The door to Richer Nivarea Argemenes' chamber creaked open softly, the sound swallowed by the hush of machinery. The air was sterile, faintly metallic from the filtration systems and faintly cold from the flux stabilizers humming quietly along the walls. The pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting everything in subdued silver.
Richer lay on the vast bed at the center of the room, surrounded by crystalline tubes and runic monitors. His once-strong frame looked fragile now, too thin beneath the pale sheets with his dark hair scattered over the pillow like fallen ink. The faint rhythmic glow of the medical devices pulsed in time with his weakened Flux.
Anastelle paused at the doorway. For a second, she couldn't move. It wasn't the first time she'd seen him like this. But every time, it still felt like someone had driven a cold spike through her chest.
She forced her feet to move as if stepping closer might somehow make him break. The sound of her silk gown brushing the marble was the only thing that filled the silence as she crossed the room.
She sat down gently beside him on the bed. Her fingers were clasped together in her lap.
For a long moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him. Then, without warning, his lips curved faintly.
"You're crying again."
The voice was hoarse but the faint teasing tone was still there. Still him.
Anastelle blinked. "What?"
Richer opened his eyes. He gave her a weak grin. "You always do that. Cry without realizing it."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. She touched her cheek and her fingers came away wet. She stared at them for a second, almost startled, before wiping her face quickly with the back of her hand. But the tears didn't stop. They came again and again like a dam had quietly cracked without her noticing.
"Oh. I didn't… I didn't notice."
Richer chuckled softly — a sound that quickly dissolved into a painful cough. Anastelle reached for him instinctively, then froze halfway, stopping herself just short of contact. Even now, she feared her Flux might harm him. The guilt twisted deeper.
When his coughing subsided, he looked at her again. "You shouldn't cry for me, Annie."
"I'm not crying for you," she said — but the words broke apart halfway through. "I'm crying because… because I'm a terrible mother."
Richer blinked in surprise. "What?"
Anastelle pressed her hands to her face, trying to steady her breathing.
"I am. I— I made her afraid to live in her own home. I told her she couldn't see you. I told her that her love— her very existence— would kill you. What kind of mother says that to her own child?"
"Anastelle…"
"She's terrified of touching anyone. She hides herself in her room because she thinks she's poison. Do you understand that? She thinks she's poison! All this time I told myself it was to protect her— protect you— but maybe I was just trying to protect myself from breaking like this."
Her voice faltered and a strangled sob slipped through her lips before she could stop it.
"I should've done more. I should've found something—anything—to help you before she had to suffer for it."
Richer watched her silently. Then, slowly, he sat up. The effort made the machines beep in warning but he ignored them. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her close weakly but firmly enough that she could feel the warmth of his body.
For the first time in years, Anastelle didn't resist. She buried her face against his shoulder and cried.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, again and again, her voice muffled by his hospital gown. "I'm sorry for her, for you, for everything."
Richer's arms tightened around her as best they could. His fingers brushed her hair. His voice was barely above a breath.
"Hey… stop that. You've done more than anyone ever could. You carried this family through storms that would've broken kings."
"But at what cost?"
He gave a faint, tired laugh. "At the cost of being the strongest woman I know."
She lifted her head slightly. Her face was covered with tears and her voice was trembling. "You shouldn't have to comfort me."
Richer smiled faintly. "Maybe not. But I like seeing you like this."
"Like this?"
"Human. Not the untouchable sovereign. Just… you."
Something in her broke at that. The last of the walls she'd built — the composure, the distance, the iron poise — fell completely. She let out a shuddering breath and leaned into him again, holding onto him as though afraid he might fade away.
"It's okay, Annie. You've done enough."
She shook her head weakly. "It's not. I can't lose you too."
"You won't. Not yet."
For a long while, they stayed like that. The ruler of the Vecria Bloodline and the man she loved were clinging to a fragile warmth in a room that smelled of medicine and ozone.
And for the first time in years, Anastelle didn't care about her title, her dignity, or her composure. She just cried in the arms of the one person who had never feared her.
It was, perhaps, the cruelest kind of peace.