Chapter 20
-The Dream and the Beast-
Roland dreamed.
In the dream, the sun bathed the palace gardens in golden warmth during the Spring Hunt.
He hadn’t walked off with the other noble heirs. Instead, he had stood beneath the blossom–laden trees, watching a girl in white carefully place a bird’s nest back among the branches.
She leapt down lightly, brushing the dust from her gown. As she looked up, their eyes met.
He stepped forward, his voice low and warm.
“Good day. I’m Roland. Might I have the honor of knowing your name?”
She tilted her chin, proud and unyielding. “Oh? And why should I give it?”
“Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His smile was soft, almost boyish.
She huffed, but the tips of her ears flushed crimson. “Well then, since you’re so taken with me… I suppose I shall graciously allow you that honor.”
He barely kept from laughing. Gods, she was enchanting.
From there, everything unfolded as if written by the stars.
He pursued her with quiet devotion, and she–aloof but secretly delighted allowed him closer.
He lavished her with tenderness, and she melted into his arms like it was where she had always belonged. They wed.
Surrounded by music and blessings and joy, he kissed her gently at the altar.
“Roland,” she whispered, face flushed scarlet, “you must cherish me always.”
“I swear it,” he murmured with a smile. “To the end of my days.”
“Your Grace? Your Grace!”
The voice wrenched him from his dream.
Roland’s eyes flew open to a stark, empty chamber. Pain flared down his spine and across his chest. The dream faded like smoke, leaving behind only the jagged edge of truth-
There had been no wedding,
No joy.
Only ruin,
“…Where is Lady Eleanor?” he rasped.
“In the gardens, my lord,” the physician replied.
Ignoring every protest, Roland rose from the bed, barely steady on his feet, and staggered toward the sunlight outside.
There she stood amid the roses, radiant and heartbreakingly still, a letter in her hands. Her profile glowed in the morning light like the brushstroke of a master painter.
He was about to call out-
Then his gaze fell on the writing: (My dearest husband, I miss you terribly.]
The blood in his veins turned to ice.
The delicate curve of her script, the sweet, bashful tone–it was a softness he had never once received.
…My husband,” she murmured aloud.
Those two words sliced through Roland like a blade.
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He surged forward and seized her wrist. “What are you doing?!”
Startled, Eleanor quickly regained her calm. She arched a brow. “Writing to my husband. Why?”
“Don’t call him that!” Roland’s voice cracked. His eyes were rimmed with red.
“I will call him that,” she said with a cold smile. “Husband. Beloved. Lord of my heart-”
With each word, Roland’s face turned paler, as if each name struck a fresh blow.
By the end, his eyes brimmed with tears. His voice trembled.
“Eleanor… please… don’t do this to me.”
She froze. Never had she seen him like this–brought low, hollow–eyed, his pride shattered beneath the weight of heartbreak.
“Perhaps I’ve earned every cruel word,” he whispered with a broken laugh. “Kill me if you must, but don’t… don’t speak to me like that.”
She felt her chest tighten, the words catching in her throat. But he had already steadied himself, brushing pain from his voice like dust from a cloak. “I should have been at your side last night,” he said quietly. “I failed you again.”
He took her hand.
‘But tonight… I’ve prepared something for you. A surprise.”
By dusk, Roland brought her to a small, elevated arena.
She had expected musicians. A play, perhaps. But then a servant’s voice rang out from the stands, loud and theatrical. “Tonight’s spectacle! Prince Roland himself faces the wild grey beast–Black Gale!”
Eleanor shot to her feet. “You’ve lost your mind!”
Roland only smiled, tender and maddening.
“For every wound you suffered because of me,” he said, “I will suffer tenfold.”
With a clang of chains, the iron gate opened. A monstrous grey wolf–snarling and scarred–charged from the shadows.
Unarmed, Roland stepped forward to meet it.
The beast struck like lightning, fangs tearing into his forearm. Blood spattered across the sand.
“Roland!” Eleanor cried out.
He grunted, twisted, and drove his fist into the creature’s eye.
The crowd gasped.
The duel was savage. The wolf lunged, tore, snarled–each blow meant to kill. Roland bled from a dozen gashes, but never once did he falter.
In the end, he seized the wolf’s throat in both hands and crushed it. Bone snapped. The body collapsed.
Silence.
Dripping with blood, barely standing, he limped toward Eleanor.
And then, before her- he knelt.
Not as a prince. Not as a victor. But as a man broken open, raw and bared.
“I let it tear ten pieces from me,” he said, voice hoarse, “to pay for every pain I gave you.”
“…Is it enough?”
He looked up at her, eyes pleading.
“Eleanor, is it enough to earn your forgiveness?”
fler fingers trembled. “You’re truly inad.”
He only laughed, delirious and elated.
Chapter 20
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He took her hand, pressed it to his bloodied face.
“I am mad,” he whispered. “I’ve long since gone mad.”
“Eleanor, only you… only you can make me whole again.”
Chapter 20
