The morning after my wedding dawned gray.

I woke before the sun, though I had hardly slept. The chamber was silent, except for the rustle of the curtains stirring in a faint draft. The bed beside me was untouched, pristine.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hollow sound of my own breathing.

The Emperor had not come.

Not at midnight, not at dawn.

The maids entered quietly, their eyes flicking to the empty space where he should have been. None of them spoke it aloud, but I saw the pity in their gazes, and worse—the relief. As if my humiliation was a gift to them, proof that they need not envy me.

They bathed me, dressed me, prepared my hair as if still hoping the Emperor might walk through the door. But the air was heavy with unspoken truth.

By noon, the whispers began.

The King had found his mate. The King had chosen his Luna. The King had no need for a treaty bride, no use for a forgotten princess.

By evening, the decision was made.

I was to return to the tower.

No grand announcement. No audience. Just a quiet dismissal, delivered by a steward who could not quite meet my eyes as he bowed and said, “Her Majesty will be more comfortable where she has lived until now.”

More comfortable.

The words burned.

But I said nothing. I only inclined my head, as if in agreement, as if I had not been cast aside like an object no longer required.

The maids wept when they heard. They knelt before me, clutching my hands, promising they would serve me still, that they would follow me back to the tower.

But I released them.

“Go,” I told them gently. “You are free now.”

They protested, begged, clung to the skirts of my gown. But I only smiled. What use was it to chain them to my fate? They deserved more than to wither away in my shadow.

One by one, they left me, their sobs echoing faintly down the corridors.

And then there was only me.

The carriage that took me back was unguarded. No escort of knights, no retinue of servants. Just the creak of wheels, the clatter of hooves, and the cold wind sneaking in through the gaps in the shutters.

When we reached the tower, I stepped out alone.

The iron gates that had once locked me in stood open now, rust flaking from their hinges. The heavy chains had been removed. There were no guards posted, no keys turned in locks.

Freedom.

That was what they would call it.

But it was not freedom.

It was abandonment.

I climbed the spiral stair by myself, the stone steps groaning under my weight. The tower smelled of dust, of disuse. My chamber door opened with a sigh, as though even the wood pitied me.

The room was just as I had left it—simple, sparse, worn. The faded curtains hung limply, the basin was empty, the bed neatly made.

I set down the velvet box holding the ring. It glimmered faintly in the dim light, mocking me with its beauty. A symbol meant for love, never to be worn.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms together in my lap. The silence was heavy, pressing in from all sides. For the first time, there was no nanny to fuss over me, no maids to whisper behind their hands, no guards outside the door.

Just me.

The world had forgotten me completely.

I thought of the celebrations still roaring in the capital—the howls, the feasts, the songs. The King and his mate, the empire’s joy, the bright future promised to them.

And here I was, discarded, hidden once again in the shadow of a tower.

My chest ached. Not with anger—anger required energy I did not have—but with a hollow longing that nothing could fill.

I had wanted so little.

Not riches. Not glory. Not even freedom.

Just love.

To be seen. To be chosen.

To be loved.

I lay down on the bed, pulling the thin blanket over myself, staring into the dark. My body trembled, though the room was not cold.

Somewhere far away, a wolf howled in the night. Not for me. Never for me.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. The words lodged in my throat, unspoken, unneeded.

And so I closed my eyes, letting the darkness swallow me, as silence settled heavy around my lonely heart.