Chapter Text
The airplane landed under a gray sky.
Kile watched through the small oval window while the wet runways reflected the airport lights like cracked glass. There was a fine rain covering the entire capital. It was not a storm strong enough to stop the ceremony or delay the flights, but it was constant enough to leave Illéa looking as if it had been crying for days.
Perhaps it was.
He released his breath slowly when the pilot's voice echoed through the loudspeakers, announcing the arrival in Angeles and asking everyone to remain seated. Kile rested his head against the leather seat.
Home.
The word brought no comfort whatsoever. On the contrary, it felt like a weight sinking into his stomach.
It had been two years since the last time he had crossed the iron gates of the palace. Two years trying to build a real life outside of there. He had gone north, focused on his work as an architect. He designed buildings, supervised construction sites, got his hands dirty with cement and dust. He wanted to stay away from the golden corridors, away from the constant headlines about the royalty, and, especially, away from her.
Especially from her.
And, in a way, it had worked. More or less.
There were good days. Weeks when the work demanded so much of him that there was barely any time left to think about the past. Days when he managed to read the name of Eadlyn Schreave in the newspapers without feeling that stupid, persistent pain squeezing his chest. Days when he genuinely believed he was happy for her.
Because she seemed happy. The photographs did not lie.
She had chosen Eikko. She had married him in a ceremony that brought the country to a standstill. She had built a life with him to lead Illéa in a fairer way. Eikko was a good guy. It was impossible to hate him.
And Kile wanted that for her. He wanted her to have peace, to have someone who would support her through the immense weight that was wearing that crown.
Even if it hurt to know that this someone was not him.
Then, the news had arrived four days ago.
The accident.
Kile was in the office, reviewing floor plans for a new hospital, when the telephone rang. The images of the destroyed car were already being plastered across all television channels and newspapers around the world. A mechanical failure. A wet road. A tragedy that does not choose whether you are royalty or not.
Then came the official pronouncement from the palace, delivered by a pale spokesperson.
The national mourning declared immediately.
Eadlyn, suddenly, a widow.
He pressed his fingers against the fabric of his trousers on his own knee as he remembered his mother's, Marlee's, phone call that same afternoon.
"Kile... it happened." Her voice was choked, entirely different from her always cheerful tone. "Eikko. He was in an accident."
"Is he in the hospital?" Kile had asked, already feeling his blood run cold.
"No, my dear. He did not make it." His mother's crying finally broke through the telephone line. "You need to come."
Kile had not even answered immediately. The line remained silent for long seconds while his brain tried to process the words. Eikko was dead. The gentle young man who made Eadlyn smile did not exist anymore.
He did not answer right away because he did not know if he would be able to return.
He did not know if he would bear to see her destroyed. Eadlyn had always been strong, but this was different. This was the kind of pain that breaks a person's spine.
And, worse than that, he did not know if he would bear to discover that a terrible, stubborn, and selfish part of him still loved her, after all those years of distance and effort to forget.
The airplane finally came to a complete stop at the arrival gate, and the passengers began to stand up. The atmosphere inside the cabin was strange. No one spoke loudly. There was not the usual rush to grab bags and run out. Everyone recognized the royal symbol displayed on the large airport screens through the windows. Everyone knew why half of that specific flight to the capital existed.
The funeral of the King Consort.
Kile grabbed his small carry-on bag from the overhead compartment and stepped off the airplane, feeling the cold late-afternoon wind hit his face the moment he stepped onto the boarding bridge.
Illéa looked different. The air smelled of wet asphalt and sadness.
Or perhaps he was too different now, incapable of seeing the city with the same eyes as before.
The official palace car awaited him in the restricted area outside the airport. It was a black sedan, polished and anonymous, except for the small royal flag on the hood.
The driver, an older man in a dark suit, merely nodded in silence as he took Kile's bag and placed it in the trunk.
No conversation during the drive.
No casual comments about the horrible weather.
No "welcome back, Mr. Woodwork".
The entire city seemed to be walking on tiptoes, afraid to make any noise that might offend the royal family's grief. Kile looked out the window during the journey.
The streets of Angeles were covered with black flags tied to the streetlamps. Where there used to be bright decorations and blue flags, now there was only mourning. White flowers had been left in massive piles in the squares, at the foot of public monuments, and along the security fences that surrounded the government buildings. On some of the larger commercial buildings, enormous photographic portraits of Eikko hung from the windows, showing the friendly, calm smile that the country had learned to love.
Kile averted his eyes from one of these portraits. The image made his stomach churn in a strange way.
He had never hated Eikko.
He tried to repeat this to himself, like a mantra, while the car passed through the silent intersections. He wished he had felt anger, during the Selection, when he realized Eadlyn looked at the translator in a different way. It would have been easier if Eikko had been arrogant or cruel.
But it had never been his fault.
Eikko had been kind to everyone in the palace. Smart, helpful, and calm in a very specific way. A calmness that perfectly balanced Eadlyn's internal fires and anxiety. When she thought she needed to carry the entire world on her shoulders to prove she was a good queen, Eikko was there to remind her that she was only human. Perhaps he had been exactly what she needed so as not to break under the pressure of the crown.
Perhaps he still was.
The automatic thought came before Kile could stop it.
He shook his head. It was as if some idiotic part of his brain still had not grasped the obvious reality: the man was dead. There was no more "still was". There was only the emptiness he had left behind.
The armored car crossed the enormous iron gates of the palace shortly before noon. The guards at the posts did not even ask for identification; they merely cleared the way in a somber silence.
And that hit Kile harder than he expected.
The palace had always been a living place. Loud, bustling, full of energy. There were hundreds of staff members running through the corridors at any hour of the day. There was the sound of laughter echoing from the family's private wings, distant music coming from some ballroom being prepared, the thud of the guards' boots marching. Even on the bad days, during days of political crisis or during the rebel attacks of the past, there was human warmth there. There was life.
Now, it felt like a gigantic mausoleum.
Through the car window, Kile saw that the famous gardens were impeccable, as always, with the hedges perfectly pruned. But they were completely empty. The large water fountains, which usually shot high jets into the air, were turned off, leaving the water still and dark. The royal flags at the top of the towers were tied at half-mast, swaying slowly in the cold wind.
The very air around the property felt heavy, as if it were difficult to fill one's lungs.
The driver stopped the car at the side entrance, the one the family and close friends used. Kile opened the door before the man could even walk around to open it for him.
He stepped out of the car slowly, his shoes touching the cobblestones of the courtyard.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the enormous, majestic white building before him. The tall windows, the sculpted balconies, the wide staircases.
How many times had he dreamed of returning home?
How many times, lying in his bed in the modest apartment in the north, had he imagined that he would set foot there again because of her? He used to imagine stupid scenarios. That she would call him to construct a new government building. That she would admit she missed him.
Never like this. Never for a funeral.
The heavy double wooden main doors opened before he even reached the top of the staircase.
His mother appeared first.
Marlee Tames practically ran, crossing the marble hall to hug him. Her eyes were already red and swollen, her pale face contrasting with the simple black dress she wore.
"Kile..." her voice faltered the moment she touched him.
He held her tightly immediately, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
His mother trembled uncontrollably against his chest.
That, by itself, spoke volumes. Marlee was a rock. She had survived public torture in the past, she had rebuilt her life, she had been the support system for Queen America and King Maxon for decades. Marlee rarely crumbled like that.
"Hi, mom. I am here," he whispered, resting his chin on the top of her head.
She pulled her face away just enough to hold him by the cheeks, looking deep into his eyes. Her hands were freezing.
"You are thin," she said, her voice hoarse.
Despite all the crushing sadness of the environment, he almost gave a weak smile.
"You always say that, mom."
"Because it is always true. You work too much and eat too little," she replied, her eyes mapping her son's face as if memorizing his features.
But the trace of a smile on Marlee's face died very quickly. The reality of the day returned to weigh upon her shoulders. The grief overtook his mother's face like a thick shadow, making her look older than she truly was.
"Thank you for coming, Kile. I know it was not easy."
Kile nodded slowly, releasing her slightly, but still holding her hands. He needed to ask the question, even though he feared the answer.
"How is she?"
Marlee looked at the floor. She remained in absolute silence for a long time. Her shoulders dropped.
And that silence answered everything Kile needed to know.
He only had a few minutes to go to his old room and change his clothes before the main ceremony started.
The room assigned to him in the friends' wing felt much smaller than he remembered. The single bed pushed against the wall, the wooden desk where he used to spend entire nights drawing floor plans, the window overlooking the back gardens. Everything was in the exact same place, impeccably clean, but it felt like it no longer belonged to him. Or perhaps he had simply grown too much, internally, to fit into that place.
On the bed, the maids had left his suit laid out. The black suit was perfectly tailored to his measurements, with the dark tie beside it and a freshly ironed white shirt.
He hated this.
I hate looking so dressed up for funerals, Kile thought as he mechanically buttoned the shirt. We shouldn't have to worry about tie knots when someone's world has ended.
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face was tired. The journey had been long, but the exhaustion he saw in his own eyes came from a much deeper place. He splashed some cold water on his face, dried himself with a hand towel, and put on the dark jacket.
When he stepped out into the main corridors again, he felt the shift in the atmosphere. The palace was already full.
The reception wings, normally used for balls and Christmas parties, were taken over by hundreds of people.
Foreign diplomats conversing in small groups.
Guards in dress uniforms, wearing black armbands as a sign of respect.
Members of Illéa's elite, politicians, provincial governors.
International guests who had come to pay their respects to Eikko.
Everyone was dressed strictly in black. Everyone spoke softly, in cautious whispers. No one smiled. Their shoes barely made a sound against the polished marble floor. It was as if any loud noise could break something unfixable in the air.
Kile recognized familiar faces as he walked slowly toward the Great Funerary Hall, in the center of the palace. Some people from former upper castes greeted him with discreet nods. Others, who knew his past with the queen and the history of the Selection, seemed too uncomfortable to speak to him. They quickly averted their gaze.
He preferred it that way. He did not want to have to answer polite questions about how his career was going at the moment.
He preferred the silence because his own heart was already beating too fast.
He was in a cold sweat. His hands inside his trouser pockets were tense.
Because he knew she was right ahead. Somewhere at the end of that corridor.
And, to his own shame, even after two entire years away, even after so many new life projects, his body still reacted physically to the simple idea of seeing her. Just knowing that he breathed the same air as Eadlyn made his stomach churn.
Ridiculous.
Pathetic.
Totally useless now.
But it was real. He could not lie to himself.
The enormous golden gates of the Great Hall were wide open.
And then, Kile entered.
The scent of white lilies hit his face first. It was dense.
Strong.
Sweet.
Almost suffocating. There were thousands of them. The entire hall, from floor to ceiling, was covered in white flower arrangements and thousands of lit candles. The heat from the flames made the hall warm. Royal guards lined the side walls, standing still as statues in absolute silence, while hundreds of people already occupied the long wooden pews arranged facing the central platform.
Up at the front, surrounded by more flowers and flags of Illéa and his home country... There was a painting with a photo of the young king consort.
Dead in his early twenties.
That made no sense whatsoever. Such a young man, so full of plans.
None of it made sense in the real world.
He tore his gaze away from the coffin. And then, he saw her.
And Kile's entire world seemed to stop spinning.
Eadlyn Schreave was standing beside the coffin, on the first step of the platform.
She was completely motionless.
Dressed entirely in black, from head to toe.
The dress she wore was not one of her typical modern and elegant designs. It had long sleeves, made of a stiff and heavy fabric, closing all the way up to the top of her neck, not leaving a single inch of skin exposed, as if it were medieval armor. There was no jewelry, except for her wedding ring and the small mourning crown resting on her dark hair, which was pulled tightly back.
The dark, heavy color of the fabric made her skin look paler than Kile ever remembered seeing it. She looked like she was made of chalk.
But what caught his attention was not the clothing. It was her eyes.
Her eyes destroyed any emotional preparation he thought he had done during the flight.
She looked incredibly tired.
Not just sad, in a normal way that people get at wakes.
Tired in a deep way, in her soul. Tired to the bone.
As if the weight of that terrible grief had ripped entire pieces of flesh from her over the past four days.
Her cheekbones, previously round and healthy, were more pronounced, giving her a severe appearance. Her shoulders were tenser, rigid. Her posture was still absolutely perfect — because Eadlyn was the Queen, and she would die suffocated before allowing the cameras or the politicians to see her fall apart in public — but there was something fundamentally broken beneath that polished surface.
Something dark that had not existed before.
She looked older than her early twenties.
Colder.
More distant from everything around her.
And yet… even with all the pain and darkness enveloping her...
It was still her.
Kile's chest squeezed so tightly beneath his ribs that it actually hurt physically. He had to pull air through his mouth.
He hated that immediately. He hated himself in that second.
He hated that, after all this time, after all the effort to forget her, it only took a single glance from afar for all those damn feelings, which he believed to be well buried, to spring back to life with full force, as if they had never truly gone away.
Eadlyn had not seen him enter yet.
Her eyes were fixed on Eikko's face, inside the coffin.
Still.
Completely empty, without blinking.
As if she were looking at something far beyond him, to a place where no one else in the hall could reach her.
Kile looked around and realized, then, that the entire hall was watching the queen. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed her every slight movement.
They were waiting for some reaction.
Waiting for the first tear to fall.
Waiting for a nervous breakdown, a scream, a fainting spell.
But Eadlyn remained there, motionless as a stone.
Perfect for the media.
Royal and majestic for the people.
Untouchable to her enemies.
And completely, terribly alone.
An old memory struck him without warning, so vivid that he almost closed his eyes.
Her at sixteen years old, wearing pants stained with dirt, screaming at him in the middle of the palace gardens because he had drawn in her notebooks.
Her at eighteen years old, laughing so hard at a silly joke in the corridor that she had to hold tightly onto his arm so as not to fall to the floor.
Her during the chaotic time of the Selection. The furious, brilliant, alive girl, full of flaws, but so incredibly full of light.
Now, standing there in that suffocating hall, she looked like a ghost wearing a crown.
Kile walked to one of the pews at the back and sat down. He barely noticed when the religious ceremony actually began.
The sound of people speaking into microphones filled the room. Dragging speeches echoed through the hall, bouncing off the high ceiling. Tributes from diplomatic leaders. Pretty words from politicians about Eikko's "great legacy", about "unity in difficult times", about "incalculable tragedy".
He heard almost nothing of what they said. The words were just background noise.
Because he kept staring fixedly at her.
Because a childish part of him needed to look to be sure that Eadlyn was still really there, alive, breathing, and had not turned into smoke.
Sometimes, during the speeches, she blinked in a slow and controlled manner.
Sometimes, she pressed her slender fingers of one hand against the other in front of her body, her knuckles turning white from the force.
Just that.
Not a single tear fell. No trembling on her lips.
It was then that the former King, Maxon Schreave, approached his daughter very discreetly during the Prime Minister's long speech. Maxon also looked as if he had aged ten years in a few days.
Kile saw the exact moment when Maxon raised his hand and lightly touched Eadlyn's elbow.
A small touch.
A purely gentle gesture from a worried father.
But, upon feeling the touch, Eadlyn almost recoiled.
Almost took a step back. Her shoulders stiffened even more, as if any minimal touch was the thing that would make her shatter completely in front of the whole country.
That small flinch destroyed something inside Kile's heart.
Because Eadlyn, the real Eadlyn that he knew, was never afraid of physical contact with the people she loved.
Never.
She was fire. She was constant movement. She was intensity in everything she did. She hugged her brothers, shoved Kile by the shoulders, walked arm in arm with her mother.
Now, beneath that armor of mourning, she seemed to be made of the thinnest, cracked glass. And she knew that if anyone touched her the wrong way, she would turn to dust.
The ceremony continued for a time that Kile could not measure.
Minutes.
Perhaps hours.
Kile could not say. The hot air and the sweet smell of flowers were giving him a dull headache.
At some point, the music stopped, and the people began to rise from the pews in a long, organized line. It was the moment to pass before the royal family and offer formal condolences to the widow.
Kile's stomach sank almost to his feet immediately.
No.
He did not want to join the line. He was not prepared to speak to her. He was not ready to face her from so close.
But the line was unforgiving, and the people in the pew where he was began to move forward into the center aisle. Kile had to stand up and follow the flow, walking slowly step by step.
Ahead of him were generals in uniform.
Ambassadors from other countries.
High-ranking politicians.
With every step, he heard the murmurs. Everyone repeating polite and different variations and versions of "I am so sorry for your loss, Your Majesty".
And to each person, everyone received from the queen exactly the same robotic reaction: a very slow and controlled nod. Without words.
When Kile finally realized where he was, there were only two people between him and her.
Kile's pulse accelerated so much that he could hear his blood pounding in his own ears. His hands began to sweat again.
She still had not looked directly toward the end of the line. She was looking mechanically at the chest of whoever was speaking to her.
Perhaps she did not know he was there.
Perhaps she had not seen the guest list.
Perhaps she did not even care if he showed up—
Then, it happened.
The person in front of Kile moved to the right. The path was clear.
Eadlyn's dark eyes lifted from the floor.
And met his.
And, in that exact second, everything came back to Kile all at once.
It did not come back in a gentle way, like a good memory.
It did not come back in a nostalgic and distant manner.
The past returned like a violent ocean wave, crashing directly and mercilessly against his chest, knocking all the breath out of him.
The old palace corridors illuminated by the afternoon sun.
The childish arguments over books.
The stolen laughs in the library, hiding from the guards.
That hasty first kiss.
The long nights when he stayed in his own room, drawing, pretending to himself with all his might that he was not hopelessly and irremediably in love with her.
The exact way she said his name when she was annoyed.
Everything collided in his head in a second.
Upon looking at Kile, Eadlyn's eyes widened. Just a fraction of an inch, but they widened.
It was the first genuine and true emotion that Kile could see on that pale face since he had crossed the palace doors.
Shock.
Not just because he was there in front of her after so much time.
But because, in that hall full of politicians and men in suits, he represented someone from before.
Kile was from before the funeral.
Before death knocked on her door.
Before she understood what true mourning meant. He was a bridge to a past where things made sense and her heart was whole.
For a horrible second, amidst all those people, he saw Queen Eadlyn waver.
It was just a quick tremor in her chin. A short, shaky breath. As if, upon seeing Kile's familiar face, she was finally too tired to continue holding up that heavy monarch's mask.
But it lasted only a heartbeat.
Then, the flawless queen returned to control. Her expression closed up quickly once more. Her chin lifted.
Her posture became rigid. Controlled. Completely distant once again.
But, unlike what she did with the others in line, her eyes remained locked on his. They did not look away.
And looking deeply into those brown eyes, Kile realized something that frightened him.
Despite everything, despite trying to hide it, she looked relieved. Relieved that he existed.
The line moved one more step.
Now it was his turn.
Kile stopped at the marked spot. He was close to her.
Too close. He could smell her soft perfume mixed with the oppressive scent of the lilies in the hall.
Following protocol, he stopped before the open coffin first. He did this more out of obligation than out of any courage. He looked at Eikko's pale face one last time. He tried to find some appropriate words to pray or think inside his own head.
He found absolutely none. He felt only a hollow sadness for a good man who had departed too early.
He lowered his head once in respect. Then, he turned slowly to the right. To her.
Eadlyn looked even more exhausted seen up close. Her skin had no color.
There were dark, deep bags under her eyes hidden beneath a heavy layer of careful makeup, trying to pretend she had been sleeping over the past few days. The intense and fierce sparkle that had always lived in her brown eyes was completely extinguished, like a fire that had been covered in dirt.
They stood face to face.
When she finally spoke, her voice came out dry, but steady.
"Kile."
Just that. Only his name released into the tense air.
And God...
He almost forgot how the physical process of breathing worked. Her voice struck the center of his chest.
He swallowed hard, forcing the words to come out of his own throat.
"Hi, Eadlyn."
Hearing his own formal greetings felt profoundly wrong immediately. It was strange.
She used to call him an idiot in the corridors.
She used to shove his shoulder hard when she was irritated about losing an argument about politics.
She used to look at him during Sunday dinners as if she could read his mind, as if she knew him better than anyone else in the whole world.
Now, they stood there, less than a meter apart, looking like two perfect strangers dressed in expensive black clothes, trapped in a formal event.
Her fingers squeezed against each other again in front of her waist.
"You came," she stated, in a tone almost inaudible to the people standing around, but clear to him.
Kile nodded slowly. He felt a bitter knot rise in his throat.
"Of course I came. I would never let you go through this alone."
Upon hearing this, her eyes wavered violently again. The barrier of ice cracked.
And for a very quick, very small instant, the imposing figure of the powerful queen disappeared from that hall. The crown seemed to vanish from her head.
What remained there in front of him was only the girl he had known his entire life. Just Eadlyn.
Tired.
Hurt in invisible ways.
Desperately trying to gather her own broken pieces and not fall apart crying in front of hundreds of people who expected from her nothing but political strength.
He wanted to hug her.
The impulse that hit his muscles was so strong, so instinctive, that it actually scared him. He wanted to take a step forward, pull her to his chest, and hide her face there until that whole horrible event was over.
But he could not.
His hands remained motionless by his sides. He could not do that. Not there. Not in front of dozens of cameras and ministers observing every step the monarch took. Not at her husband's funeral.
So, he stayed in his place, and merely said, in the softest and lowest tone he could manage:
"I am so sorry, Eadlyn. I am truly sorry."
Eadlyn closed her eyes for an entire second upon hearing the sentence.
And Kile knew that it seemed to hurt her deeply. It hurt like a physical blow.
It hurt more than the giant speeches of foreign leaders that had lasted hours.
It hurt much more than the political and empty condolences of the previous ambassadors.
Because Kile truly knew her.
And when he said he was sorry, he was not speaking like a diplomat paying respect to the country.
He was speaking like someone who saw right through her. Someone who knew exactly how many parts, pieces, and fears existed hidden behind that rigid posture and that armored dress. He was sorry for the pain in her soul.
When Eadlyn opened her dark eyes again, Kile saw that there was a very dangerous shine there on the surface.
Water.
Tears. The first ones that had formed since the beginning of the whole tragedy.
Her breath hitched. She pulled air deeply through her nose immediately, tilting her face up, using every ounce of willpower she possessed in her body to try and regain control before the tear could fall and ruin the makeup, ruin the pose.
"Thank you for coming from so far away," she said hurriedly, her voice faltering dangerously on the last syllable, trembling in a way that broke his heart.
Kile felt his own chest squeeze unbearably.
He wanted to say something else. He needed to say something else.
He wanted to say that she did not need to put on that whole act for him. That she did not need to be strong all the time.
He wanted to say that he was in no rush to return north and that he could stay there at the palace for as long as she found necessary.
He wanted to say that he still cared, that he still...
But the general who was the next guest in line cleared his throat lightly and was already waiting behind Kile, impatient to follow the royal funeral's schedule.
Eadlyn noticed the general's movement out of the corner of her eye as well.
In that same instant, the queen's mask returned to her face in a cold and calculated manner, like a heavy iron door being locked from the inside. The fragility was swept away.
"We should talk later," she said to him, returning to the polished and formal tone she had used with everyone else.
But looking deep into her eyes, Kile knew that this was not a polite scheduling request.
It was almost a plea. An urgent necessity.
Kile understood. He took a small step back, clearing the way.
"Of course, Your Majesty," he said, respecting the space.
Their eyes locked one last, brief time, exchanging more information in that tense silence than if they had spoken for hours.
Then, Kile turned and walked away, heading down the side aisle of the hall to get away from the platform.
But even walking quickly away from there, with the sound of his own footsteps echoing in his ears, he still felt everything burning inside his chest.
That old, strong, and dangerous feeling.
Hot.
Painful.
Too alive and pulsing to be ignored.
It was terrible to realize that in that place, with the scent of funeral flowers in the air. It was as if those two years building a new life away from Illéa had never existed. All his effort had turned to smoke.
He realized the hard way that time, distance, or tragedies did not matter. As if it were enough to look at Eadlyn Schreave a single time, to see her dark eyes seeking his in the middle of the crowd, for Kile Woodwork to be completely and absolutely lost all over again. And, this time, there was nowhere to run.