After his mother left, Marcus lingered by the open window of the corridor, his gaze drifting down toward the training grounds where the Knights of the Order were finishing their drills for the morning. He had watched them countless times, their rhythm, their precision, their breathing, each motion a reminder of what he lacked and what he still chased. Sweat gleamed on their armor like rippling mirrors beneath the sun, and for a brief second, Marcus imagined himself among them, not above them.
He knew their schedule by heart. If he left now, he could have seven uninterrupted hours of solitude, enough time to lose himself in work, strategy, letters, study, or even the mock battles he ran in secret. But the reality of royal life rarely allowed him such luxury. Duty had a cruel sense of timing, and today was no different.
As if hearing the inner weight of his thoughts, Hudson spoke from behind."Your Highness, your fiancée is here unannounced. She says she heard the news and wishes to speak."
The butler's tone was perfectly professional, yet there was a hint of a smile beneath the words. Hudson was a man of few tells, but Marcus knew them all.
"So she found out within the hour," Marcus murmured. "In fact, she most probably heard the news on her way here. Hudson, are you hiding anything from me?"
"Of course not, Your Highness," Hudson replied, bowing his head. "However, I am privy to certain details you will discover soon enough. I suspect you will not be displeased by them."
Marcus raised a brow, the closest he came to amusement these days. "We'll see about that."
He followed Hudson down the marble corridor to his office. The steady sound of their boots echoed like distant drums, and each step felt heavier than the last, not from dread but from the quiet exhaustion of a man too often caught between duty and expectation.
When they entered the room, Marcus's composure almost slipped.
She was already there.
Now, a word on the prince's fiancée before we proceed. Michelle Moxclave was a name whispered in admiration throughout the empire, the youngest of twelve daughters, yet the one who most resembled her father, the Duke of Moxclave. If Marcus was the sculpted portrait of restrained nobility, Michelle was the living embodiment of grace turned to motion. Her crimson hair, the unmistakable mark of her bloodline, caught the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The rays scattered across her wavy strands as though the sun itself bowed to her.
Her face seemed chiseled by the world's finest artisan, a harmony of sharpness and warmth, and her eyes, a deep, liquid gold, carried both intelligence and sorrow. She stood taller than most women, her posture perfectly balanced between authority and serenity. If Marcus was the kingdom's portrait, Michelle was its statue of victory.
Behind her stood Ariadne, her personal guard. Once a mercenary known as "Terror Incarnate," she now stood silent and composed, hands folded around the hilt of her spear. Only Michelle had ever managed to turn that spear toward peace.
Michelle turned as Marcus entered, skipping the courtesies she knew he disliked."I heard the news," she said plainly. "How are you coping with it?"
"It was meant to be," Marcus replied. "I don't deserve to have any qualms about it."
Michelle tilted her head slightly. "You don't. But you do."Her tone softened. "We're to be married in three months. We've spoken for nearly a year now. I know you better than you think."
Her brows drew together, not in anger, but concern. The faintest tremor in her voice betrayed her composure.
Marcus sighed. "You're right. But so am I. I need to focus on us now, on what comes next. My sister's kingdom will face trials soon, and I must be ready to aid her. I have no time to dwell on my own frustrations."
Michelle stepped closer. The movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial."Do you know why I said yes to your proposal?" she asked abruptly.
Marcus paused. Her tone had shifted, a familiar mix of teasing and gravity that always made him wary."My looks?" he asked with a faint grin, his voice low but playful.
For the first time that day, Michelle smiled. "No, silly. Well, perhaps a little. That got me to open the door, but what kept me there was you. All of you."
Her expression softened further as she continued, "I heard the rumors. My father was against this match, until I convinced him otherwise. Your pride, your refusal to yield, your quiet rage against your own limits, it's what drew me to you. That determination was what I admired most. So tell me, Marcus, why does it feel like it's fading?"
Her words struck him deeper than she realized. He had been told many things in life, "weak," "unworthy," "unfit", but never that someone saw worth in his persistence.
He drew in a slow breath. "Perhaps you still don't know me as well as you think."A small smirk ghosted across his lips. "I never give up. That, I promise you. But I'm also realistic. My fight isn't for the throne, it's for myself. For the proof that I can. The throne is Gemma's now, and rightfully so. But my worth is not measured by the crown I wear."
He stepped toward the window, the afternoon light tracing the edges of his silhouette. "After this, I'll be heading to the training grounds. You've never seen me train before, have you? Perhaps you can give me a few pointers."
Then, with a rare flicker of humor in his voice, he turned back to her."So how about it, Miss Youngest to Achieve Second Awakening?"
Michelle's lips curved into a grin. "Only if you promise not to faint halfway through."
Hudson, still stationed by the door, coughed politely to hide his laughter. Marcus gave him a side glance that could have cut stone, but even that couldn't suppress the faint warmth in his chest.
For the first time in days, the tension in his shoulders eased. In this single exchange, in the presence of this woman who refused to treat him as lesser, Marcus found a moment of balance. Not victory. Not power. But peace.
Outside, the bells of the castle tolled the hour, a reminder that time, like duty, never waited. Yet as Marcus and Michelle left the office together, his steps no longer felt as heavy.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't walking toward obligation. He was walking toward possibility.