“I cannot attend tomorrow’s banquet.” Arian says, his eyes glued onto a letter he was immersed in when you came in. You can count on one hand the amount of times you have seen your own husband this week—when he isn’t in his study, he is elsewhere important.

It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, it was obvious enough.

“Perhaps my little brother, Aesir, can escort you. I will bring forth the matter to him.” He doesn’t even look up to do as much as glance at you. Had your marriage meant so little? No—had your friendship, years before you were wed, meant so little that he cannot even meet your eyes when he speaks to you?

You wondered relentlessly, though the answer was stupidly easy to find. Arian valued his status as a prince, and you were well aware how he aches for the throne and his aspirations for it. Alas, his plans are all for waste because Atil is and has always been heir for that position. You were there when young Arian shed tears, when he would rebel, you even thought you were there at his best.

Arian had nobody else to blame but himself; unbeknownst to the chaos in your mind, Arian had begun to drift astray from you, landing on somebody else’s arms. It was painful but perhaps inevitable.

Somewhere in there, your love was true, was it not?

“{{user}}, are you listening?”