Moonlight poured across the courtyard like pale silk, illuminating every crack in the stone and every flicker of shadow. Velastra stood beneath the crescent gate, still unmoved.
Her chest tight from the storm of emotions still raging inside her. The faint scent of roses and salt clung to the night air, a reminder of the island's beauty and its hidden cruelties.
She was alone when Cael returned. His steps were hesitant, weighed by something far heavier than guilt. His once‑neat cloak was askew, his hair unbound. There was no spark of defiance in his eyes—only a hollow ache.
He halted several paces away and, without hesitation, sank to his knees, head bowed.
Velastra's breath caught. For long moments, neither spoke. Only the distant rhythm of waves against marble reached their ears.
Finally, Cael lifted his gaze—eyes raw and red.
"Your highness," he said, voice low, "I have betrayed our union."
He didn't rise. He didn't plead. He only confessed.
"I lay with others in Arisven's dens," he continued, throat tight.
His chin trembled. "I deserve… whatever punishment you choose. Your hatred. Your torture. But let me stay here."
Velastra's heart clenched at his words. She stepped forward, each footfall measured, stopping just before him. The moonlight carved his features in stark relief—lines of regret, the weight of guilt.
He knelt without defense.
"End me," he whispered. "Or let the king finish what he started. I have nothing left to offer."
No anger flared within Velastra—only immediate, scorching heat. She could unleash her power here and now, tear him apart for every wound he'd inflicted on her trust. She could claim victory in blood.
But that fury met another current, deeper and more urgent. She knelt beside him, lowering herself until their eyes met.
He flinched as if her nearness might injure him anew.
Velastra's voice was firm, yet tender:
"Your sin is not what calls for your end."
He shook his head, tears blurring his vision.
"I dishonored you. I shattered your integrity."
She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him.
"What I saw in Arisven was not betrayal of my honor, but of your own spirit. You chose to protect your mother, even at your own cost."
His breath hitched. He looked at her.
"But that woman you saw, I wanted to be with her," he echoed.
"You don't," Velastra replied. "The way you kissed her- it's not you."
He closed his eyes, a single tear sliding down his cheek.
"Please punish me," he murmured. "Make me pay."
Velastra rose slowly, standing over him. She studied his bowed figure, the tremor of emotion that still rippled through him.
"No," she said quietly. "You knowing my identity, proclaims I am your most desired."
He looked up, searching her face for an edge of disgust or scorn. He found neither.
"I will face my father," Velastra continued, voice steady. "I will claim justice for what he's done. But your life… it's mine to cherish not to take."
He exhaled, a mixture of relief and sorrow.
"Velastra," he murmured.
Velastra reached into her cloak and pointed her sword, into the scar in his ribs.
"This binds your fate to mine," she explained. "Not just your leash, but our vow."
Velastra extended her hand. He didn't took it, he remained kneeling.
Velastra watched him quietly, her fingers curling into his hair as he stayed on his knees, unable—or unwilling—to meet her gaze. For a heartbeat she said nothing. Then, with deliberate calm, she lowered herself to one knee beside him, so their faces hovered just inches apart.
She pressed his chin up and met his eyes. Her voice was soft, but each word cut deep:
"You will come home with me."
Cael's eyes flickered, pain and stubbornness warring in his gaze. He shook his head, voice a whisper:
"I can't… not yet."
Velastra's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile—one he'd only ever seen when she was about to reclaim what was hers. Her grip on his hair tightened almost tenderly.
"Then hear me clearly," she murmured. "Every woman you've lain with in these halls—I will find them. One by one. And I will end them, until the only bed you know is the one waiting for you at home."
Cael's breath caught. He looked at her, the defiance draining from his eyes, replaced by a raw obedience.
"I—"
Velastra released his hair and stood, her cloak swirling around her like midnight storm clouds.
"Then rise," she said, voice cold as steel. "Or stay and watch me make good on my promise."
He swallowed, trembling, and rose to his feet. She extended a hand, not in mercy, but in command—and together, they walked out of the moonlit courtyard.
---
A low, humming rustle rose before them as they stepped beneath the arch of the Cloud Gate. Velastra's heel hovered over the threshold when tendrils of rose‑thorns snaked up from the dark water, twisting into a wall of living brambles.
Crimson petals trembled on every vine, each bloom the size of a clenched fist.
Cael drew back. Velastra's hand snapped to her side, fingers brushing the hilt of her blade—but the vines pulsed with magic, woven from Arisven's darker arts.
Then the thorns parted.
From the blood‑red curtains of roses emerged the woman Cael had once held in his arms. In the torchlight she was transformed: her silver‑black hair braided with thorned stems, her gown a shifting cascade of petals and vines that clung to her like living armor. Her eyes glowed a furious rose‑gold.
"You will not leave," she called, voice layered with petal‑soft threats. "He is mine."
Velastra stepped forward, cloak swirling, but the woman only laughed—crisp as frost cracking on a winter lake.
"You who wear crowns," she mocked, "think to take him back? This place binds us differently."
The vines rippled at her command, closing tighter, petals dropping in a slow rain.
Cael moved to shield Velastra, but shouted for Orion.
Orion taking Cael away. However, the rose vines extended taking Cael to her side
"I name him," the rose mistress said, reaching out until her fingers brushed Cael's sleeve. "I named him when you abandoned him to shadows."
Velastra's eyes narrowed to slits of steel.
"Let him go," she said, voice low and unyielding. "Or witness what I do to those who claim what is mine."
The woman's laugh dissolved into something sharp.
"Yours? You have no claim here. Here, I am the Queen."
Her hand brushed Cael's cheek—thorn‑tipped rose brushing against his skin—and he winced. The petals seared like a lover's betrayal.
Velastra advanced a step, and the vines recoiled.
"Touched him again, and I will put your Arisven into abyss," Velastra promised, tone deadly.
"Go on," the woman answered.