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Chapter 11

The Emperor Without a Crown

Winter had come early that year.

The first frost painted the palace gardens in silver — beautiful, but lifeless. The marble corridors of the Salastian Palace echoed with hollow footsteps, and even the courtiers who once filled the halls with laughter now spoke in hushed tones. The empire was still strong, still golden on the outside, but those who lived within its walls could feel it: the warmth that once sustained it had vanished.

At the heart of that emptiness stood Marcus Alastair Von Salastian — Emperor of Salastian, the man once called the Sun of the Kingdom.

But now, even the sun seemed dim.

The Emperor’s Shadow

He paced his private study as snow fell beyond the window, the light catching faintly in his hair — golden still, though dulled by sleepless nights. Maps lay scattered across the table. Trade agreements, border decrees, diplomatic letters — none of them mattered.

He tried to focus on the empire’s affairs, but every document blurred into one image: Elisana, walking away beneath the high arches of the palace, her voice trembling as she said goodbye.

He had lost her — not in a single moment, but in a thousand small ones. Every silence he ignored. Every promise left unanswered. Every time he looked past her when she needed him to look closer.

The realization haunted him, following him even in his dreams. At night, he saw her — in candlelight, smiling gently as she once did — only for that vision to fade when he reached for her.

He awoke each time with the same word on his lips: “Eli…”

The Decay of Splendor

The court had changed too. Without Elisana, the palace lost its grace. Where once her quiet presence softened politics, now the nobles’ voices grew sharper, hungrier. Rumors spread like cracks in a mirror.

“His Majesty neglects state affairs.” “The Emperor’s attention lies elsewhere — with the Viscount’s daughter.” “Perhaps the Empress’s absence has weakened his spirit.”

Marcus heard them all, but he did not correct them. He could not defend himself against what was true.

Lady Alessandra Torresano still lingered at court, her emerald eyes always bright with performance. She played the part of loyal consort — arranging charity events, offering counsel, smiling at every banquet — but her laughter grated against the cold.

Once, her company had distracted him. Now, it only reminded him of the woman she could never replace.

At a winter ball, she approached him with practiced sweetness. “Your Majesty, you mustn’t dwell so on the past. The empire needs its sun to rise again.”

He looked at her, his eyes hollow. “And what use is the sun when it burns everything it touches?”

Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked it. “Then perhaps the sun must learn to shine differently.”

Marcus turned away. “The sun doesn’t choose how it shines. It only destroys what stands too close.”

For the first time, Alessandra found no answer. She curtsied and slipped away into the murmuring crowd — a shadow receding into a sea of silk.

The Empty Throne

Days turned into months. The empire’s gold began to tarnish.

Reports of unrest in the southern provinces filled the council chambers. Bandits attacked trade caravans. Villages whispered of rebellion. The nobles bickered, pointing fingers at one another, while Marcus sat in silence at the head of the table, listening, his expression unreadable.

“The people have lost faith,” said the Chancellor one morning, bowing deeply. “They believe the crown has lost its heart.”

Marcus looked up slowly. “Perhaps they’re right.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

He dismissed the council early and retreated to the Empress’s old chambers — now kept under lock. The servants hesitated when he asked for the key, but he insisted. When the door creaked open, a faint scent of lavender and parchment greeted him.

The room was exactly as she had left it. Her desk neatly arranged. A single silver hairpin on the vanity. The curtains drawn halfway, letting in a sliver of moonlight. He stood there, unmoving, until the light touched his hands.

“I thought I could lead without you,” he whispered, the words barely sound. “But I’ve only led us into ruin.”

He sank to the edge of her chair, his hand brushing the abandoned book on the table — A History of Old Salastian. She had loved that book, had quoted from it during their evening talks. He opened it now and found her handwriting in the margins — small, elegant, familiar.

“A crown weighs nothing if the heart beneath it is hollow.”

He pressed the page to his forehead and closed his eyes. For the first time since her departure, the Emperor wept.

The Whispering Court

As winter deepened, the court’s whispers sharpened. Alessandra’s charm began to fade under scrutiny. Her ambitions grew visible — too visible. She began influencing council matters, attending private meetings without invitation, offering advice that reeked of self-interest.

“She seeks power,” murmured the nobles. “She wishes to stand where the Empress once stood.”

And slowly, the empire turned its back on her.

The Dowager Empress, Marianne, intervened quietly. “One day,” she said to her son in a rare private audience, “you will learn that devotion cannot be demanded. It must be given freely. You had that once — and you let it go.”

Marcus’s voice cracked. “I know, Mother.”

Marianne sighed. “Then learn from it, before the throne swallows you whole.”

Her gaze softened, and she added, “It is not too late to find her, Marcus. Not as an emperor… but as a man.”

The Garden of Ghosts

That night, Marcus wandered into the eastern gardens — the same place where he and Elisana once walked under starlight, where she laughed as he tried to braid her hair and failed miserably. The jasmine bushes were overgrown now, their flowers silvered by frost. The bench they had shared was cracked, vines coiling through its legs.

He sat down heavily, his breath misting in the cold.

“Eli…” His voice broke the silence. “I was a fool. I was blind. I thought love could wait while I chased the world. But I’ve destroyed the only soul who ever saw me.”

The moonlight fell gently over him, and for a heartbeat, he swore he saw her — standing at the edge of the path, smiling faintly, her hair catching the light. But when he blinked, she was gone.

Tears burned his eyes as he bowed his head, whispering to the night, “You used to call yourself the moon. I thought I was the sun. But the sun only burns what it cannot hold.”

The words echoed softly through the frost-kissed air. And in that moment, Marcus Alastair Von Salastian — Emperor, conqueror, ruler of nations — felt smaller than he ever had before.

The Fading Light

The next morning, the council reported unrest on the western borders. Alessandra, desperate to regain influence, overstepped — issuing decrees in Marcus’s name, granting favors to rebellious lords. Her ambitions turned to recklessness.

By the time Marcus learned of it, it was nearly too late.

The empire trembled on the edge of chaos, and Marcus knew what he had to do. Not as an emperor. But as the man he once promised to be — the man Elisana had believed he could become.

He would find her again. Not to beg for forgiveness. But to ask for her guidance — and perhaps, in time, her mercy.

That night, under a sky heavy with snow, he left the palace in secret — no guards, no heralds, no crown. Only a simple cloak, a horse, and a hope he did not dare name.

The Emperor of Salastian rode into the cold darkness, no longer the sun — but a man searching for the moon he had lost.