Chapter 58: the Space Between Mourning and Wanting

The next six months were a blur.

Riots choked the streets, cathedrals were pillaged, and public effigies of bishops were set aflame under blood-orange skies. The people, once obedient parishioners, had turned against the Church with a vengeance sharpened by grief and fury. Parliament moved swiftly; motioning to mobilize the national army and every territorial legion to formally eradicate the Church of Saintess Yidali. The once-revered institution was now labeled a cult, a national threat, and a heretical stain on the land.

Elena led the Matteo personal legions herself.

She did not delegate her vengeance—she rode with it, commanded it, bled with it. Her voice became law within Puerto Cuidad. The estates, the mines, the ports, the trade routes. She overtook them all with a gaze like sharpened steel.

Niegal remained her shadow, her silent compass, her immovable anchor. A welcome presence and a private solace. He stood beside her at councils, at grave sites, and behind closed doors.

Meanwhile, Lady Aurora was confined to her bed. Her heart had never recovered from Seamus's passing. It was as if the weight of grief had squeezed her soul too tightly. Cheri did her best to manage both estates and sorrow, but she too was lost.

Kenneth, her protector and dear companion, had died in the ambush. He had taken a bullet meant for her. She held him as he died. She never forgot the warmth that left his eyes.

At night she would whisper Kenneth's name, the guilt and loss heavy.

Another three months passed. By then, Elena Matteo de la Puerto Cuidad was formally acknowledged as Viscountess by the government of the United Territories. She wore the title not as a crown, but as armor. She refused a ceremony. Too much to plan, too much to do.

She founded schools for magic practitioners, safe havens where children could study without fear of persecution or branding.

Niegal, who once thought his best days behind him, found himself awestruck.

The people whispered.

They spoke of the return of the long-lost Viscount. Of the widow who'd become a Saintess in her own right. Of the two standing always side by side.

Some prayed they'd marry.

Others murmured doubts: "Too soon… She's too young."

"He looks too much like the one she lost."

But they ignored the rumor mill.

Because even they couldn't deny the undeniable.

Ten months after Seamus's death.

The study was dim. Only the dying embers of the hearth and the gentle gold of moonlight spilling through lace curtains lit the room. Outside, the manor was quiet. Too late for politics. Too early for rest.

Elena leaned against the carved writing desk, fingers slowly circling the rim of her goblet. Her cheeks were warm from the wine, lips stained a deep garnet. Across from her, sprawled in the old armchair, Niegal watched her like a man watching a wound he could never let heal.

The silence between them pulsed. It wasn't cold. It was humid. Heavy with unsaid things: shared grief, unspoken want, the soft humming of something fragile that bloomed whenever they were alone.

"I should go," Elena murmured.

But she didn't move.

Niegal didn't respond right away. He simply swirled the liquor in his glass, his eyes tracking her every breath like a storm watching a shoreline.

Elena's gaze turned to the hearth. "Do you ever feel like… if you let yourself be happy again, it means you're erasing what came before?"

Niegal exhaled slowly. "Every day."

Her eyes met his, surprised. His face was unreadable, but his jaw clenched.

"I loved Seamus," she said, her voice raw. "I hated him too, near the end. But I loved him. And I don't know what to do with that. Especially when I…"

She trailed off. Her grip tightened around the cup.

Niegal set his drink down. He stood. Crossed the space between them slowly.

"You can still love him," he said, voice low. "That part of your heart doesn't have to die just because he did."

She looked up. "But what if there's not enough room for both of you?"

A sad smile curved his lips. "Then I'll live in the echo."

Tears shimmered in her eyes. "You deserve more than that."

"I'm drawn to you," he continued, softer now, "because I saw you when no one else did. That first night in the sanctum… You don't remember it, do you?"

Elena shook her head.

"You were unconscious. Shielded by magic. And in your sleep, you whispered a prayer."

He paused. "Not for Seamus. Not for yourself. For others. 'Please let me be strong enough to protect them.'"

Her breath caught in her throat.

"That's when I knew," Niegal whispered. "You weren't meant to be protected. You were meant to lead. And still… I wanted to carry you. Even just once."

She reached for him, fingers brushing the edge of his tunic.

"Niegal…" she whispered.

He came closer. But he didn't kiss her. Not yet.

"I know I'm not your first. I know I could never replace what you lost. But I'm not here to replace anyone. I'm just… here."

She rested her forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. Warm. Solid. Familiar.

"I'm tired of mourning," she whispered.

"Then just rest," he murmured, arms folding around her. "Just for tonight."

Just for tonight.