Chapter 7: The King's Grief

Ayla’s eyes closed. Liliana's body was weak, still aching from the pain of birth. Sleep came, but it was not kind.

She dreamed of falling. Again and again, the cliff. The wind. Caius’s cold eyes staring at her while she fell into the dark.

She woke with a sharp gasp. Her heart pounded. The room was bright. The two suns burned high in the sky.

Eren was beside her. The woman’s face was pale, almost gray.

“My Queen,” Eren whispered. “You are awake… the King… he is here. He is coming now.”

Ayla’s heart jumped. “Now? No, I am not ready—”

The big wooden door flew open. It slammed against the wall with a loud crack.

A man stood there. Tall. Wide shoulders. His black armor shone like stone. His eyes were red, as if he had not slept. But there was no sorrow in them. Only fire.

This was the King. This was Thorne.

He walked in slowly. Each step was heavy, loud. His boots struck the floor like drums. He smelled of cold iron and old blood.

Eren bent low, bowing her head. “Your Majesty, welcome home. The Queen is still weak—”

“Get out,” the King growled. His voice was low, dangerous.

Eren froze, then looked at Ayla with wide, frightened eyes. She bowed again and hurried from the room. The door closed behind her.

Silence.

The King stood by the bed. He did not smile. He only stared down at Ayla.

“So,” he said at last. His voice was flat, empty. “You lived.”

Ayla pulled the blanket tighter around herself. Her hands shook. She could not answer.

“The physician told me,” the King said. “He said the fever burned your memories. Is this true?”

Ayla’s lips trembled. She forced herself to nod.

“You do not remember me?” His voice was sharp.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You do not remember our marriage?”

“No.”

His eyes turned darker, like storm clouds. “You do not remember the child you carried for nine months?”

Her chest ached. She whispered, “I remember… nothing.”

The King leaned down suddenly. His hands pressed the bed, one on each side of her. She was trapped. His face came close, his eyes burning.

“Then listen well,” he hissed. “I will tell you what you forgot. I found you lost in the woods. A dragon girl with no family. No crown. No name. I saved you. The Moon Goddess chose you as my mate. I gave you a home. I gave you a crown. I made you my Queen.”

Ayla’s eyes widened. Her voice was small. “Why?”

The King’s jaw tightened. He shouted, his voice shaking the room. “Because they told me not to!”

Ayla flinched back against the pillows.

“My advisors, my pack, my people, they said, ‘No, King! Do not take a dragon! She is not one of us!’ So I did it anyway! I married you to prove I am King! I do what I want!”

He stood tall again, turning his back to her. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

“And you,” he spat. “You were sad. Quiet. Always obeying. Like a frightened bird. Where was your dragon fire? Gone. You were empty.”

Tears filled Ayla’s eyes. His words cut into her. Empty. Weak. She had felt that all her life.

The King turned back to her. His face was tight with pain. “Then you got pregnant. At last. A child. My heir. A son of wolf and dragon blood. The strongest heir the world had ever seen. With him, the people would accept you! They would kneel before me!”

He came closer, pointing his finger at her chest.

“And then you failed.” His voice shook with rage. “You got sick. You grew weak. You lost him. You lost my son.”

Ayla’s throat closed. Her whole body shook.

“I know the baby is dead,” she whispered. “But it is not my fault—”

“It is your fault!” the King roared. His voice thundered. “The physician said he was too early. Too small. Too weak! You let my son die!”

The words struck her like knives. You lost my son.

Her body bent as sobs ripped out of her. Tears fell heavy down her face. Liliana's heart were soft. Ayla's were still at a point of acceptance.

The King only stared. His face did not soften.

“Your tears are useless,” he said coldly. “The one thing I asked. The one thing that mattered. You failed.”

He turned toward the door. His voice was iron.

“The funeral is tomorrow. You will be there. You will stand beside me. You will not cry. You will be strong. You will be Queen. Do you understand?”

Ayla tried to stop her tears, but they came anyway. She nodded through sobs.

“Good,” the King said. His mouth curled in disgust. “Your dragon blood may be weak. But you will not shame me again.”

He opened the door. Another man stood waiting. Lord Cain. His thin face was sharp, his eyes bright with cruel amusement. He had been listening.

The King brushed past him without a word.

Cain stepped inside. He looked at Ayla, broken and shaking in the bed. A slow smile spread across his lips.

“Do not cry too much, my Queen,” Cain said softly. His voice was like oil. “Some birds are not meant for cages. Not even golden ones.”

He gave her a low, mocking bow. “Perhaps the King chose wrong.”

Then he left. The door closed.

Ayla was alone.

Her sobs shook her body until no more tears came. She was empty. Hollow.

Not a queen. Not a wife. Not even a mother. Just a prisoner in silk sheets.

Her mate had pushed her. Her so called now husband hated her. Her child was dead. The prince was dead.

She lifted her hands. They trembled. She remembered the strange fire that had flickered on her skin.

The King wanted a dragon.

Maybe she would give him one.

Her breath came deep and slow. A new feeling rose inside her chest. It was not fear. It was not grief.

It was fire.

It was anger.

Hot, red, dragon anger.