The Day I let Her Go
838 Words
KAIN’S POV
The day Luda was exiled, the sun dared to shine.
It shouldn’t have. Not when he felt like winter—sharp, dead, aching. It was a cold that burrowed beneath his armour into his bones, chilling even the fire that once burned for her. The throne room shimmered with golden light, but it did not really reach him . All it did was mock him with warmth he could no longer touch, mock him with the failure to protect his love —the princess.
He stood at the edge of the chamber, armour polished until it gleamed, jaw set so tight it hurt.As the queen listed her commands.The Queen’s orders were clear and left no room for discussion: protect the crown. Uphold the crown. Silence the scandal. And if needed—turn away from the girl he loves more than anything, even more than the kingdom itself. The girl he knew without the doubt was innocent —she wouldn’t even hurt a fly let alone kill a human being.
He can still see her standing there, alone.
Looking white as snow, fragile as a ghost. Her hair tumbling in soft disarray over her shoulders. Blood matted the sleeve of her gown, staining the silk she could not control. And those eyes—Gods, those eyes—still searched for him as if he could save her, as if he had ever been able to save her from anything at all.
He wanted to defend her but didn’t.
“Kain, you know me,” she said, her voice trembling yet proud, defiant in its small fragility. “You know I wouldn’t do that”
His heart faltered, stuttered in his chest like a trapped bird. Of course, he knew. This was Luda —the girl who taught him how to fight without hatred, who lit lanterns on his name day, who had once called him her north star. She had been the light guiding him through shadows, the quiet strength he relied on without admitting it.
And yet the court was watching. Every noble, every guard, every whispering eye pressed on him like a weight he could not escape. The queen had already made her decision. Her voice cut through the murmurs, cold and unyielding.
“I was told to protect the crown. Not its disgrace.”
He spoke the words. He uttered them as though carved into stone, as if the syllables would shield him from the anguish coiling through his chest.
He watched the colour drain from her face, saw the tiny tremble of her hands as she reached for him—and stopped. The distance between them widened with each second, every unspoken choice, every command that tightened around him like chains.
When the guards approached, his hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into palms hidden beneath gauntlets. Not a move. Not a word. Not even a breath. Not enough to slow the inevitable. Because if he acted—if he reached for her, defended her, saved her—he would become the traitor. Not only to the crown, but to everything he had sworn to uphold.
And he was a soldier first.
Hours later, he stood alone at the great gates. The crowd had vanished, scattered like leaves in the wind. The queen had returned to her throne, serene, untouchable, and relentless. He remained silent as stone, eyes tracing the path where she had disappeared, following the dust that marked her departure.
He remembered the sound of her voice when she whispered—so quietly that only he could have heard it—“I didn’t think it would be you.”
It haunted him.
Years would pass. He would rise through the ranks, claim victories, kill for the crown, bury rebellion, and dissent beneath layers of steel and blood. He would be respected, feared, and unwavering. And yet, no matter how far he climbed, no matter how many wars he fought, he would never stop hearing her voice echo in the quiet of his mind.
And he would never forgive himself.
For letting her go.
For choosing duty over love.
For becoming the kind of man Luda would one day return to destroy.
The guilt sat in his chest like a heavy weight, pressing down as he breathed in the night air, cold and thick, smelling of smoke, iron, and the lingering scent of roses. Every step he had taken since that day carried the echo of her absence, every victory hollow without her at his side, every command a reminder that he had failed not just as a man, but as someone who once mattered to her.
He closed his eyes. He could still feel the warmth of her presence, fleeting, delicate, and impossible to hold. And he knew that in the silence that followed, in the shadows of duty and regret, one truth remained: he had let her go.
And nothing—not the crown, not the wars, not even time itself—would ever make that choice right.
- Writer
