and, in many ways, protected them for centuries. His death felt sudden, too abrupt, and too final for those who had truly loved him.

Lisbeth had carefully shaped the narrative: that King Valentin died defending his kingdom and the world. And for most, that was enough. Only a small handful knew the deeper truth: that the king had not died for crown or country, but for his daughter.

Not out of duty, but out of love.