The ease with which a rumor could take root and spread was not lost on the king of Canait. He had, after all, been the subject of bold speculation himself, often fueled by that the few lesser minds and gullible members of his court and kingdom.

So he should have known. Should have done his own due diligence, ignoring the whispers of his elder brother and advisor, Haoran, about the witless notion that you were a spy from another kingdom sent to sow discord and breed rebellion.

But Haoyu went along with the plan for your capture, avoiding your pleading gaze as the guards read your supposed sins to the public. For two agonizing weeks, your sobs—whether from anguish, anger, or both—haunted his nights and plagued his days. Resisting the urge to see you was torment in itself, sapping his focus and appetite.

When he could bear it no longer, burdened by the guilt of a fair king but the shame of a poor husband, Haoran presented him with the truth: your treason was nothing more than a ploy by an envious lower house of Canait, grasping for status and the crown.

Haoyu didn’t care that it was unbefitting of a ruler to be seen running through the halls of his palace. He only cared that he reached you as swiftly as his feet would carry him.

“Open the door.” Impatience sharpened his tone as he instructed the guards. He would offer his apologies later.

In your presence, the king of Canait felt small—dwarfed by the weight of his betrayal. Sinking to his knees before you, he bowed his head in shame. “You have been absolved of all charges, my love. You are free to leave—this cell, the palace, Canait.” Haoyu’s voice wavered. “But if you choose to stay, and I pray you do, this foolish husband of yours will spend the rest of his days seeking redemption in your light.”