The moon hung like a jagged bone over the Emberclaw estate, but for Draven, it offered no light. He sat in his private study, the heavy gold ring Iris had returned sitting on the desk before him.
He had expected the night to be a celebration of his newfound alliance with the Heavens. Instead, the silence of the room felt like a physical weight, pressing against his chest until every breath felt labored.
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was Iris. Not a weeping, broken Iris, but the version of her that had stood by the carriage—composed, untouchable, and utterly indifferent to his existence.
"Why?" he muttered to the empty room, his voice raspy. The word was a festering wound. He had cast her aside, yet he was the one feeling discarded.
He was the Crown Prince. He was the one who held the power of the decree. By all laws of the Empire, he had won, yet the victory felt like ashes in his mouth.
His ego, built on the foundation of being a man women clawed to keep, was crumbling. Her calm wasn't just dignity; it was a denial of his importance in her life.
Morning arrived with a cruel, golden brilliance that Draven found offensive. He had not slept a single minute, his mind a repetitive cycle of her last words and that ghostly, knowing smile.
The doors to his study creaked open, and the scent of jasmine and lilies preceded the Saintess. Eliosa walked in, her white robes shimmering with a purity that felt suddenly performative to Draven's tired eyes.
"Good morning, my Prince," she said, her voice a choreographed melody of sweetness. She moved to his side, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder with a soft, comforting pressure.
"The sun has risen on a new era for us," she continued, her smile bright and sugar-coated. "The people are already whispering of the divine blessing our union will bring."
Draven didn't look at her. He looked at the ring. "She didn't cry, Eliosa. She didn't even look back at the gates."
Eliosa's smile didn't falter, but a flash of irritation crossed her eyes, hidden beneath the veil of her long lashes. She found it distasteful that Iris still occupied his thoughts.
"Perhaps the shock was simply too great," Eliosa suggested, her tone dripping with a fake, motherly concern. "The Lady Iris was always… detached. Perhaps she has lost her grip on reality."
Draven turned to her, his gaze sharp and weary. "Detached? Or did she simply not care? She treated the end of our marriage like the end of a dull conversation."
Eliosa let out a soft, tinkling laugh that grated on his nerves. "Oh, Draven. She is a woman of pride. She was undoubtedly pretending to be unbothered to save her face."
She leaned closer, her breath smelling of honey. "Once she reaches the safety of the Valtorien Marquessate, away from our eyes, she will break down. She will weep until she has no strength left."
Draven wanted to believe her. He wanted to imagine Iris curled in a ball in her childhood bedroom, mourning the loss of him. It was the only way his world made sense again.
But before he could respond, a frantic knocking disrupted the morning's false peace. A high-ranking manservant entered, his face pale and his breathing ragged.
"Your Highness," the servant stammered, bowing so low he nearly toppled. "Marquess Runevald Valtorien has arrived. He... he demands an urgent audience. He is in a state of great distress."
Draven straightened his tunic, a spark of smug satisfaction returning to his heart. Of course, he thought. The father has come to beg. The pride of the Valtoriens has finally cracked.
"Bring him to the drawing room," Draven commanded, casting a look at Eliosa. "It seems the breakdown has started sooner than you predicted, Saintess. Let us go hear his pleas."
Eliosa smoothed her robes, her eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a final victory. She wanted to see the Marquess on his knees, begging for his daughter's status.
They entered the drawing room with the measured, arrogant strides of victors. But the man waiting for them was not a man prepared to beg.
Marquess Runevald Valtorien was a man of iron and war, but today, his armor was replaced by a visible, trembling panic. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was wind-blown as if he had ridden through the night.
Before Draven could utter a single word of rehearsed sympathy, the Marquess lunged forward, his voice a frantic roar.
"Where is she, Draven? Where is my daughter?"
Draven blinked, taken aback by the lack of formality. "Marquess, control yourself. Iris left yesterday evening. She is likely in her rooms at your estate even now."
"She is not!" Runevald shouted, his hands shaking. "The carriage never arrived. The road between here and the Marquessate is clear, but there is no sign of her!"
The smugness in the room evaporated instantly. Eliosa's hand went to her throat, her sugar-coated mask slipping to reveal a sharp, calculating frown.
"What do you mean 'no sign'?" Draven asked, a cold knot beginning to tie itself in his stomach. "She had a full escort. The driver knew the route."
"We found the carriage," the Marquess whispered, his voice cracking with a terror that chilled Draven to the marrow. "We found it abandoned at the edge of the Forbidden Woods. The horses were still hitched, but the driver was gone."
He stepped closer to the Prince, his eyes wild. "The carriage was empty, Draven. There were no tracks. No struggle. Just an empty cabin and the scent of ozone."
Draven felt the world tilt. He thought of her calm face, her lack of fear, and her words about giving her child more than he ever could.
"She didn't go home," Draven breathed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
"Then where is she?" Eliosa asked, her voice high and thin, the first crack appearing in her saintly composure.
The Marquess looked at them both, his face a mask of pure horror. "The Forbidden Woods lead only to one place, Your Highness. A place no living soul has entered in two hundred years."
The room fell into a deathly silence. The image of the Obsidian Keep, a legend of shadow and blood, loomed in all of their minds.
Iris hadn't been defeated. She hadn't been exiled. She had simply gone somewhere where they could never follow.