Chapter CIV: Rage

The king was pacing in his chambers, his rage barely contained. His thoughts raced, colliding into one another as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. One of the guards had just reported that several horses were missing from the stables, and there was a trail leading south. The pieces were starting to come together, but the picture they formed was one he didn’t want to believe.

"She knew the passage from the stables," the king muttered, his voice low but filled with venom. "Could she have been planning this all along?" The thought that Isabella had premeditated this betrayal, that she had been silently plotting her escape, only fueled his fury.

He turned sharply, his eyes blazing as he gave the order to mobilize the guards. But this had to be handled discreetly. He couldn’t afford for his courtiers to find out that the crown prince had been abducted from the palace by his own mother—the king’s favored concubine. The scandal would be catastrophic.

"Find them," he commanded, his voice cold as steel. "But keep this quiet. No one must know."

Moments later, Lady Belet entered the room, her expression calm despite the tension that filled the air. She bowed respectfully, but the king’s patience was thin. "Did you know about this?" he demanded, his voice rising as he struggled to keep his composure.

Lady Belet raised her eyebrows in surprise, her voice measured and composed. "Your Majesty, I am as shocked as you. I never imagined Isabella would do something like this."

The king’s eyes narrowed, searching her face for any sign of deceit. "The guard says they’re heading south, likely to the port. Where do you think she’s going?"

Lady Belet hesitated, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "I don’t know, Your Majesty… but I recall something. Isabella once mentioned that her late mother belonged to one of the old noble families of Theran."

"Theran?" the king scoffed, his anger flaring up again. "Old Theran was destroyed. The free cities of the Theran Islands are under my control. Why would she go there?"

Lady Belet shook her head slowly. "Perhaps she’s desperate, hoping to find a distant relative who might protect her. Desperation can drive a person to seek refuge in the most unlikely of places."

The king’s frustration only grew. None of this made sense to him. The idea that Isabella, his most cherished concubine, would flee to some phantom hope in the ruins of an old, destroyed kingdom was absurd. Yet, nothing about this situation was rational. Isabella had betrayed him in the most unforgivable way.

"Search the port," the king ordered, his voice sharp. "Stop any ships from leaving until they are found."

He could feel his blood boiling, his anger threatening to consume him. The thought of Isabella escaping with his son, running from him, was intolerable. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The woman he had cherished above all others, the mother of his heir, had turned against him. She had betrayed him, and now, with each passing moment, she was slipping further out of his grasp.

The king stormed into the harem, his rage barely controlled. He knew exactly where to find Dara—in the bathing house, where she was being attended to by a group of servants. As he entered, his presence commanded silence, and the servants immediately stopped their work, bowing as they sensed the tension radiating from him.

"Leave us," he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. The servants hurried out of the room, leaving Dara alone in the steaming bath, her eyes glittering with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"Does the king wish to join me?" Dara asked with a sly smile, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

The king’s expression darkened. "This is all your fault," he spat, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Dara’s smile faded, replaced by a look of feigned innocence. "What do you mean, my king?"

"You should be dead!" he roared, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. "I could’ve had you executed when I released you from the harem, but I was merciful because of all the years we shared."

Dara's eyes flashed with defiance as she sat up straighter in the bath. "Or perhaps," she said, her tone challenging, "you kept me alive because deep down, you always wanted me. You secretly wished for me to return to you."

The king’s fury exploded. He reached down, grabbing a fistful of her wet hair and yanking her out of the bath. Dara gasped in shock as she was dragged across the room, the water sloshing violently in the tub. He pulled her through the harem, his grip unyielding, and slammed her wet, naked body onto the nearest table, scattering dishes and cushions.

Without hesitation, the king ripped off his belt, his anger fueling each movement. He began to strike her ass, the leather cutting through the air with a sharp crack. Dara screamed at first, but then, to his disgust, she began to laugh.

"I missed this!" she cried, her voice filled with twisted pleasure. "This is my king! This is my dragon!"

Her words only enraged him further, and he struck harder, each blow an outlet for the storm of emotions raging inside him. Dara’s laughter continued, mingled with gasps of pain, until finally, the king could take no more. He turned her around, his hands closing around her throat as he choked her, silencing her laughter.

Dara’s eyes widened in fear as she struggled to breathe. Her hands clawed at his, trying to pry them away. She managed to croak out, "If you kill me… you kill the only heir you have left under your roof."

Her words cut through his rage like a knife. The king hesitated, his grip loosening as he was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of remorse. Dara coughed violently, gulping in air as he released her. She slumped on the table, bruised and shaking, but there was still that wicked smile on her lips, a twisted triumph in her eyes.

The king turned away, disgusted with himself and still burning with anger. He left the harem without another word, his mind a chaotic whirl of guilt, fury, and frustration. His mind was restless, plagued by fragmented memories from the night of Ikkar’s birthday feast. It was supposed to be a night of celebration—a joyous occasion marking the birth of his firstborn son, the son Isabella gave him, a night of triumph. But now, as he replayed the evening in his mind, all he could feel was a deep, gnawing regret.

He recalled the beginning of the night vividly: the grand hall filled with the sound of laughter, the clinking of goblets, and the smell of roasted meats. He had been in high spirits, surrounded by his courtiers and loyal subjects, indulging in food and drink as they celebrated his son’s first year. He remembered feeling invincible, untouchable, like the very embodiment of power.

Then the memories became murkier, probably because of the drinking. He remembered Dara by his side, her presence lingering like a shadow. There was a moment—he could almost hear her voice, a soft whisper in his ear—"I want you." The words had been laced with a dark, seductive undertone. He could see her now, just a ghostly image, removing her dress in front of him in his chambers. The memory was diffused, like looking through fogged glass, but the sense of losing control of himself was still palpable.

And then, the memory that cut the deepest—the look on Isabella’s face when she walked in and saw them. Her eyes, wide with shock, quickly turned to something else: a mixture of disbelief, pain, and betrayal. That look had seared itself into his soul, more potent than any blade. He had seen her world shatter in that single moment, and in doing so, he had shattered his own.

He knew that night would haunt him for the rest of his days. No matter how much time passed, he would always be haunted by the night he destroyed everything he cherished. He had lost more than just a night of drunken revelry—he had lost the only woman he ever truly loved. That single night of weakness, of selfishness; letting his guard down had cost him everything, and the weight of that realization was crushing.