24: RECKLESS. DANGEROUS

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Lysandra sat by the open window, staring out at the moonlit gardens below. The scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her. She had made her choice, she was going to marry Erythian.

It wasn't just duty that drove her to this decision, though duty had played its part. She had spent years placing the kingdom above herself, making sacrifices that no one saw, holding her head high even when she wanted to crumble, This time, she wanted to make a choice that didn't involve her sacrificing her happiness and she knew a union between her and Erythian was the logical choice; it would bring stability to the realm, quiet the whispers of doubt among her people, and solidify her reign in a way that no council decree ever could.

But that wasn't why her heart was hammering against her ribs.

It was him.

Erythian.

She had seen men die on the battlefield, had watched the strongest warriors crumble under the weight of their wounds. She had expected him to be the same, to grow weak, to be consumed by his own suffering. Instead, he met his pain with quiet strength. His body may have been wounded, but his spirit was unbreakable, and somewhere between the long nights by his bedside, the whispered words in the dark, and the warmth of his fingers brushing against hers, she had started to feel so passionately about him.

She no longer saw him as the war hero nor as the man her council wanted her to marry.

Just…With him.

His quiet patience, his sharp wit, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, like she was something fragile and precious, even though the world had never allowed her to be.

And now, she was choosing him; although, she still didn't trust him and cannot stop thinking that he might have an ulterior motives but at this point, she didn't care much for that, she was ready and willing to begin to trust him.

She remembered everything Alaric had told her about Erythian but she instantly waved it off because why would she believe Alaric anymore? a man who was ready to let his brother die on the battle field; plus, she didn't forget that he kidnapped her as well.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the window, gripping it tightly as if it could steady her. There was no turning back now with Erythian and this didn't make her nervous, it made her…happy.

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The days passed in a slow, golden haze.

Erythian's recovery was steady but not without struggle. He fought to regain his strength, his body still bearing the scars of battle, but he never complained. He never let her see his pain unless she was the one tending to him.

It was in those quiet moments, the ones where she pressed cool cloths to his fevered skin, that their love deepened.

One evening, as she sat beside him, reading aloud from an old book of poetry, he reached out and took her hand in his.

"You don't have to do this," he murmured, his voice rough and laced with exhaustion. "You don't have to marry me just because it's what's expected."

Lysandra didn't answer immediately, Instead, she studied his face, the sharp angles softened by the candlelight and the quiet intensity in his eyes.

"I know," she finally whispered.

Erythian's grip tightened around her fingers. "Then why?"

She inhaled deeply. "Because when you were dying on that battlefield, I felt something I've never felt before, not fear, not anger. Just… a need. A need to keep you here, to hold onto you."

His eyes darkened, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist. "Lysandra"

She breathed in deep.

Erythian let out a slow, shuddering breath. Then, with careful movements, he tugged her forward until her forehead rested against his.

"You have no idea," he murmured, "how long I've wanted to hear you say this to me."

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Lysandra wasted no time in making her decision known.

The council had long been a thorn in her side, dictating her every move under the guise of 'protecting the interest of the people", but they no longer had any power over her.

"I am revoking the council's authority over my personal affairs," she declared before them, her voice steady. "I will marry king Erythian, and I will do so on my terms."

The protests came immediately, murmurs of disapproval, warnings of consequences—but she silenced them with a single look.

"My word is final," she said, and that was the end of it.

The preparations began swiftly. The palace bustled with activity, tailors and decorators scrambling to bring the queen's wedding to life. The streets filled with anticipation, the people eager to witness the union of their queen and the warrior who had fought for them.

But amid the chaos, Lysandra remained grounded.

Each night, she returned to Erythian's chambers, stealing moments of peace between whispered conversations and lingering touches. He was fully recovered but he still loved to pretend like he was ill because then that meant he would be tended to by Lysandrs for a longer time.

Whenever she came in, he watched her with that same unwavering intensity that made her feel like the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I should be the one planning our wedding," he murmured one night, as she recounted the details of the ceremony.

She arched a brow. "Oh? And what would you change?"

A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. "For one, I wouldn't let them take you away from me the night before. Tradition be damned."

She laughed with a sound that was light and free. "Reckless and Dangerous…Hardly fitting for the future king of Calithea."

"I never said I wanted to be king of Calithea," he reminded her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I only ever wanted to be yours."

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him.

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On the day before the wedding, Lysandra sat in the throne room, listening to the petitions of her people.

One by one, they came forward, farmers seeking protection, merchants requesting fairer trade, soldiers asking for reassurances. She handled each request with the same careful consideration she always had, her mind focused on her duty.

Until the last man stepped forward.

Unlike the others, he did not bow. He did not plead or request. Instead, he stood tall, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Rumors have it," he said, his voice carrying through the chamber, "that you possess powers of your own, Your Majesty."

The room fell silent.

Lysandra felt the blood drain from her face.

Her fingers curled around the armrests of her throne, her mind racing.

She had always known this day would come. She had spent years hiding her abilities, ensuring that no one besides Mirenna would ever know the truth.

But now, someone did, and they were bold enough to confront her in the open. This could only mean that things were deeper and more serious than she had imagined.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Carefully, she schooled her features into calm indifference. "Rumors are dangerous things, my lord."

The man tilted his head, watching her with something almost amused in his expression. "Indeed they are, but the thing about rumors, Your Majesty, is that they are often rooted in truth."

A hush fell over the court. All eyes were on her.

Waiting.

Watching.

Lysandra's grip on the throne tightened.

She could deny it, laugh it off, demand proof.

But she knew that once a whisper of power had been spoken, it would never be forgotten.

Slowly, she leaned forward.

"And tell me, my lord," she said with a steady voice, "what truth do you believe you have found?"

"Who are you?" she asked, now getting anxious.

The silence in the room was so loud, Lysandra could taste her own heartbeat.

The man's smirk widened.

The room fell silent.