He stood at the entrance to the east wing, his hands shaking. The hallway was extremely dim, and thick, oppressive shadows consumed any space where a window did not dominate. Percy had told him to seek Oliver, to displace his aggression in far less provocative ways, but as he had been marching towards the nobleman’s quarters, something had pricked at the back of his mind. Something he had buried and ignored for months.

  Regardless of how it had been done, he knew his brother had injured himself. What angered him most was not that the incident had happened, but that it clearly could have been avoided. In spite of the recent circumstances, Aryn had been doing far better than anyone guessed he would. And if he had just been given some time, a little bit of goddamn grace…

  He had never been able to talk with Aryn about the things that went on in his head. Not to the extent that he knew Mother could. And that’s what had brought him to the opposite end of the castle. His trembling hands reached for the double doors, and taking a slow, quiet breath, he pushed them open to reveal a massive study. It looked more like a full-on library with the amount of bookshelves that completely enveloped the stone walls, almost all of them filled to the brim with tomes. Moonlight filtered into the chamber and cast a dim blue glow over everything. Naturally it felt eerie, but there was a certain peacefulness that the moonlight carried with it.

  As his brown eyes scanned over the room, he caught sight of a cluster of long dormant candles, but nothing to light them with. Quickly retreating, he stole a small sconce from the wall and lit the wicks, placing them around the room. The small columns of melting wax now filled the space with a soft, intimate light, and he could more clearly see what still resided in the study.

  His feet shuffled over towards the large writing desk that sat in front of one of the grand windows. A quill and inkpot still occupied the corner of it. He felt something tug at his fingers, willing them to open the drawers and see what remained. A multitude of papers in various states of organization were piled up inside a deep sidedrawer, and without thinking, he gathered them up and placed them on the desk, spreading them out. Some appeared to be scribbled drafts of letters or poems, while a few it seemed she had gone so far as to seal them. His attention was naturally drawn to the latter, and as he flipped them over, his heart plummeted.

  Five letters, all sealed with their family crest, all with different names on them, or something adjacent to names. Aryn, Aleksander, Philip… then the other two sported the titles of “Aryn’s Beloved” and “Philip’s Beloved”. They didn’t say bride, or wife, or princess or queen, just beloved. Meant for the people he and his brother truly loved the most. For him, it was Dahlia. He had gotten unfairly lucky that the woman who owned his heart had happened to be the epitome of what the kingdom expected the Crown Prince of Westgarde to marry. But Aryn… Aryn was not so lucky. Maybe somehow, some way, Mother had known it would be different for his brother. And besides, when it came to royalty, true love in a marriage was almost as rare as a unicorn. She had certainly known that from experience.

  As his fingers reached for his letter, his mouth went dry, his chest growing tighter. What if he forgot what her voice sounded like? It had been the better part of a year now since she had passed, and it had changed so much as she grew more and more ill. What if when he started to read the letter, he couldn’t picture her face properly, couldn’t see her beautiful blue eyes and her blonde hair and her radiant smile?

  But the longer he thought about it, the clearer the memories became. They had simply been shoved to the back of his mind, stowed away in a closet to collect dust. And as he remembered, that tightness in his chest grew, evolving into a deep ache.

  He grabbed the letter opener from the drawer and cut the seal.

  My beautiful son,

  There are a multitude of things I could say to you in this letter, and yet as I am thinking of them, I cannot seem to pen a singular thought. Instead I am reminded of memories, memories of you as a young boy. Even as a wee little one, you were always so strong, so sure in who you are. If you wished to do something, you would do it, no matter what or who stood in your way, and you have always possessed a heart made of the purest gold. I have watched as you have grown, evolved into the wonderful young man you have become, and I feel nothing but the most joyous pride when I lay mine eyes upon you.

  But among that pride, there is also worry, as mothers so often express. As you undertake the duties expected of you, I pray that you never lose sight of what is truly of importance, not just for Westgarde or for the Stewart family, but for you. Being King does not mean becoming a different person; you will always be Philip, my son, Aryn’s brother, but you will not always be a prince, or a king. Someday you will leave this Earth, as we all must do, and suddenly being the King of Westgarde will no longer matter. What will matter is who you were, what is in your soul, what lies within your heart.

  So with that sentiment, I will only ask of you a few things. First and foremost, rule with your heart. Rule with compassion, and empathy, and love. Secondly, marry someone in whom you can truly find love with, someone who challenges you to be a better man, a better prince and, eventually, a better King. Lastly, look after your brother. You two may not always see eye to eye, but Aryn is your family, and whether you feel inclined to believe me or not, the two of you make an excellent team. Listen to him, and be certain that he listens to you when it matters. Embrace each other’s differences, as it will strengthen your bond, and strengthen the family. Give him room to grow, space to breathe, time to heal, and no matter what happens, fight for him. Lend him your strength, and I know he will return it in kind a hundred fold.

  I love you so very much, my son. We will be together again soon enough.

  With all my heart,

  Lydia

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The old ink smudged as a tear fell onto the parchment, and he quickly set the letter down to wipe his face. But that ache in his chest would not leave. Instead it grew stronger, until it began to overflow and force its way into his throat. His efforts proved futile as another barrage of tears tumbled down his flushed cheeks, and he had to brace himself on the desk as his legs faltered slightly.

  And I wasn’t even there…

  “Philip?”

  He whirled to spot a feminine silhouette standing in the threshold of the study doors, a candle holder grasped in one of her delicate hands as a tiny flame flickered across her heavenly face. Her expression shifted from confusion to concern as she entered the chamber and quickly approached, setting the candle down on one of the small side tables. Seeing as it was rather late, her hair was unbound, cascading down her shoulders in a dark brown waterfall. A comfortable yet elegant robe adorned her body, the silk belt tied haphazardly around her waist. Her beautiful hazel eyes darted between him and the desk, clocking the open letter, before her gaze settled on him attentively.

  “My love, it is late. You should come to bed.”

  Her voice, which usually sported such feistiness, was quiet and tender as her slender fingers reached up to envelop his tear-stained cheek. Unable to find his own voice, he instead leaned into her hand, craving the warmth and stability that always seemed to come with her embrace.

  “Did something happen?”

  A sharp sigh escaped through his nose as he closed his eyes for a moment, and he thought Dahlia might press further, but her other hand came to hold his face. As his lashes fluttered open, their gazes met, and once again he felt it. That irresistible pull to her, the otherworldly magic she possessed within her that made him fall to his knees, that made him do anything for her, tell her everything.

  But as he parted his lips to speak, her mouth connected with his. The way she kissed him was so soft, so heart-wrenchingly tender, that it spurred another unwelcomed sting of tears in his eyes. After only a moment, she slowly pulled away to look at him, noting the shimmer within his brown irises in the dim candlelight.

  “We do not have to talk–”

  “I wasn’t there, Dahlia,” he stated in a near whisper, his voice threatening to break at the memory of it.

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Where?”

  “When she died…”

  She remained quiet, not giving her opinion, just providing silent support as her thumb brushed along his cheekbone. His chest hurt as he drew in a deep, shaky breath.

  “Father and I, we were… we were touring several of the large camps, acquainting me with the leaders he had appointed, talking strategy, helping to rally the soldiers. That was when a messenger arrived at one of the camps, an absolute mess, had ridden overnight. I never wanted to leave the castle with Mother so sick but Father insisted it was important to do. We nearly killed our horses trying to get back, but when we got to her chambers… she was still warm. Aryn was there, refusing to let go of her hand. And I just remember the hate I saw in his eyes as he looked at me, at us. It was…”

  “It was what?” she questioned quietly, her tone encouraging but not pressuring.

  “It was the worst day of my life. The whole situation was completely and utterly fucked, disgraceful. I remember Aryn started screaming at Father, and then he said something that just broke him. I’ve never seen murder in my brother’s eyes except for in that moment. He launched himself at our father, fists flying… He couldn’t show his face in court for a few days. I had to pry Aryn off of him.

  “Father was trying to stop him, but that was the first and only time I’ve also seen my father hold back with him. He never hit him back, just tried to restrain him. And I also earned a busted lip trying to pin him down. But we both knew at that moment that the only person in the room who was in the right was Aryn… And we’ve mended our relationship, but I don’t know if he will ever forgive me for not being there. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself…”

  He felt those tears threatening him again as that horrid memory came flooding back, slamming relentlessly into the forefront of his mind. But Dahlia’s cool fingertips brushed the messy hair from his forehead, capturing his attention.

  “You cannot blame yourself… the King made you come–”

  “If I really wanted to, I could have refused. But all I had been worried about was not upsetting my father, not jeopardizing my claim to the throne in any way. And because of that I was unable to say goodbye to my mother and shattered my relationship with my brother. How could I not blame myself, Dahlia?”

  “You may blame yourself, but I know your mother never blamed you, Philip. Please find solace in that,” she begged, pulling his face closer to her.

  Instinctually, he pressed his forehead against hers, letting her embrace him, comfort him. She most certainly was right, but even so, he could still not find it within him to forgive himself yet. But for now, her support was enough.

  “There was an incident tonight,” he finally mentioned.

  “With who?”

  “Aryn, and my father. I am speaking to him in the morning about the matter.”

  Her expression shifted, a more reserved, nervous air about her usually relaxed presence.

  “Just… keep a level head. Do not let him rile you up. That’s how men like him win. My father is the same way.”

  He sighed heavily. “Why does it seem like all men who possess power turn into righteous cunts?”

  Her cheeks flushed at the harshness of his words. “Well, you’re not a righteous cunt.”

  He couldn’t fight the smile that quickly adorned his face as he held her cheeks in his hands. “That is because of you, darling.”

  She giggled softly before pressing their lips together, sending a wave of warmth through him. He found his arms slinking their way around her waist and pulling her closer, and as the kiss deepened, he felt the supple mound of her breasts press tightly against his chest.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

  “You certainly don’t have to ask me a third time,” he said cheekily, smiling slightly against her lips.

  They quickly blew out the candles in the study and sequestered themselves in their sleeping chambers. The tight ache in his chest slowly disappeared as he lost himself in her, allowing all of the thoughts that plagued him to melt away into the night as he made love to her.

  As he lied on his back, fingers idly playing with Dahlia’s hair, Mother’s letter flashed in his mind. As of now, he was fulfilling two of her wishes for him. At least he hoped he was ruling the way she wanted him to. But tomorrow, he would honor her last request. He was done standing back and letting anyone walk over Aryn, even if that included the King of Westgarde.

  He just prayed no one would get caught in between them when he finally spoke his mind.