The Grand Cathedral, Altherian Capital
Elliott and Gabriella had been led to a high, discreet viewing balcony. It was shrouded by heavy curtains, practically hidden from view—especially from the dais below, where a certain newly crowned king would soon stand.
Beneath them, the sprawling cathedral was draped in silver and blue banners, the crest of the moon and mountain gleaming from every pillar. Flowers lined the marble floor. The air shimmered with the collective weight of importance—almost every monarch, every envoy from every kingdom on the continent, was present. It was a monumental event. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was charged, humming like a bowstring drawn too tight.
Then, the ceremony began. The music swelled, and the procession entered.
And there he was.
Aiden—James—walked down the long central aisle.
Elliott's breath caught the instant he saw him. His gaze locked and didn't move, not even once. Aiden was dressed in the formal regalia of Altherian royalty—robes of the deepest midnight blue, edged with fine silver embroidery that shimmered faintly with each step. The heavy cloak that flowed behind him was nearly black, trimmed in moonlit silk. His hair, the familiar shade of dark blue that caught every trace of light, was perfectly styled—impeccable, controlled, not a strand out of place.
And his face...
His face was a mask of cold composure, carved in stone. Gone was the man who smirked unrepentantly over love bites or whose eyes softened helplessly when they met Elliott's. This was not the boy who'd fallen asleep on his shoulder mid-conversation. This was King James of Altheria.
His jaw was set, shoulders squared beneath the weight of the ceremonial cloak. His steps were measured, precise, and powerful. Everything about him spoke of strength, command, and control.
It was strange, Elliott thought, watching him like this. Strange because it was so unlike the man he knew—yet he also knew, deep down, that it would take just one glance, one word from him, for that mask to crack. Beneath that crown was the same boy who blushed whenever Elliott held his hand first. The thought alone warmed him from the inside, a quiet ache blooming in his chest.
"...He could smile once or twice," Elliott murmured, the words escaping him before he could stop them. His tone was wistful, his lips curving faintly. "It wouldn't crack his crown or anything."
Gabriella didn't take her eyes off the scene below. "He is not here to smile," she said simply. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "He is here to claim his birthright. To become what he was always meant to be."
"Still," Elliott mumbled, crossing his arms and leaning on the railing, "a little smile wouldn't kill him. It'd make him look... more approachable."
"He doesn't need to look approachable," Gabriella replied sharply. "He needs to look powerful. Dependable. Not a tyrant, but a ruler who can be trusted. This isn't the time for warmth—it's the time to show the world that the throne is his, and his alone."
Elliott sighed, nodding faintly. She was right, of course. She usually was. But maybe it wasn't reason he wanted right now—it was just the lover in him, wishing to see Aiden's eyes soften, even for a second.
The ceremony continued. It was stately, solemn, and achingly beautiful. The restored High Priest of the Moon—an old man who'd been exiled under Cyrus's rule—presided over the ritual. His voice echoed through the cathedral as he recited ancient incantations and vows.
Aiden followed each instruction flawlessly. His responses were firm, his oaths unwavering. His voice carried across the vast hall—deep, steady, laced with quiet authority. Every word spoke of justice, of fairness, of a rule that would heal what had been broken.
But through it all, his expression never changed. That stoic mask remained. To anyone else, it might have seemed like detachment, but Elliott knew better. He knew that behind that unflinching gaze was the same heart that once trembled at the thought of losing him. He knew those eyes, knew how easily they could melt into warmth when they landed on him.
And later—when Elliott finally revealed himself—those same eyes would soften, then widen, then probably glare. A delicious combination of panic, relief, and fury.
The thought brought a small, involuntary smile to Elliott's face.
As the ritual went on, his earlier amusement faded, replaced by something heavier, deeper. Pride. Ache. A bittersweet kind of awe that pressed against his ribs. He watched as the Altherian crown—silver and sapphire, cold and beautiful—was lifted and placed upon Aiden's head.
Then came the scepter, a slender rod of pale moonstone that glimmered faintly as it touched his hand. The stone responded instantly—lighting up with a soft, white glow which surprised no one. Recognition. The artifact acknowledging its true master.
For a suspended second, everything seemed to slow. Elliott saw not a king being crowned, but the boy who had spent his life feeling like an outsider—finally, finally finding where he belonged.
Even under the crushing weight of legacy, of bloodshed, of centuries of history, he looked magnificent.
Elliott's earlier remark—that Aiden should smile—felt suddenly shallow. The young king's unsmiling face wasn't coldness. It was reverence. It was respect for the ghosts that lingered behind this moment— ghosts of the family stolen from him, the empire scarred by betrayal, the blood that paved his way here. He wasn't joyless. He was solemn.
The crown was adjusted on his head, and it fit perfectly.
The High Priest raised his arms, his voice echoing through the marble chamber.
"Behold!" he declared. "James Corvette, true heir of the Corvette line, King of Altheria!"
The sound that followed was deafening. A roar of voices, cheers, and applause that shook the very walls. The chandeliers trembled. The banners fluttered.
And in the shadows of the balcony, Elliott felt a single tear escape.
He wiped it quickly with the back of his hand, but there was no hiding the glassy sheen in his eyes. They weren't tears of sorrow. Not even purely of joy. They were something far too complicated for a single word. Pride, ache, and a love so fierce it hurt, so strong it made his chest tighten until he thought he might break.
He was watching the man he loved become everything he was born to be. Watching him take back the life, the name, and the throne that were stolen from him. The sheer magnitude of that moment was— overwhelming, and the word didn't even begin to cover it.
Below, the newly crowned King stood tall, the roar of his people rising around him. A grave, almost imperceptible smile graced his lips—one that came and went in an instant.
But his eyes...
Even through the mask of the monarch, Elliott could see it.
His eyes moved restlessly over the crowd, searching. Searching for something—or someone—they knew they wouldn't find.
And still, they searched.
Because even now, even after the crown, the oath, the thunderous acclaim—some part of Aiden was still reaching for him, as if hoping to see the one face he ached to see in the crowd, even as his brain, still under the assumption Elliott has not woken and is in Velluria, told him it's fruitless.
The thought hit Elliott so hard he had to exhale slowly, steadying himself. He pressed a hand over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under his palm.
Soon, he told himself. Just a little longer.
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AN: y'all it's about to end in like two chapters 🥹. Side stories will come later tho.