Empress Lamaine was dead.
The news struck the palace like a storm, echoing through its grand halls with an eerie finality. Axel stood in the cold light of the throne room, the letter from his mother clutched in his hands, his eyes scanning the neat, almost detached handwriting that seemed too calm for what it revealed.
A suicide note.
She had apologized for her crimes, for the lies, for everything she had done. But as Axel read those words, he felt no warmth, no sorrow. There was no sting of loss, only a hollow emptiness. She had never truly been his mother—not in the way a mother should be. To him, she was Empress Lamaine, cold, distant, and calculated. She had ruled with her iron will, making decisions that shattered lives, and in the end, she had taken her own life rather than face the consequences of her actions.
Axel's fingers tightened around the letter, but no tears came. He felt nothing for the woman who had birthed him but had never shown him love. For as long as he could remember, her power, her ambitions, had always come first, even at the cost of her children.
Across the room, Theo was a different story. His younger brother, crumpled on the floor beside their mother's body, was sobbing uncontrollably, his face buried in his hands. Despite everything she had done to him—despite the poison, the manipulation, the endless cruelty—Theo mourned her. He mourned the mother he had longed for, the mother who had failed him again and again.
Axel watched his brother, feeling a deep ache in his chest, but not for their mother. It was for Theo. 'How could he still cry for her after everything? After the torment, the emotional scars she had left on him?'
Theo's sobs were loud, raw, echoing through the silent chamber. "She… she's gone," Theo choked out between gasps, clutching his chest as if his heart might shatter into pieces. "She's really gone…"
Axel couldn't bear to watch him like this. He knew their mother's crimes—what she had done to them, to their family, and to the empire. Her death, to Axel, was an end to her tyranny, nothing more. But to Theo, it was the loss of someone he had still—despite everything—held onto as a mother. She had never been the mother either of them deserved, but Theo had clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was some humanity left in her.
Axel crouched beside Theo, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. His throat tightened as he tried to find the right words. "Theo… she's at peace now," he said quietly, his voice steady but devoid of emotion. It was a statement, not a comfort.
Theo looked up at him, his tear-streaked face filled with grief and confusion. "How can you be so calm?" he asked, his voice breaking. "She was our mother."
Axel's jaw tightened. "She was an empress," he corrected, his tone harsher than he intended. "And she cared more about power than she ever cared about us. You know that."
Theo shook his head, wiping at his tears, his sobs subsiding into quieter whimpers. "But she was still… she was still my mother," he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his pain.
Axel remained silent, unable to relate to the depth of Theo's feelings. He had never allowed himself to love her, not after all the years of cold indifference. Perhaps that was why he couldn't shed a tear now. In his eyes, Empress Lamaine had died long ago—long before she ever took her own life.
"She apologized," Theo said softly, his voice trembling as he gestured toward the letter. "Doesn't that mean anything? She was sorry…"
Axel looked down at the letter in his hand, the words blurring before his eyes. An apology. That was all she had left to offer in the end—a few words scribbled on parchment, trying to erase years of cruelty, years of brokenness.
"No," Axel said quietly, shaking his head. "It doesn't change anything."
Theo's eyes welled with fresh tears, and Axel's heart ached for him, but there was nothing left to say. Their mother was gone, and all the words in the world couldn't bring her back. Nor could they undo the damage she had caused.
Axel rose to his feet, his grip on the letter loosening as he placed it gently on the floor beside their mother's lifeless body. He glanced one last time at her, the woman who had held so much power over them for so long. She seemed so small now, so insignificant in death.
"Let's go, Theo," Axel said softly, offering his hand to his brother. "There's nothing left for us here."
Theo hesitated, staring at their mother's body for a long moment, as if waiting for something—some final, impossible moment of reconciliation that would never come. His tears flowed silently, but eventually, he reached out and took Axel's hand, letting his older brother pull him to his feet.
As they left the chamber, Axel cast one last glance at the lifeless form of Empress Lamaine. Her legacy, once grand and feared, now lay in ruins, overshadowed by the truth of her crimes. The empire would remember her, but not for the reasons she had hoped.
Outside, the palace was eerily quiet, the weight of their mother's death pressing down on everyone. Axel walked in silence, his thoughts on the future. He didn't know what the war ahead would bring, or how he would face it with the turmoil now swirling within his family. But one thing was certain: he couldn't allow the ghosts of the past to hold him back.
Theo, still weeping quietly beside him, clung to Axel's arm, seeking comfort. Axel, though still hardened by his own grief, promised himself he would protect his brother, no matter the cost. They had lost their mother, but they still had each other—and perhaps, in time, that would be enough to heal the wounds she had left behind.
Emperor Atticus stood over Empress Lamaine's lifeless body, the weight of her final words heavy in his hands as he clutched the letter. His heart, so used to bearing the burdens of the empire, felt suddenly weak as the bitter truth of her note settled in.
"I love you," the letter began in her familiar, delicate script, "but I knew you weren't mine to begin with. So, this is a curse from me to you."
The words seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the silence of death that now surrounded her. Atticus felt his chest tighten, a mix of sorrow and anger coursing through him. His hands trembled as he reread the words, the bitter pain of their meaning cutting deeper with each glance.
Looking down at Lamaine's pale face, he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, "Do you think I would cheat on Vivian if I didn't love you?"
His words hung in the air, a confession long buried beneath the weight of duty and appearances. For years, the empire had believed that his heart still belonged to the late Empress Vivian, his first wife, and yet, the truth had always been far more complicated. The marriage to Vivian had been arranged for political reasons—a duty, nothing more.
"You're such a fool, Lamaine," Atticus choked out, his voice breaking as he sank to his knees beside her. His eyes, usually so steely and composed, were now filled with unshed tears. He reached out, brushing a strand of her dark hair from her face, his fingers lingering as though he could still feel the warmth of life in her.
"I married Vivian out of duty," he continued, his voice shaking with the weight of his confession. "You were the woman I loved."
The realization of her misunderstanding, of all the years she had lived thinking she was second in his heart, shattered him. Lamaine had believed she was nothing more than a substitute for the long-dead empress, and that belief had poisoned her, twisting her love into something dark and destructive. It had driven her to do unspeakable things—to Axel, to Theo, to their entire family—and now, in the end, it had driven her to take her own life.
Tears finally slipped from the emperor's eyes, falling onto the letter in his hands, smudging the ink. "Why couldn't you see that? Why couldn't you see that I chose you?"
His voice was barely a whisper now, lost in the grief that overwhelmed him. He clutched her hand, as though willing her to wake up, to hear the words he had never been able to say when she was alive. But it was too late. Lamaine was gone, and with her, the chance to right the wrongs between them.
Emperor Atticus wept openly, his sobs filling the quiet chamber where the empress now lay at peace, her pain finally at an end.