Chapter 136

Chapter 136: Chapter 136

The garden was quiet in the late afternoon, the sun casting long golden shadows across the manicured paths. Selene walked beside Soren, her hand resting possessively on his arm, her silver hair—newly dyed to match the woman she was pretending to be—catching the light like a river of moonlight. She had been careful. So careful. Every word, every gesture, every fabricated memory designed to fill the void in his fractured mind.

Freya had excused herself nearly an hour ago, unable to stomach Selene’s simpering any longer. That was fine. Selene preferred it this way. Fewer witnesses. Fewer interruptions.

"You were so brave during the Mistwood expedition," Selene said, continuing the story she had been weaving. "You led your team through the forest, fought off the rogues, and carried Prince Thorne to safety. But that was before we knew Thorne was actually Nyra—the impostor who murdered her own brother."

"Nyra," Soren repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "The Moonblood heir. The woman who tried to kill me."

"Yes." Selene’s voice was soft, sympathetic. "She poisoned you at the showcase. The arrow was just the final blow. She wanted you dead because you discovered her secret."

"And you?" Soren looked at her. "You were there?"

"I was performing with you in the pageantry. I saw the arrow strike. I watched you fall." Her amber eyes glistened with what looked like genuine emotion. "I thought I’d lost you forever."

"The woman in my dreams. The one with silver hair." He touched her hair—the silver strands that she had dyed so carefully. "Is it you?"

Selene’s heart pounded. This was the moment. The moment everything would be decided.

"Yes," she said softly. "It’s me. I’ve always been the one you loved. Nyra tried to come between us. She was obsessed with you. She wanted to destroy what we had."

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. But she forced it down. For Soren. For the future she had been promised. For the crown that was rightfully hers.

Soren was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I believe you."

The words hit Selene like a wave of relief. She had done it. She had convinced him. The hole in his memory was now filled with her version of the truth—a version where she was the love of his life and Nyra was the villain who had tried to destroy them.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for trusting me."

"I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you immediately." His voice was rough with emotion. "The poison took so much from me. But I’m here now. And I want to make it up to you."

"Make it up to me how?"

"Whatever you want. Whatever you need." His golden eyes met hers. "Tell me what I can do."

Selene took a deep breath. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

"Announce our engagement publicly at the festival. Claim me as your betrothed in front of the entire realm. And then—" She paused, her heart pounding. "Marry me. Make me your princess. Your future queen."

Soren considered for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I will."

Selene’s heart soared. She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. He hesitated for just a moment—a flicker of something uncertain in his golden eyes—and then he kissed her back.

From the far end of the garden, Queen Seraphina watched the embrace. Her expression was unreadable. She should be happy, she told herself. Her son was alive. He was safe. He was with his betrothed—the woman he was supposed to marry. Whatever complications existed with the Moonblood heir, they could be sorted out later.

Maybe it’s better this way, she thought. At least my son will be safe.

She turned and walked away, leaving the couple alone in the garden.

The academy was finally closing for the annual break.

Students had been leaving since dawn, their trunks packed and their excitement barely contained. Carriages lined the main courtyard, their horses stamping impatiently as families reunited and said their goodbyes. The Silvermoon students had departed first, their pristine white uniforms a stark contrast to the dark stone of Shadowmoon. The Shadowmoon students followed, their voices bright with anticipation for the festival.

Proctor Vesper Kane stood at his office window, watching the exodus. His assistant, Aldus, stood beside him, a list of the departing students in his hands.

"The last of the students should be gone by evening," Aldus reported. "The staff will follow tomorrow."

"And the prince?" Kane asked. "Has there been any official word from the palace?"

"Only that he is recovering well and will be presented to the realm at the festival. The palace has asked that the academy send a delegation to attend the celebration. They want to honor the Sword Sovereign’s return."

Kane nodded slowly. "Then we’ll send our best. The senior instructors. The top students. We’ll bring a gift worthy of a prince."

"What kind of gift, Proctor?"

Kane was silent for a moment. Then he turned from the window. "Soren Thornridge was the finest student this academy has ever produced. The Sword Sovereign. The Lycan heir. Whatever gift we bring, it must reflect that legacy. Something meaningful. Something that speaks to who he was—and who he will become."

"A sword, perhaps? A ceremonial blade?"

"Perhaps. Or something more personal." Kane’s eyes were thoughtful. "I’ll consider it. In the meantime, begin making the travel arrangements. We leave in three days."

"Yes, Proctor."

Aldus bowed and left. Kane stood alone in his office, staring at the empty courtyard below. The academy had been through so much in the past year—the Mistwood, the showcase, the death of the prince, the exposure of the Moonblood heir. Now, with Soren’s miraculous return, there was hope again. Hope that the realm could heal. Hope that the coming war could be averted.

But Kane had lived too long to trust hope blindly. There were still too many unanswered questions. Too many unresolved dangers.

The festival will bring answers, he thought. One way or another.

The streets of the Palace City were crowded with festival-goers, their voices bright with excitement, their arms laden with purchases from the market stalls. Valeria moved through the crowd like a shadow, her hood pulled low, her expression cold and calculating. She had slipped away from the group hours ago, leaving them at the Silver Stag while they debated their plans for reaching Soren.

She had her own plans.

The thought of Soren being alive had ignited something in her—a spark of hope she had thought long extinguished. He was alive. He was here, in this city, somewhere behind those gleaming palace walls. And if she could just reach him—if she could just see him, talk to him, remind him of what they had shared—

Be careful, Lila warned. You don’t know what condition he’s in. The poison may have changed him.

I don’t care if he’s changed. He’s still Soren. He’s still the man I love.

He was never yours to love, Valeria. He belonged to Nyra.

Nyra is a murderer and a traitor. She doesn’t deserve him.

And you do?

Valeria didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because deep down, she knew the truth: Soren had never loved her. He had used her for comfort during the full moons, nothing more. But that didn’t change how she felt. It didn’t change the ache in her chest when she thought of him, the desperate need to see his face, to hear his voice, to be near him.

She found a cloth shop near the market square and stepped inside. The shopkeeper was a plump, cheerful woman who immediately began offering suggestions silks from the southern territories, velvet from the northern mountains, lace from the eastern coast. Valeria ignored most of it, selecting a gown of deep emerald green that hugged her curves and brought out the warmth in her eyes.

"This one," she said. "And I’ll need a room nearby. Somewhere quiet."

The shopkeeper’s eyes flickered with understanding. "There’s an inn two streets over. The Silver Stag. Very discreet."

Valeria almost laughed. The Silver Stag was exactly where the others were hiding. But she wasn’t going back there. Not tonight.

"Somewhere else," she said. "Something more... private."

The shopkeeper directed her to a small inn near the eastern wall, popular with traveling merchants and their companions. Valeria paid for a room, changed into her new gown, and stood before the mirror, studying her reflection.

She looked beautiful. She always did. But beauty wasn’t enough. Not with Soren. Not with a man who had seen through her from the beginning.

What are you planning? Lila asked. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

I’m going to see him. Tonight, if I can. I need to know if he remembers me. If there’s anything left of what we had.

And if there isn’t?

Valeria’s jaw tightened. Then I’ll make him remember.

She picked up her cloak and walked out of the inn, disappearing into the crowded streets of the Palace City.

Ragnar had never been so nervous in his life.

He stood at the edge of the group, adjusting the collar of his formal attire for the hundredth time. Beside him, Roderic and Corvin were similarly dressed fine clothes befitting the sons of dignitaries, their posture straight, their expressions carefully neutral. And between them, hidden from view, stood Nyra.

Her silver hair had been dyed a deep blonde. A potion, brewed by Corvin, had changed her eye color from moonlight silver to a warm brown. Her face was still the same—that was the risk but with the hair and eye color changed, she could pass for someone else. Someone ordinary. Someone forgettable.

"Are you ready?" Corvin asked quietly.

Nyra nodded. "As ready as I’ll ever be."

"Remember—stay close to me. Don’t speak unless spoken to. If anyone asks, you’re my companion from the northern territories."

"Your companion," Nyra repeated, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "That’s very formal."

"It’s necessary."

They entered the palace grounds through the main gate, where Ragnar’s family name and Roderic’s status as a former student smoothed their way. The guards barely glanced at Nyra just another noble’s companion, unremarkable and easily forgotten.

The palace was even more magnificent up close than Nyra had imagined. The corridors were lined with tapestries depicting the great battles of the realm. The floors were polished marble, gleaming under the light of a thousand candles. Servants and guards moved through the halls with quiet efficiency, bowing to Ragnar and Roderic as they passed.

"We’re not far from the royal gardens," Corvin murmured. "Soren has been spending most of his time there since his return."

"And Selene?"

"She’ll be with him. She’s barely left his side since she arrived."

Nyra’s heart ached. "Then we’ll face them both."

They moved through the corridors until they reached the entrance to the gardens. The evening light was soft and golden, casting long shadows across the manicured paths. And there, near the fountain at the center of the garden, were Soren and Selene.

They were laughing about something—Selene’s hand on his arm, her head tilted back in amusement. Soren’s expression was warm, relaxed. He looked happy. He looked like the man Nyra remembered—the man who had held her through the night, who had whispered that he loved her, who had taken an arrow meant for her heart.

For a moment, Nyra couldn’t breathe.

Then the maids announced their presence. "Lord Ragnar Blackfang. Lord Roderic. Lord Corvin Eldritch. And companion."

Soren and Selene turned. Soren’s eyes swept over the group—recognition flashing when he saw Ragnar, then Roderic, then Corvin. His face broke into a smile.

"Ragnar! Corvin! Roderic!" He stood, moving toward them with open arms. "You came. I was hoping you would."

He took a step forward.

And then Nyra stepped out from behind Corvin.

Soren stopped dead in his tracks.

The garden seemed to freeze. The air grew thick with tension. Selene’s hand tightened on Soren’s arm, her knuckles white. Her expression was a mask of barely concealed fury—and fear.

Nyra took a step toward Soren. Then another. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She stopped in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch him.

"Soren," she said, her voice trembling. "It’s me. It’s Nyra."

Soren stared at her. His golden eyes widened. A sharp, sudden pain shot through his skull—the same blinding headache that had plagued him since he woke. He pressed his hand to his temple, groaning.

"Soren?" Nyra’s hand found his. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

"I’ve missed you so much," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you forever. But you’re here. You’re alive. And I—"

She tried to hug him.

And he grabbed her by the throat.

His hand closed around her neck with brutal force, lifting her off the ground. His golden eyes blazed with fury—not recognition, not love, but pure, undiluted hatred.

"YOU MURDERER," he snarled.

The garden erupted into chaos.

Ragnar surged forward, reaching for Soren’s arm. Corvin grabbed Nyra, trying to pull her free. Roderic shouted for the guards to stand down. Selene stood frozen, her face a mask of triumph and terror.

Nyra couldn’t breathe. Soren’s grip was crushing her throat, cutting off her air. Her vision was blurring at the edges. Her hands clawed at his wrist, desperate for release.

But the worst pain—the pain that cut deeper than any physical wound—was the look in his eyes.

Hatred. Disgust. Complete and utter rejection.

The man she loved didn’t remember her. And he wanted her dead.