After Sardin disappeared into the reeds to do my bidding, only Janet and I remained in the silence of the carriage.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Janet asked, her eyes searching mine.
I smiled at her. “I’ve never been better, Janet.”
I’d just sent Sardin to plant the one item that would shatter Eric’s sanity. Without a body, the Imperial Law would keep him in a state of legal limbo—unable to remarry for five years. But without hope, he would be trapped in a far worse cage. I’d given him the sign of my death without the closure of a grave.
*Suffer for five years, Eric Lennon Brant,* I thought. *Suffer as I did.*
“If you want to leave, Janet, you can,” I said, looking out at the darkening landscape. “I won't stop you. I’m heading to a place where the Brant name means nothing.”
Janet didn't hesitate. “I told you before, my lady. I have sworn my allegiance to you, not the house. I’m staying.”
I still didn't understand her. I couldn't trust her. But there was a small, petty satisfaction in knowing I had taken one of Eric’s most loyal knights.
During my five years as the Duchess of Brant, I had been systematically erased. My name—Cornelia Odile Chauvannelt—had been replaced by a title that felt like a brand. My status as a princess had been traded for a dowry that filled the Brant coffers. I had silenced my own voice, ignored my own instincts, and tried to shrink myself into a shape that would fit their cold, narrow halls.
I had lost everything—my wealth, my pride, and eventually, my son.
And what had Eric lost? Nothing. He was still the Empire’s hero. He still had his adoring knights, his childhood friend Madeleine, and his flawless reputation. He had walked through our marriage without a single scratch on his soul while I bled out in the shadows.
“It’s time he learned the cost of his indifference,” I whispered.
***
By the river, the sun was sinking below the horizon, turning the water into a stream of molten lead. Eric stared at the current with a hatred that was nearly physical.
He’d lost track of how many days he’d spent in the water, or how many stones he’d overturned. But beneath the exhaustion was a single, flickering flame of hope. He hadn't found her. And as long as there was no body, she was still alive. He was sure of it. Sardin was too skilled, and Janet was too loyal to let her drown.
“Your Highness!”
Chester’s voice broke the silence. The knight commander was running toward him, stumbling over the wet stones. He was holding something in his hands—something small and green.
Eric’s heart stopped.
“We found this downstream, caught in the reeds by the sandbar,” Chester panted, his face ashen.
He handed Eric the item. It was a wide-brimmed hat of green velvet, its silk ribbons shredded and its black lace veil torn to rags.
Eric took the hat, his fingers trembling. He prided himself on his memory. He knew every stitch of his wife’s wardrobe, every accessory she had ever worn to win his attention. This was the hat she had been wearing at *Twinkle*.
“The scouts... they reported seeing something further down,” Chester whispered, his voice cracking. “A flash of green silk floating toward the rapids. Your Highness... I’m so sorry.”
Eric stared at the tattered velvet. The "rational" part of his mind—the part that had led armies and negotiated treaties—collapsed.
*She’s dead.*
The thought was a physical blow, a blade through his chest. He’d ignored her for years, treating her like an unwanted shadow, a nuisance to be managed. He’d hidden behind the excuse that he was a "proxy," a fake husband who couldn't dare to touch the Emperor’s daughter. He’d used his jealousy and his "despicable desire" to possess her as a reason to push her away.
But as he clutched the ruined hat, the truth he had been denying for five years finally broke through.
He didn't hate her. He had never hated her. He had been so terrified of how much he wanted her that he had chosen to hurt her instead. He’d watched her wither in his house, watched her desperation turn to indifference, and he’d done nothing because he thought there would always be more time.
*“I’m sorry, Cornelia,”* he whispered, his voice lost in the roar of the river. *“I should have told you. I should have told you that I’m not the man you think I am. I should have asked for your forgiveness. I should have let you hate me to my face, as long as you were there to say it.”*
He remembered her eyes—those sparkling purple depths that had once looked at him with such hope. He remembered the stubborn curve of her red lips and the soft scent of her hair.
He had failed to protect the only person who had ever truly looked at him, the man beneath the Hero’s mask.
“If you’re dead...” Eric choked out, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony escaping his throat. “If I can't see you again... how am I supposed to live?”
He sank to his knees in the freezing water, his forehead resting against the tattered green velvet. The Hero of the Frontier, the Battle Reaper of the North, collapsed into a broken, sobbing ruin of a man, clutching a handful of wet lace as the darkness swallowed the river.