He was nothing but a scarecrow. An ornament designed to hold the crows at bay while the real predators prowled the fields.
I tilted my head slightly, studying him from across the room. His crown gleamed, his robes were immaculate, and yet it was all hollow. There was no true power in that seat. The thought struck me with an unexpected pang—not of pity, but of cold disdain. A ruler who couldn't rule was nothing more than a figurehead, and a figurehead, in the world I knew, was more dangerous than an enemy with a blade. A scarecrow's purpose was to deceive, and those who were deceived too easily often paid the price in blood.
"What do you think of him?" I asked Evelyn.
Evelyn's soft voice broke through my thoughts. "He's... different than I imagined," she said, her eyes also on the Emperor.
"Different how?" I asked, my tone neutral.
"He doesn't feel like a ruler," she said hesitantly, as though the words might draw unwanted attention. "Not like... your mother. Or even Princess Rachel."
I glanced at her, surprised by the observation. Evelyn, for all her intelligence, rarely spoke her thoughts so plainly in settings like this. "You're not wrong," I said quietly. "He's not like them at all."
Her gaze lingered on the Emperor for a moment longer before she turned to me, her expression thoughtful. "Then who does rule?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"That," I replied, "is a very good question."
The answer hovered in the air, tantalizingly clear to me but veiled from Evelyn's understanding. She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowed, as if trying to puzzle it out. I didn't elaborate. Some truths were best realized in their own time.
The banquet concluded without further incident, a delicate dance of courtly intrigue fading into the quieter hum of departure. The Emperor remained on his throne until the very end, his presence a mere ceremonial afterthought. As we left the grand hall of the Imperial Palace, I couldn't shake the image of him, his crown gleaming like a gilded cage under the flickering light of chandeliers.
Back at the estate, the maids moved efficiently, helping me out of the formal attire and into something more comfortable. I dismissed them with a nod and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion pulling at my limbs. Yet, as I lay there staring at the canopy above, I knew sleep would offer no refuge tonight.
The ghosts of my past had other plans.
Her voice came first, soft and familiar, wrapping around me like the echo of a melody long forgotten. "Do you think saving Evelyn will atone for your sins?" It wasn't an accusation, not entirely. It was worse—an honest question, one I had no answer for.
I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms as I willed the memories away. "Do you think it would bring me back?" the voice whispered again, a haunting blend of sweetness and sorrow.
Of course, I knew the answer. No act of heroism, no grand gesture, could undo what had been done. Redemption wasn't a balm that erased scars; it was a constant, unrelenting effort to carry them without letting them destroy you. And even then, it was not guaranteed.
Her face appeared in my mind, vivid as ever, framed by the golden light of a setting sun. Her lips curled in a smile I didn't deserve, her eyes shining with a trust I had betrayed. The image twisted, the warmth fading into crimson as blood spilled from her lips, her breath hitching as the life drained away.
I turned onto my side, burying my face into the pillow as if I could smother the memories. But they persisted, relentless in their clarity.
"You couldn't save me," her voice murmured, soft but unyielding. "So what makes you think you can save her?"
I bit the inside of my cheek, the pain grounding me for a moment. "Because I have to," I whispered aloud, my voice hoarse. "Because this time... I can."
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. For a fleeting second, I thought I might have won, might have driven her ghost back to wherever it came from. But then, like a cruel jest, the memories surged again—of her laugh, her hand in mine, and the unspoken promises that had crumbled under the weight of my failure.
The weight pressed down on my chest, cold and unyielding. I stared into the darkness of the room, my eyes burning with unshed tears. How could one life—one failure—haunt me so deeply, even in a second chance?
Because it wasn't just her life I'd failed to save. It was everything she represented—hope, trust, the belief that I could be more than the blade I wielded. Losing her hadn't just taken her from the world; it had hollowed me out, left me grasping for purpose in a life that felt utterly directionless.
Evelyn's face flickered in my mind then, not as she was at the banquet but as she had been in the village—vulnerable, defiant, and so painfully young. She wasn't her, but in some cruel twist of fate, she had become a symbol for the chance I'd never had. A chance to try again. A chance to be the savior I'd failed to be before.
"Saving Evelyn won't bring her back," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling with the weight of the admission.
But it wasn't about bringing her back, was it? It was about making sure that someone else didn't have to fall to the same fate. About making sure I didn't fail again.
The thought was as much comfort as it was torment, but it was enough to steady my breathing, enough to let the tension in my body loosen, if only slightly. I closed my eyes, focusing on the rhythmic sound of my heartbeat, willing it to drown out the echoes of her voice.
As sleep began to claim me, her voice came one last time, softer now, almost tender. "Will it be enough?"
I didn't answer. Because I didn't know.