Wed to the War King

 CHAPTER 6: Ashes & Absolution

Queen Aria's POV

The royal dungeon smelled of damp stone and despair—of old blood and older regrets.

I stood before Prince Eliam’s cell, my fingers tracing the rough grooves in the wall where countless prisoners had carved their final prayers. The torchlight flickered, casting monstrous shadows that danced across his hollowed cheeks. Three weeks in darkness had whittled him down to something less than human, but his eyes still glittered with venom.

"You misunderstand," he rasped, chains biting into his wrists as he leaned forward. "I didn’t act alone."

Behind me, Kael’s presence was a living thing—warm and solid against the dungeon’s chill. His hand settled at the small of my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me: I’m here. Breathe.

"Names," Kael demanded, his voice low and lethal.

Eliam’s cracked lips twisted. "Your precious Lord Torin wept like a babe when my men flayed his secrets out. Said you’d never suspect him—your father’s oldest friend."

The torch in my hand guttered violently, as if the very air had been sucked from the room. Torin. The man who had taught me to ride, who had dried my tears when my father died, who had stood beside my throne with unwavering loyalty—or so I’d believed.

Kael’s fingers tightened on my waist. "Aria—"

I turned on my heel before he could finish, my boots striking the stone stairs like a death march. Behind me, Eliam’s laughter followed, jagged and broken, until the darkness swallowed it whole.

---

The Burning

Torin’s chambers were exactly as I remembered them—neat, orderly, the scent of aged parchment and ink lingering in the air. He stood by the window, packing a single satchel with the precision of a man who had planned this moment for years.

His hands stilled when I kicked open the door, my father’s sword—his sword, gifted to Torin on my tenth birthday—gleaming in the dawn light.

"Aria." His voice was parchment-thin. "I can explain—"

I threw the confession at his feet, the parchment unfurling like a snake between us. "Did you laugh when you advised me to marry him?" My own voice sounded foreign to me, raw and fractured. "When you whispered that Vareen would never accept me? Did you cheer when the riots started?"

Kael blocked the exit, his shadow swallowing the room. His silence was worse than any accusation.

Torin’s knees hit the floor with a dull thud. "The northern provinces were mine by right!" His hands trembled as he clutched the edge of the bed. "Your father promised them to me—before you were even born!"

I swung the blade without thinking.

It stopped a hair’s breadth from his throat, my arm shaking with the effort to hold back.

"Not like this," Kael murmured, catching my wrist. His touch was firm but gentle, his breath warm against my ear. "He doesn’t deserve your mercy. But he doesn’t deserve your rage, either."

I sheathed the sword, my chest heaving. "Burn it."

By noon, Torin’s estates were ashes, his treason painted across the capital walls in his own hand. Let the people see how their beloved lord had starved them for power. Let them know the cost of betrayal.

---

The Wounds That Remain

That night, I woke screaming.

Fire. Blood. The scent of burning flesh. Torin’s face morphing into a stranger’s, his hands around my throat—

"Aria."

Kael gathered me against his chest before I could fully surface from the nightmare. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, his skin warm and alive against mine. "I’m here," he murmured into my hair. "You’re safe."

I fisted his shirt, the fabric twisting in my grip. "You should hate me," I whispered. "My own council—my own family—"

"Our council," he corrected softly. "Our people. Our fight."

Something inside me shattered.

I wept—for the trust I’d lost, for the villages burned in my name, for the girl who had once believed in noble lords and easy peace. Kael held me through it all, his silence more comforting than any words. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He didn’t tell me it would be okay.

He simply stayed.

When dawn came, he pressed something into my palm—a white rose from my mother’s garden, its petals edged with frost.

"Rebuild with me," he whispered.

---

The Coronation Redux

We stood together on the balcony, the morning sun glinting off our intertwined crowns. Below, the square teemed with people—not rioting, not screaming, but cheering.

Kael’s voice carried across the crowd, strong and unyielding:

"Let it be known—harm one kingdom, and you answer to both crowns."

I stepped forward, lifting our joined hands. The sunlight caught on the scars we both bore—his from battles fought for me, mine from lessons learned the hard way.

"The next traitor won’t receive a trial."

The roar that followed shook the city to its bones.

 CHAPTER 7: Of Scars and Sacred Oaths

CHAPTER 1: The War Ends With a Ring