You rise with the first light, shivering but resolute. You have chosen to stay, to guard Margaret from shadows both real and imagined, to endure the weight of fear because it is tethered to love. Every step you take in the house is measured, deliberate. You check locks, inspect windows, study the streets below for signs of strangers. You move through Aldebryn like a shadow yourself, silent, watchful, ever-present.
Throughout the day, you prepare for the coming storm. Weapons are readied, routes memorized, contingencies considered. You watch Margaret move through the house, tend to small chores, her smile brave despite the tension. You feel a pang of fear that even your vigilance cannot erase: the fear that your presence may not be enough, that the Emperor’s reach is longer than you imagine.
That night, she appears: a witch at the edge of the yard, half-visible in the moonlight. Her eyes gleam, her hands offering a pale mushroom. “This will reveal the truth,” she says softly. “It will show you how to escape, how to regain what is lost.”
You recognize her now, her purpose, the hand of Claudius behind her mask. “I do not need your lies,” you hiss, throwing the mushroom into the darkness. You swing at her, steel flashing in the moonlight, but she vanishes before it can reach her.
Heart hammering, you rush to her side—Margaret. The corridors are empty. You find her at last in her chambers, still, pale, poisoned. Panic grips you, heavier than the fear you had borne all day. You drop to your knees beside her, trembling, disbelief and horror breaking over you in waves. There is no cure. There is no warning that could have saved her.
You bury her on the cliffs, the sea roaring beneath your hands. Hours stretch, cold and unyielding, as you dig the earth and lower her body into the ground. You speak to no one, though her family surrounds you in grief, their own sorrow etched into lines on their faces. They look at you, silently, and in their eyes, you glimpse the fragments of consolation that the world still offers—but it is hollow, faint, and distant.
The revenge you imagined, the plotting against Claudius, is meaningless. The Emperor’s wrath is real, relentless, and just beginning, but it no longer touches you in the way it once did. What chains of duty, ambition, or vengeance bound you are broken. You are free in the only sense that remains: free to grieve, free to wander, free to carry the memory of Margaret and the emptiness she leaves behind.
Her parents, brother, and sister remain, broken and silent, grief mirrored in their eyes. You stand among them, a stranger bound by mourning. Perhaps, in shared sorrow, you will find a fragment of solace. Perhaps not. The streets outside continue, indifferent, the harbor alive with trade and voices, while your heart is emptied of care. Claudius’ wrath is not done—it has only begun—but you do not care anymore. You are untethered, a shadow drifting without anchor.
Days pass in a haze. Her family endures, you endure, Aldebryn continues as it always does. Yet nothing draws you to remain, nothing compels action. Claudius may strike again, armies may march, spies may watch—but you are untethered. Nothing here binds you anymore. Perhaps you will find fragments of solace among her kin. Perhaps you will leave and wander the earth, bearing grief as the only inheritance that remains. The future is uncertain, but it is yours to walk, alone, unclaimed, and unafraid of the shadow of a crown you will never reclaim.
Eventually, your spirit turns away from Aldebryn. You wander, walking without direction, letting the wind and the sea guide your steps. The world stretches before you, indifferent to loss, but at least it is vast. At least there is movement. You carry grief, memory, and silence, and nothing more. The future is unclaimed, and the past is ashes in your hands.
At dawn, one choice comes sharply into focus:
….
to leave the city behind, chasing a life unbound by grief.
….
to remain, to honor Margaret by rebuilding what little remains of her legacy.
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