CHAPTER 527: THE REALIZATION: SACRIFICE AND LOVE

Meanwhile, deep within one of the sun-drenched chambers of the royal palace in Savadra, Consort Amielle sat across from her husband, her eyes shadowed with disbelief. The soft flutter of silk curtains did nothing to ease the heavy tension between them.

"Did you know that Father signed a pact with your brother Alaric?" she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. "He sold Northem to his firstborn and called him Emperor."

Her tone hardened. How could King Heimdal do such a thing?

Across from her, Prince Reuben sat motionless, his face an unreadable mask. Whatever flicker of ambition had once burned in his eyes was extinguished along with the loss of his legs.

"Alaric is still Father’s firstborn," he said flatly. "He merely returned the throne to its rightful heir."

Amielle let out a weary sigh. The man before her was not the same proud prince she had once married. The fire that once drove him to defy the odds, to dream of kingship, had dimmed into quiet resignation.

"I am content," Reuben continued, his voice gentler now. "To be appointed Minister of Finance, to rule over the duchy of GreenValley—it’s enough. I had my chance as crown prince, and I failed. Perhaps the crown was never meant for me."

With effort, he pushed himself from the confines of his wheelchair and shifted to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. His hand, once accustomed to holding the weight of swords and decrees, now came to rest softly on Amielle’s abdomen.

"Besides," he murmured with a faint smile, "isn’t it better for me to focus on you and our son?"

"Your son? The baby is not even three months."

Amielle’s laughter rang out, light and melodic, easing the gloom for a brief moment.

Since his fall from grace, Reuben had changed. The once proud and guarded prince had become gentler, more grounded. His dealings with Westalis and the merchant guilds had restored some of his lost confidence, even as he remained bound to the wheelchair. And in that newfound humility, Amielle discovered a tenderness that she had never known before—a love quiet but profound.

Still, her heart ached for him. Once groomed to be king, he had been humiliated and broken by fate.

"If someday you can walk again," she asked softly, turning to meet his gaze, "would you fight for the crown?"

Reuben shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "I’ve had enough of politics."

Amielle studied him carefully. He wasn’t jesting—there was clarity in his eyes, a kind of peace she hadn’t seen before.

"Aren’t you sad," she whispered, "that you’re no longer as powerful as you once were?"

"Power..." He exhaled, his expression clouding. "Power twists a man. I’ve seen it destroy those I loved—my mother, my grandfather, my father. Each of them paid the price for their hunger for the throne."

He looked down, his voice almost a whisper. "The lesson is enough for me. I just want to live well... and be happy. My only wish now is to walk again."

His gaze drifted to the wheelchair for a long moment before returning to her. "Your sister-in-law said there’s a good chance I can stand again."

Amielle blinked. "Sister-in-law? Who? Which one?" she asked, puzzled. How come she did not know that she had such a sister-in-law?

Reuben chuckled and reached out to flick her forehead gently. "Who else? Lara. Alaric’s betrothed. That makes her our sister-in-law."

Amielle froze, astonished. Just years ago, Reuben had schemed and plotted to make Lara his crown princess consort. And now, he spoke of her with calm acceptance—as family.

Then, slowly, Amielle smiled. It was not her usual polite courtly smile, but something radiant and pure, lighting her face like sunrise after a long storm.

Reuben caught his breath. He had never truly seen her this way before—never realized how breathtaking she could be when she smiled without sorrow.

Perhaps it wasn’t Amielle who had changed. Perhaps it was he who had finally learned how to see her. He had truly loved her after the sacrifices she made.

...

That night, when the palace had fallen into silence and the moonlight stretched its pale fingers across the marble floors, Amielle lay awake beside Reuben. His breathing was deep and steady, the kind of calm that came not from peace, but exhaustion.

She turned to watch him — her husband, her fallen prince. In the faint light, his once sharply chiseled features seemed softer, touched by vulnerability. His legs, scarred from that humiliating event that now felt like distant echoes, rested near hers. She wanted to reached out and massage it gently.

He has changed so much, she thought.

The Reuben she married had been fierce — a man whose presence could silence a hall, whose confidence could command armies. The crown had seemed to belong to him by destiny, if not by blood. Yet destiny was cruelly fickle.

Amielle’s heart clenched. She remembered the whispers in the court — that the gods had punished Reuben for his cruelty and arrogance, that his injury was divine retribution. She had hated those words, but sometimes, in the stillness of night, even she wondered if fate had turned its gaze away from them.

Now he spoke of peace, of letting go of ambition. It was noble. It was wise. Strange... she thought that she could not stop the quiet ache that came with it. Only there was no ache. There was only calmness.

Across the bed, Reuben stirred, his mind restless even in sleep. His dreams had long ceased to be of glory or thrones; instead, they were of shadows — the echoes of Turik’s laughters, the glint of his sword that struck his knights.

He dreamt of being hit hard. The same dream, over and over — the moment of impact, the flash of pain, the realization that he would never stand again.

He woke with a start, chest tight, the phantom ache in his legs searing through him. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Then Amielle’s soft breathing anchored him.

He turned his head toward her.

She was facing him now, eyes half open, watching.

"You had the dream again," she said softly.

He nodded, the words caught in his throat.

"You always reach for something," she continued, "as if there’s still a battle waiting for you."

Reuben gave a small, rueful smile. "Maybe there is. Just not the kind I used to fight."

He fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the faint moonlight spilling across the floor. "Sometimes I think," he said quietly, "that the heavens took my legs so I would finally stop running after things that destroy men."

Amielle sat up slowly, drawing her shawl over her shoulders. "Do you ever regret it?" she asked. "Letting it go — the crown, the power, the fight?"

Reuben looked up at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, he said, "No. I regret what I became while chasing it."

He paused, his voice softening. "But sometimes... I miss believing I was meant for something greater."

Amielle reached for his hand then, her fingers sliding over his. "You are," she said. "You just haven’t seen what it is yet."

He squeezed her hand, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his eyes. "Perhaps," he whispered. "Perhaps my kingdom is smaller now — a wife, a child, a few fields in GreenValley. But maybe I can still rule it well."

A delicate smile graced her lips, a soft curve of warmth amidst the shadows. "A gentler kingdom," she whispered, her voice imbued with a sense of longing and hope, as if she were conjuring images of a world wrapped in tranquility and compassion.

He nodded slowly, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "And a treasure truly worth holding onto," he affirmed, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity that lingered in the air.

Later, after Reuben had fallen back asleep, Amielle stayed awake a while longer.

She thought about Lara — the woman she once envied, hated, and wanted to compete with. She said that Reuben can walk again. Her words brought hope within her.

She thought about Alaric and the uneasy calm that hung over the palace. And she thought about the child growing within her — the fruit of her and Reuben’s love. She didn’t know if she would be grateful that Reuben’s legs were broken. If not for that, would Reuben have turned into the man he is now?

Perhaps, she thought, fate hasn’t finished with us yet.

Outside, the wind whispered through the palace gardens, carrying the scent of late-blooming gardenias.

Amielle stirred. Meanwhile, Reuben fell into a restful, dreamless sleep, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. (And from that day on, he never dreamt of that chamber where they were captured and humbled before the Zurans.)

As dawn approached, painting the sky in pale gold, Amielle closed her eyes and made a silent vow — that no matter what the future held, she would see her husband stand again.

Not for the throne. Not for glory, but for himself and for their family.