All Chapters of Chains Of The Heart: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

The courtyard emptied slowly. Alistair had to nearly carry his mother to her horse. She went without resistance, her eyes still fixed on the castle walls, her face carved from something that might have been stone or might have been grief. The riders she had brought fell in behind her, silent, uncertain, their mission ended before it had truly begun. Alistair paused at the gate. He looked back once—at the castle, at the windows, at the place where his brother was sleeping somewhere in the dark. Then he mounted his horse and rode after his mother. The gate closed behind them. The guards relaxed. The night settled back into something almost like peace. Rowan did not wake. He lay in the great bed, his breathing slow and even, his face turned toward the window, his hand still loosely curled where Damian had held it hours ago. The fire had burned low. The shadows had stretched and deepened. Damian had not moved from the chair beside the bed. He had not slept. Had not eaten. Had not lo

The day had passed in a blur. With Damian absent, the council chamber had transformed. Voices that were usually kept low had risen. Opinions that were usually carefully couched had sharpened. The king's decisions—his absence, his bond, his consort's freedom in the south—were dissected, examined, judged. Lucian sat at his usual place, his face calm, his hands still, his papers arranged before him. He did not participate. He did not need to. He had learned, years ago, that silence was often louder than argument. The councilors argued. They speculated. They complained. They talked about bad decisions and worse timing and the fragility of a kingdom that could not afford its king to be distracted. Lucian listened. He made notes. He did not look up. He was used to this. He had been used to this for decades. Damian's absence, Damian's grief, Damian's fury—Lucian had held the council together through all of it. Through the early years, when Damian was too young and too angry to listen. Th

Alessio left, the door closing softly behind him. The study settled back into silence. The fire crackled. The shadows stretched. Rowan sat at the desk for a moment longer, his hand resting on the open page, his eyes tracing the last lines he had read. He was not ready to leave. He wanted to stay, to read, to let the hours slip away in the quiet of the room that had become his. But Lucian had said dinner was in an hour. And Damian would be there. And Alessio would be there, washed and changed and pretending he did not smell like a horse. And Lucian would be there, sharp and bright and terrible. Rowan smiled. He found a marker—a strip of leather, soft and worn, that he had found in the desk—and slid it between the pages. The book closed with a soft thump. The sound echoed in the quiet. He stood. His feet were bare against the cold stone. The chill crept up from the floor, through the borrowed trousers, along his ankles, his calves. His mother would have lost her mind. Never would ha

Rowan moved. His hands were shaking, his legs unsteady, his mind still caught in the cold of that place, in the white of that dress, in the sound that was not a sound. He pulled on his trousers, Damian's shirt, anything to cover himself, anything to be presentable. He did not care how he looked. The door opened. The corridor was empty. The guards were stationed further down, away from the king's chambers, giving them privacy, giving them space. "HEALER!" Rowan's voice cracked. The guards turned. They stared. "Call a healer. Now. And Lucian. And Alessio." They did not move. They were young, both of them, new to the castle, new to the weight of guarding a king. They had not seen the walls shake. They had not heard the sound that was not a sound. "HURRY!" Rowan's voice broke. They ran. Rowan stood in the doorway. His breath was too fast. His heart was too loud. He could still see Damian on the bed, his hands pressed to his head, his eyes screwed shut, his body going limp. He went ba

The room was cold. The fire had burned low. Alessio rose from his chair, his hand reaching out, his face softening with something that looked like grief and understanding and the instinct to comfort. Lucian raised his hand. Alessio stopped. "Don't." Lucian's voice was flat. "I don't need—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Ezekiel had a message. Before he—" He couldn't finish. Rowan's hand tightened on Damian's. "What message?" Lucian moved to the window. His back was straight. His hands were clasped behind him. His face was turned toward the dark. "He said Edric Holt might be able to help. The old Holt. He said—" Lucian's voice faltered. "He said to tell him that maybe now will be different. That maybe now we can change everything for the better." Alessio was very still. "Edric?" "He said the old Holt would understand." Lucian turned. His face was composed, his eyes dry, his voice steady. "I'll send word. Through Corvis. She can reach him faster than any rider." Alessio nodded slowly.