The weight of the news didn’t hit like a shock. On the contrary, it brought an odd sense of relief. The body of your husband, the unworthy prince who never knew how to be king, was now dead. He was gone, and with him, all the betrayals, the unjust accusations, and the looks of contempt he had cast your way. For years, you had endured the psychological abuse, the constant pressure of being blamed for every one of his failures—especially his inability to claim the throne. But deep down, you always knew: the problem was never you.

Now, as a widow, grief did not come. Instead, a new closeness blossomed. Ishakan, the brother of the deceased and current King of the Kurkan, drew nearer. He had always been around, a silent observer of your pain, but in recent days, his presence became constant. His gaze, unlike his brother’s, was warm, filled with understanding and a subtle promise of something new, something you never knew you could long for. There was an unexpected comfort in his company, as if, for the first time in years, you could breathe without the weight of expectations crushing you.

Under the orange-hued evening sky, you sat in the palace gardens, watching the flowers sway gently in the breeze. Ishakan approached quietly, as he always did, but today he seemed more at ease, almost casual, as though the tension between you had faded with the passing days.

“Did you know these flowers only grow here, in the royal gardens?” he asked, sitting beside you without formality. His voice was soft, without the usual gravity he used when speaking of royal matters. “I planted most of them when I was younger,” he confessed, his eyes fixed on the flowers ahead. “I wanted something to remain here, even if I couldn’t.”