Chapter 8- Dying Wish
1387 Words
The journey back to Avernal cut through the coldest part of the continent, a stretch of land where the wind never seemed to rest and the sky always hung low. Prince Delvin rode ahead of the royal escort, refusing the comfort of the adorned carriage prepared for him. He needed the speed of a horse, the sting of winter air, the distraction of motion—anything to keep his thoughts from unraveling.
He had left Violet at the gates of Celestia that morning.
Left her standing beneath the archway of white stone, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes shimmering like something precious trying not to break. He had promised her he would return. He had said the words with more conviction than any oath he had taken on a battlefield. And yet, even as the wind pulled at his cloak and the sky darkened, a voice whispered through his mind:
What if fate has other plans?
Delvin clenched his jaw. He would return. He would. Nothing—no war, no politics, no king—would keep him from her.
But as Avernal’s mountains rose into view, something heavy settled in his chest. Smoke curled from the palace chimneys. Torches burned even in daylight. The courtyard was overflowing with soldiers and servants moving hurriedly, faces grim, heads bowed.
This was not the home he had left.
His horse had barely skidded to a halt before the stablehands rushed forward. Commander Thorian ran to him—an old veteran, gruff and loyal, the man who had trained him since boyhood.
“Your Highness,” Thorian said, his voice unsteady. “You must go at once. The king… he has held on only to see you.”
Delvin’s blood went cold.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t breathe. He sprinted through the corridors he had grown up in, now dim and too quiet. Servants stepped aside. Councilmen bowed with sorrow weighing down their expressions. The guards at the royal chamber stood stiff, their eyes lowered.
Delvin pushed the doors open.
The room was lit by a dozen oil lamps. The scent of burning herbs hung thickly in the air. A physician knelt beside the bed, whispering prayers under his breath. And there—propped up by pillows, skin pale as frost, his breath rattling like brittle leaves—
lay King Raphael of Avernal.
Delvin approached slowly. He had seen his father tired, burdened, furious, injured… but never like this. Never fragile.
“Father,” he whispered.
The king’s eyes fluttered open. “Delvin… my son.”
Delvin sank to his knees by the bed. “I came as fast as I could.”
A faint smile tugged at Raphael’s lips. “You always do.”
The physician rose quietly and slipped from the room, leaving them in a fragile cocoon of finality.
For a moment, neither spoke. Delvin simply held his father’s hand—the same hand that had lifted him onto a horse for the first time, the same hand that had crowned him heir, that had taught him strength and mercy and the weight of a kingdom.
Then the king exhaled shakily. “You must listen carefully. I have little time.”
Delvin tried to speak, but his throat tightened. “Father, save your strength—”
“No.” Raphael’s voice was soft but firm. “There are things you must know.”
Delvin forced himself to steady. “I’m listening.”
A long, trembling breath left the old king. “Avernal is falling, Delvin. Our coffers are nearly empty. The mines have dried. Our alliances have weakened. Celestia… is our last hope.”
Delvin’s gaze sharpened. “We are close to finalizing the treaty. I will return to complete it.”
Raphael’s eyes clouded with something darker than pain. “There is more. King Alden approached me before your departure.”
Delvin stiffened.
“He proposed a final condition,” Raphael continued. “A bond between the kingdoms. A marriage.”
Delvin felt the world tilt. “A marriage—?”
“Yes,” the king rasped. “To Princess Elara.”
Delvin’s pulse hammered. “Father… no.”
“It is the only way,” Raphael whispered. “Alden believes it will seal trust between our borders. In exchange, he offers the largest loan in Celestia’s history—golds, horses, healing herbs, military reinforcements. Enough to restore Avernal entirely.”
Delvin rose to his feet as if burned. “Father, I cannot marry her.”
“You must.”
“No,” Delvin said hoarsely. “There are other ways—other alliances, other agreements—”
“There are none,” Raphael said, and the finality in his voice split the air like a blade. “We are weeks from annihilation. Our people starve. Our soldiers lack armor. The treasury is dust, Delvin. Dust.”
Delvin shut his eyes, fighting the storm inside him.
Marriage.
To Elara.
A political bond he had never sought.
A chain he had never asked for.
Violet’s face flashed in his mind—the softness of her voice, the fear in her eyes when he left, the trust she placed in him without question.
The promise he made.
The promise he could not break.
Raphael’s voice trembled. “Delvin… my son… you are the strongest man I have ever known. But even strength cannot feed a kingdom.”
Delvin swallowed hard. “I… I don’t love her.”
“Love has never held a throne,” Raphael whispered. “Duty has.”
The words struck like iron.
Delvin stepped back, breath uneven. “Father… please. Don’t make this your final command.”
But King Raphael reached weakly for his hand.
“It is not a command,” he said gently. “It is my dying wish.”
Delvin froze.
“No…” he whispered, voice breaking. “Father…”
Raphael’s eyes softened—a father’s gaze, not a king’s. “I want to die knowing Avernal will survive. Knowing you will not inherit ashes.”
Delvin felt something inside him fracture.
Raphael exhaled slowly. “Swear it to me.”
Delvin’s knees weakened. “I can’t.”
“Swear it, Delvin,” Raphael murmured, squeezing his son’s hand with all the strength he had left. “Let my last breath be peace—not fear.”
The room blurred.
Delvin bowed his head.
He was a prince.
He was a warrior.
He was a son.
And now… he was trapped between love and duty.
Finally, in a voice raw as an open wound, he whispered:
“I swear.”
The king’s lips curved faintly. Relief washed over his features.
And then his breath shuddered.
Again.
And again.
One last exhale.
The air stilled.
King Raphael of Avernal was gone.
Delvin remained kneeling, his hand still wrapped around his father’s cooling fingers, his world collapsing in on itself. He buried his face against the blankets, a silent agony tearing through him.
When he finally rose, the torches flickered as if mourning with him.
Outside the chamber, the council waited. They saw his face and bowed their heads.
“Prepare the rites,” Delvin commanded, his voice hollow. “Avernal will mourn its king.”
He walked past them, past the guards, past the echoes of a life he no longer recognized. His father’s words played in his mind:
A marriage. A bond. A dying wish.
He reached the balcony overlooking the palace grounds. Snow drifted softly from the sky. In the far distance, the forests of Avernal swayed under winter’s breath.
Delvin closed his eyes.
He saw Violet.
Smiling shyly in sunrise.
Whispering “I trust you.”
Kissing him beneath the storm.
He pressed his forehead against the cold stone.
He had sworn to return to her.
He had sworn to marry another.
The promise he made to Violet…
and the promise he made to his father…
could not coexist.
A tear escaped him—one he couldn't hold back.
“Violet…” he whispered into the wind. “Forgive me.”
Snowflakes drifted onto his cloak.
Far from Celestia, far from the girl who waited for him, far from the love he had just begun to understand—
Prince Delvin of Avernal stood alone at the edge of duty and heartbreak.
And the darkness answered only with silence.
- Writer
