Gabriella was still in the anteroom when she received the news. Elara — of course — had turned out to be Cyrus' pawn. She had tried to poison Elliott. Aiden had intervened, but the poison had already taken hold. The emperor's condition was precarious, hanging by threads that even the healers struggled to keep from snapping.
It did not send Gabriella rushing to his bedside. She did not have the luxury of panic, nor the indulgence of pacing the healer's halls like a frantic, ordinary mother. That would achieve nothing. Elliott was in the hands of experts — her presence there, wringing her hands, would not alter his fate. Panic was useless. It weakened the mind, left it vulnerable, made it sloppy. And Gabriella had no space for that. Not now.
Instead, what bloomed inside her was something sharper, more controlled. A cold, focused fury. A rage honed to a purpose. For years, her life had narrowed to a single, unwavering goal: protect Elliott. From the moment she'd first cradled him as an infant, sworn silently over his downy head that she would give him a good life — she had lived for that vow. She secured him the throne, she fought tooth and nail to keep him safe.
And Cyrus dared. He dared to touch him. Repeatedly.
First with the saffron. Then with the other failed attempts. And now this.
This wasn't just an attack on the emperor. It wasn't even merely a move in Cyrus' endless, grasping game for power. It was personal. A violation against her very purpose for existing. It was him trampling, over and over, the one thing that defined her life. That demanded blood. That demanded revenge through absolute, annihilating wrath.
Cyrus had finally crossed the line. His days were numbered.
Gabriella's steps echoed hard through the palace corridors as she strode toward the mausoleum. Her expression was tense, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched into fists so tightly they trembled. She was fury wrapped in poise. And yet, beneath that storm of indignation, her mind was a calm, calculating blade. Strategy already formed in her head.
Cyrus' poison had given her something unexpected. A gift, almost. He had made his worst mistake. He had not only attacked her son. He had not only attacked the emperor of Velluria. He had attacked the one person James Corvette loved above all else.
Gabriella would not be the one to deliver vengeance. No — James would. It was time. Time to light the spark that would become the inferno. A fire that would consume Cyrus' entire reign. And Gabriella would be the one to strike the flint.
She found Aiden exactly where the guards said he would be. Not at Elliott's side. No, he was still on his knees amidst the scattered lilies of the funeral, as though already mourning a man not yet gone.
He looked broken. His face was blank, dried tear-tracks cutting through the pale skin of his cheeks. His eyes were wide, hollow, uncomprehending — as if he still couldn't accept the weight that had been pulled out of his arms. A magnificent weapon, rendered useless by grief.
Gabriella did not offer comfort. Her voice did not soften. This was not two grievers leaning on one another. She had no intention of pretending it was. James — and more importantly, the empire — did not have the luxury of grief. Not anymore.
She stopped before him, standing tall above his bowed figure. Aiden did not look up.
Gabriella did not mention the poison. She did not waste words on Elliott's condition. No preamble. No gentle lead-in. Just the truth, brutal and unvarnished.
"We were wrong. Carlson isn't James."
Aiden's head lifted slowly. His red-rimmed, hollow eyes blinked up at her, unable to focus. The words rang hazy in his ears, muffled by the grief choking him. "...What?"
"Carlson isn't James Corvette. Carlson isn't the moon heir," she repeated, each word deliberate, heavy, falling like stones into the silence. "All evidence we had was circumstantial. He was at the right place, at the right time, so we assumed. You asked if I had another candidate. I did. And now, I've confirmed it for sure."
The words finally pierced through the fog. His eyes widened slightly, but the weight of grief still smothered him. "...Oh." His reply was flat. Lifeless.
Gabriella expected that. Right now, he was filled with nothing but grief. Useless. But not for long.
"It's you," she said, her voice sharp enough to slice. "The general you called father — he wasn't. Lady Rosethorne was barren. The general found you, an infant in a reed basket, drifting on the banks of the Aurelia. You only appeared after he returned to the capital. They lied. They told you that you were theirs. But you never were."
Aiden stared at her. Stared and tried to breathe, tried to comprehend. His entire life, his entire identity — she was tearing it apart with a few simple sentences. The unspoken truths he had never questioned... lies. All lies.
Gabriella wasn't finished. She had no intention of giving him time to wallow in the grief of a broken identity. That grief had to become something else. Something useful.
"For how long," she spat, her words venom, "Do you plan to keep sitting here like a coward?"
It was meant to hurt. Deliberately meant to cut. And it did. A flicker — just a flicker — of fire burned through the numbness in Aiden's eyes.
Gabriella saw it, and pressed harder, her voice rising, each word a blade. "Cyrus has taken everything from you. Everything. First, he took everything from James Corvette. He murdered your family — your real family. He tried to murder you in the cradle. He stole your throne. He made it so you grew up in a foreign land, never knowing it wasn't yours. And now — as Aiden Lancaster — he has taken the only person you have ever loved. He has tried again and again to kill Elliott. And again and again, you have sat at his bedside, not knowing if it would be his last breath. This time? This time, Cyrus may succeed. And you..." Her voice was a roar now, echoing off the stone. "...You're just going to keep kneeling here, weeping, and let him?!"
Each word cut deeper. Each accusation twisted like a knife. She meant them to. She was riling him, stripping him bare, pushing him toward the only path left.
Your family. Your throne. Your Elliott.
The spark had been struck.
The shock of the revelation didn't fade — no. It was consumed. Swallowed whole by a rising tide of pure, white-hot fury. The grief for the parents and siblings he never knew, for the empire he never knew as his — it all faded away in front of the one reason that remained.
Cyrus hadn't just tried to assassinate Elliott Lancaster. No. He had tried to kill his emperor. And now Aiden realized he wasn't powerless in this game — he never had been. He had just discovered, with brutal clarity, that all along he was not a mere piece shuffled across the board. He was the one seated opposite Cyrus, all along.
The numbness shattered. The blankness evaporated. The tears dried out — burned away by the force of vengeance and rage igniting in his chest. His breathing steadied, and his spine straightened as if some invisible weight had finally rolled off. He rose slowly to his feet. His movements were no longer broken, no longer stumbling with grief. He moved with a purpose now.
Profound grief, once given a reason and a point to sharpen itself against, was no longer grief at all. It was rage. Rage given direction. Rage demanding blood.
Gabriella stood watching, her face grave, controlled. But her eyes gleamed — a flicker of satisfaction she could not suppress. Under immense heat and pressure, a weapon has two fates: it breaks, or it reforges into something sharper, more dangerous than ever before. And with her words, with her cruelty, she had ensured that Aiden chose the latter.
"You leave tonight," she said, her voice firm, steady as stone. "The situation and connections have already been prepared. The only change in plans is that it is you instead of Carlson."
Aiden didn't reply. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders squared. But she knew he had heard. She saw it in the way his hands flexed at his sides, in the fire that had replaced the emptiness in his eyes. Without a word, he began to walk past her, out into the shadowed hallways.
Gabriella did not follow. She didn't stop him. She let him go, each step echoing like the beat of war drums. But just as he reached the corner, just as his figure was about to disappear from sight, she called after him.
"And... James?" Her voice was cool, deliberate. "A suggestion. Do not visit Elliott. Lest you... waver. You have to go. You have a duty."
For a heartbeat, Aiden froze. His steps faltered — just barely, just for an instant — but faltered nonetheless. He did not turn back, did not speak, but the hesitation was real. Then he vanished around the corner, swallowed by the shadows, leaving Gabriella alone with the lilies and the silence.
The spark had been lit. The war had begun.
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AN: she rlly said no tragic moping lover boy get to work like ma'am let the dude cry 😭