Chapter 283: Kneeling Shadows
[Lavinia’s POV—Later—Irethene Forest]
He kneeled for her.
He knelt for her.
That was all my mind could whisper. Over and over again. The forest trailed behind me in silence. Even the birds had forgotten their songs. I could still hear her scream—thin, desperate, almost beautiful in its helplessness—but louder than that was his voice. Osric’s voice. Kneeling. Pleading.
For her.
The sound had carved itself into my chest like a blade that refused to stop twisting. Marshi’s footsteps followed me at a distance—cautious, respectful. He always knew when not to speak. He understood my silence better than that of a human who just knelt for another woman.
The same woman who had once taken my life from me.
Sir Haldor’s armor clinked faintly behind, a dull rhythm that grated against the pounding in my skull. Every step forward felt like walking barefoot over shards of my own pride.
"Your Highness..." Sir Haldor’s voice came softly, hesitant, as though even sound itself feared me.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Words would have cracked something I wasn’t ready to see break.
The sunlight fractured through the trees, scattering across the path like splinters of glass. For a moment, I caught my reflection in the steel of my blade—golden hair, eyes like smoke—and I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
The Crown Princess of Elorian. The woman destined to rule an empire... and yet, here I was—shaking because of a single man’s plea for someone else.
My fingers trembled. I curled them into fists until my nails bit into my palms.
"How... how dare he?" I muttered, my voice trembling between rage and heartbreak. "How dare he kneel for another woman?"
"Your Highness... are you—are you alright?" Sir Haldor asked quietly.
I turned to him. My eyes burned, heavy and hollow. "Sir Haldor," I whispered.
He straightened at once. "Yes, Your Highness?"
I stared at him for a long moment, then said, voice barely holding together, "What would you do, Sir Haldor... if the person you were bound to protect—your dearest—fell to their knees for someone who once killed you?"
He blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. Of course he didn’t understand. He couldn’t. No one knew I had already died once. That this was my second chance—my second life as Lavinia Deveraux.
He hesitated before answering softly, "Forgive me, Your Highness... I’ve never been in such a situation. But..." His voice dropped lower, gentler. "If it were me, I’d wish for someone—anyone—to stop me from acting in pain. To console me... before I lost something else I could never take back."
I stared at him—this loyal knight who knew nothing of my curse, yet somehow said exactly what I needed. A weak smile curved my lips.
"Then..." I whispered, spreading my arms ever so slightly, "...please, Sir Haldor. Hug me."
His eyes widened. "Your Highness—!"
"Just... as a friend," I interrupted, voice breaking. "Please. Because if my father sees me like this, you know what he’ll do. He’ll burn everything."
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then, slowly, silently, he stepped forward. The clink of his armor was the only sound between us before his arms wrapped around me—firm, steady, and unjudging.
And for the first time since I realized this, my second life as Lavinia Devereux... I let myself collapse into someone’s embrace. My tears fell quietly, hidden against the steel of his chestplate, as I whispered into the cold metal,
"It hurts, Sir Haldor. It hurts to be alive again and see the same things."
The words fell out of me like a confession and a curse. I had believed—foolishly, obstinately—that Osric would never betray me again, that in this life he would stand only for me. And yet there he was: on his knees for Eleania, pleading for her life as if he could kneel for two hearts and both would remain whole.
Marshi’s breath hitched beside us, a low, warning sound. He could not hide his disgust at what he’d witnessed; even the divine of the palace would have known blood by scent.
"Lavi—" Osric’s voice trembled with something that wanted to be pity and failed.
I stepped away from Sir Haldor’s hold, fingers slick with tears I refused to acknowledge. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and looked at him. He stood a pace or two away, hesitant, as if the distance might make his pleading less treasonous.
He rushed forward, then stopped on my word—my single, cold command. "DO NOT."
It was not a plea. It was an order, and the air snapped at his face like a lash.
He blinked. The man I had loved and who had once sworn himself to my safety flared with anger in his eyes—sharp, surprised.
"If you come closer—" I said, voice low and dead, "I might cut off the very legs from which you knelt."
He flinched as if struck. That small flinch—so human, so raw—cut me open all the wider.
"Let us go, Sir Haldor," I said after a heartbeat, like a queen returning to her procession. "We have no business here."
But Osric didn’t let me retreat without a last, ridiculous offering. "You can cut my legs if you want, Lavi," he said, voice flat and defiant. "I don’t mind."
I stared at him and then a laugh I did not mean escaped me—short and bitter. "You... don’t mind." I tasted the mockery and the pain both. I drew my sword as if to prove a point, the metal singing free of its scabbard.
"Since you do not mind, Osric," I said, each syllable deliberate, "then I shall cut off the legs that would kneel for another. So you won’t repeat the mistake twice." The sword’s edge flashed. The threat was more than words; it was an oath.
"Your Highness—" Sir Haldor’s voice was a blade of its own, sharp with worry. "You must calm yourself. Do not act in the heat of this—"
I did not give him the courtesy of a glance. My eyes remained on Osric, who now looked at me with a guilt so profound it seemed to crush the life from him. The man with whom I grew, the man I had trusted with my life and my secrets—he looked like a child waiting for punishment.
"Do not follow me," I said quietly, and for the first time all the cold in my blood showed itself. "Or else I will not threaten. I will do it for real."
Marshi growled and fell silent. I turned on my heel and walked—each step measured, a march back toward the glittering stage where my father waited, where a thousand eyes would soon rest upon me.
My cloak burned at my shoulders like a promise; my sword felt heavier than ever, a weight that wanted blood-warm loyalty and nothing else.
***
[Lavinia’s POV — Later, Near the Stage]
My cloak burned at my shoulders like a promise; my sword felt heavier than ever, a weight that wanted blood-warm loyalty and nothing else.
The forest’s scent of iron and pine still clung to me as I stepped into the clearing where the royal stage waited. The chatter of nobles fractured the air—low and fluttering, like frightened birds trying to make sense of a storm.
"She’s here... the princess arrives first.""Oh, gods, look—she’s brought the beast herself!""The wild boar of Kareth woods... I heard it was the strongest wild animal.""Truly, she is her father’s daughter."
Their words pricked my skin like thorns. Admiration laced with fear—it was always the same. I preferred fear. Admiration fades too easily when the wind changes.
"Sir Haldor," I said quietly. "Place the beast here."
He obeyed without a word, the carcass thudding at the base of the dais. The blood still glistened on its tusks. I stepped up the wooden stairs, the sound of my boots echoing louder than the murmurs around me.
Papa sat upon the high seat, his presence enough to silence a crowd without lifting a finger. The moment his eyes found me, his expression softened—pride gleaming like sunlight through clouds. But then he saw it.
The faint redness around my eyes. The shimmer that no victory could hide and then his pride vanished. The emperor rose from his throne, and the space went deathly still.
"Lavinia," his voice cut through the noise, sharp as a blade drawn in court. "Did you cry?"
Every noble froze. Sir Haldor bowed his head. Even the birds in the rafters fell silent.
I met his gaze, unflinching. "No, Papa."
He stepped down, his robes sweeping behind him like shadows. "Do not lie to me, Lavinia." His fingers gripped my shoulder—strong, possessive, imperial. "You stand before me with swollen eyes and dare to pretend you did not weep?"
My lips parted, but no sound came. The weight of his voice pressed on my chest like stone.
"Tell me, who," he asked, quieter now, more dangerous, "made my daughter cry?"
The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances. Even Sir Haldor kept his head bowed, as if afraid that eye contact might ignite wrath.
"Tell me, Lavinia," Papa said, his eyes boring into mine. "Who dares touch the heart of my heir?"