Amara's POV:
He stormed out of the chamber — barefoot, blood still streaked down his hand.
"Chris! Chris, wait!" I called, grabbing my robe and running after him, the silk of my nightgown brushing the cold marble floors.
But he didn't stop.
The palace halls trembled under the sound of his fury. Guards stepped aside, terrified to block his path. Servants hid behind pillars as he tore through the corridor like a man possessed.
He reached the grand hall — the same hall where he'd once crowned me queen — and in one sweeping motion, he overturned the royal table. Plates shattered, silver goblets clattered across the floor, wine spilled like blood across the tiles.
"Summon every minister who thinks I'm weak!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. "Let them come see who they mock!"
The few late-night staff nearby froze where they stood. One of the stewards tried to speak, "Your Majesty—"
Chris grabbed a golden candelabra and slammed it against the wall, sparks scattering. "Don't!" he thundered.
I rushed to him, breathless, clutching his arm. "Chris, stop! Please, stop this!"
He shook me off, wild eyes glinting with madness and grief. "They've forgotten who built this palace, Amara! Who turned dust into an empire! I gave them peace, and now they mistake it for permission!"
He kicked over the throne chair — his own throne — sending it crashing down the marble steps. The sound echoed like a canon blast.
Guards started down the staircase, uncertain, afraid. I turned, voice cracking, "Stay back! Don't touch him!"
He stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by the ruins of his own kingdom's glory — tapestries torn, gold shattered, the symbol of Blackwood power scattered at his feet.
Then slowly… he stopped moving.
The rage drained from him, leaving only exhaustion — and the faint tremble of his hands.
I stepped closer, carefully, heart pounding. "Chris… look at me."
He lifted his gaze, eyes glassy under the dim chandeliers.
For the first time in forever, he looked lost.
"I can't let them take what I built," he whispered. "Not even you."
I swallowed hard, touched his face. "Then let me protect it with you. Not from you."
He closed his eyes, breath shaking, and rested his forehead against mine. For a second, the world was silent again — the storm finally exhaled.
But as I looked around at the wrecked hall, I knew one thing for certain:
This night wouldn't be forgotten.
Not by me.
Not by the palace.
Not by the empire.
—To be continued—