Chapter 19
Eleanor could not bring herself to believe him.
Atonement? The wounds he’d carved into her very soul–how could one possibly atone for those?
She turned without a word and shut the door behind her with a resounding thud. It wasn’t until Roland came knocking, asking her to take supper, that she finally emerged.
The moment she opened the door, she froze.
Roland stood not in the finery of court, but clad in a dark woolen tunic, plain and without adornment. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms marked by training, not vanity.
The table was set–modest, but carefully arranged. The food, still steaming, bore the scent of home. Every dish was something she loved.
“You cooked this?” Her brow lifted, voice edged with disbelief.
He nodded. “I did. I didn’t want servants meddling tonight.”
Eleanor gave a cold laugh. “Learned it all for Cecily, didn’t you?”
His hand faltered, the faintest tremor betraying his pain. “Don’t speak her name,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”
But she meant to speak it.
Over supper, her words came swift and sharp, each one a blade:
“Did you make her sweets too, back in Crownspire?”
“When you climbed the cliffs at Starfall Crag to fetch her those wild roses, did you wonder if you’d fall to your death?”
“When she saw her name carved over your heart… did she weep with joy?”
Each question pierced deeper than the last.
At first, he flinched with every blow. Then came silence. And finally, numb resignation. He no longer spoke, nor moved to defend himself.
But Eleanor? She found a bitter satisfaction in it.
When supper ended and she rose to leave, his voice stopped her.
“Eleanor.”
He held out a whip–old, heavy, worn at the handle.
She stared at it. “What is this?”
“Ninety–nine lashes,” he said, voice ragged. “The ones I owe you.”
Her lips curled into a scornful smile. “And you think that makes us even?”
“No,” he said, looking up. His eyes were dark, hollow. “It doesn’t. But I deserve every one.”
From his coat, he produced a scroll and handed it to her. “My will. I’ve signed it. If you strike me down tonight, the Crown won’t so much as question you.”
“All that I own–every parcel of land, every coin in the Thorne estate will be yours.”
Her hand trembled.
Then she laughed.
“A bit late for fairy tales, isn’t it, Your Highness? I’m no simpering maid to be won back with gold and guilt.”
“I speak the truth,” he murmured.
And then-
Crack.
The first last struck
His body recoiled, a low grunt escaping his throat, but he did not fall. Nor did she hold back
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The second. The third. Again and again, until the sound of leather splitting flesh echoed through the manor like the tolling of a bell. Blood began to soak through his tunic, pooling at his feet.
Yet he stood, spine unbent, eyes closed.
By the ninety–ninth stroke, his back was a ruin of torn flesh and blood. He staggered but did not fall, even as crimson dripped steadily from his hem.
Then, swaying, he reached for her hand.
She jerked back, eyes ice–cold. “What now? Regret? You wish to strike me in return?”
Roland shook his head. With the last of his strength, he cradled her wrist, brushing his thumb over her bruised skin. “Does it hurt?” he whispered.
Eleanor froze.
A beat passed–then she yanked her hand free, fury flaring. “You’re out of your mind. Utterly depraved.”
His smile was faint, bloodless. “So long as you’re not crying, I’ll gladly be both.”
His gentleness–still so maddeningly tender–made her sick.
She turned to go.
But again, his voice stopped her.
“There’s one more thing.”
He handed her a dagger.
She frowned. “What are you playing at now?”
He said nothing. Instead, he tugged open his bloodied shirt, revealing the familiar scar upon his chest–the name Cecily, etched deep into his skin. “Cut it out,” he said, voice hoarse as gravel.
Eleanor sneered. “Tired of wearing her devotion so close to your heart?”
Before she could throw the blade aside, Roland seized her hand–and plunged the dagger into his own chest.
A sickening squelch.
Blood gushed at once.
She gasped, tried to pull away, but he held her firm, body trembling, jaw clenched against the pain.
“Go on…”
He guided her hand, slow and precise, as they carved the name from his own flesh tendon and skin peeling away beneath her fingers. Blood ran in rivulets, staining her gown, pooling at their feet.
She shook from head to toe, breath caught in her lungs.
Yet Roland never faltered. As if pain no longer touched him.
When the name was gone, he took her bloodied hand again. Still gripping the dagger, he carved a new word into his torn, exposed flesh; Eleanor.
The final stroke nearly undid him. He swayed, his skin deathly pale.
But he smiled. He smiled at her.
“Eleanor…” he whispered, voice no louder than a prayer. “I love you.”
Then, at last, he collapsed.
The blood beneath him bloomed like a crimson rose, vast and damning
Eleanor stood motionless. The dagger slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor.
She looked at the mess of blood, flesh, and love before her –what once had been a prince.
And in that moment, she understood that the cruelest vengeance is not hatred… but watching the one who wronged you utter their very heart–only to know you can never trust it again
Chapter 19
