CHAPTER 459: THE BROKEN HEIR

Later, Heimdal entered Reuben’s chamber. The room smelled faintly of medicine and stale air. His son sat in a wheelchair by the window, his body bowed toward the glass as if seeking light where none shone. Once broad-shouldered and proud, he was now gaunt, his hair unkempt, his hands trembling weakly on the armrest. His spirit seemed as fractured as his body.

The king did not speak at once. He stood silently, his heart heavy, and watched. Memories rose unbidden: the boy he had lifted onto his shoulders, the youth he had trained to rule, the heir he had once trusted would outshine them all.

"I am sorry, Father," Reuben whispered at last, his voice brittle and cracked. "I did not listen. I failed you."

Heimdal’s chest tightened.

"People fail," he said softly. "Even I made mistakes, unforgivable ones." I thought to protect Alaric by neglecting him, by keeping him at a distance. But my silence only wounded him more deeply than any enemy could.

Reuben slowly turned his head. His sunken face lifted to meet his father’s gaze. His eyes, dulled by grief, still carried a flicker of desperate need.

"Was the mistake... me?" His lips barely moved, his words trembling though his expression remained cold, as if he feared the truth.

"No," Heimdal answered firmly, stepping closer. "Not you."

For a heartbeat, relief and sorrow clashed on Reuben’s face. He did not know whether to feel comforted or condemned.

"I heard the verdict," he said finally, his tone unnervingly calm. "My grandfather. My great-grandfather. My mother’s kin—all of them condemned. And me, Father? What is my

verdict?"

His sudden composure startled Heimdal. Gone was the arrogance of the past two years. What sat before him now was a man hollowed by loss.

"I condemned only those whose crimes were unforgivable," Heimdal said. His tone was firm, yet gentled by sorrow. "A leader must be just. I spared the innocent, though they could not remain in Savadra. Justice must stand as a warning to the wicked."

Neither father nor son spoke for a long time. Silence pressed down on the room. Reuben waited, head bowed, as if expecting a sentence from his father’s lips.

"I will not pretend I was not hurt or angered by you," Heimdal said at last. "You knew your mother’s treachery, and yet you turned away. You allowed it to happen."

Shame darkened Reuben’s face. He did not answer.

"But perhaps I failed you first," Heimdal continued. "I thought I had shaped you well. If I had, temptation would never have conquered you. You would have been the king I molded you to be."

Reuben looked up sharply, startled.

"Yet greed claimed you. That only proves I did not protect you from the schemes of others."

At last, Heimdal moved forward. He laid his hands on his son’s thin shoulders and felt the sharpness of bone beneath his palms, evident of how much weight he lost. He was just the shadow of the heir he once was.

"Rest, and recover," the king said quietly. "You have already paid the price for your mistakes."

Then Heimdal turned and left. Reuben’s eyes followed him to the door, unblinking, unyielding, until the latch closed. Only then did a single tear slide down his cheek.

How could I have been so blind? he thought. My father was a good and just king, and I betrayed him for greed.

...

The next day, Reuben found the courage to summon Amielle. He had not seen her since the attack. Two days after it, she had come, but his shame had driven him to send her away. Since then, she had not returned.

As always, he sat in his chair by the window, his back to the door. His hands tightened against the armrest when he heard her enter. He was afraid—afraid to face her eyes, to see only hatred where once there had been love.

For a moment, silence. Then sudden, burning footsteps across the floor. Amielle seized the chair and spun it around so hard that Reuben nearly toppled from it.

"Do you hate me so much," she cried, her voice breaking, "that you would cast me aside?"

Her composure fractured. The girl who had grown beside him in the palace, his childhood sweetheart, the woman who had once dreamed of ruling at his side—stood trembling before him, tears cutting down her cheeks despite her rage.

Reuben blinked, startled. He had thought divorce would free her, spare her the shame of being bound to a broken man. But her anguish struck him like a blade.

"I... I..." he faltered. This was the first time he had seen her since that night of ruin. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. Guilt twisted in his chest. This suffering was his doing.

"I am no longer the crown prince," he said weakly. "You are no longer princess consort. This is for your own good."

"For my own good?" Amielle’s eyes blazed. "Do you even hear yourself? You would turn me into a divorced woman. Who would take me now? What man dares marry a cast-off from the royal family? You would condemn me to widowhood. Why not just send me to a monastery?"

"That is not my intention," Reuben protested. "I only want you to live a happy life."

"A happy life?" Amielle laughed bitterly through her tears. "After all you’ve done to me? The whole kingdom knows you chose a concubine over your princess consort. Do you think I can ever be free of that shame?"

Reuben froze, stricken. Something in him recoiled, though he could not name why.

"I will not agree to a divorce," Amielle spat. "If you want it so badly, I refuse it all the more. Let us despise each other until death, if that is what it takes."

She stormed from the room, the door crashing shut behind her with a thunderous bang that sent a tremor through the doorframe. The air crackled with the intensity of her fury, and the echoes of the impact lingered long after she had left, as if the very walls could feel the weight of her anger.

The servants who were taking care of Reuben dared not breathe.

Reuben sat frozen, staring at the space where she had stood. Slowly, the corner of his lips curved upward—not in mockery, but in something closer to awe. It was the first true smile that had touched him since his humiliation at the hands of the Zurans.