Chapter CVIII: Honor
The king took matters into his own hands, scouring the lands for Isabella on dragonback. Weeks passed as he visited his vassal, Lord Erkmen, instructing his soldiers to search the villages and question Allendorian nobles, hoping that someone might be sheltering their estranged queen. Erkmen pledged his utmost efforts to help retrieve Isabella and their son, Ikkar. Despite his commitment, the king couldn’t dedicate all his time to their search; the responsibilities of ruling his vast kingdom demanded his attention.
Returning to the palace, the king sought out Lady Dara, who remained imprisoned in his harem. Her advancing pregnancy gnawed at him, a painful reminder of his tumultuous past with Isabella and the current betrayal. He couldn’t fathom how his father had managed to sire numerous children with various women, each craving his love and vying for his attention. It dawned on him that his father had never loved any of them, certainly because he never met someone like Isabella.
When he found Dara sunbathing in the garden—a pastime that used to belong to Isabella—he felt a surge of anger. Dara greeted him with a smile, her hand resting on her swollen belly, expressing her longing for his visits and how much she missed him. The king was struck by the reality of Dara’s pregnancy; it was now undeniably true—he was going to have a child with her, something he avoided at all costs for the past decade.
Taking a deep breath, the king said, “I’ve made up my mind.”
Dara looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“As soon as this child is born,” the king said, his voice cold, “if you don’t die in childbirth—which I honestly hope you will—I’m sending you to the Sisterhood. I never want to see you again.”
Dara’s face fell, and she rose to her feet, panic in her eyes. “You can’t do this!”
The king turned back, his anger flaring. “Are you telling me what I can and cannot do?”
“Please,” Dara begged, her voice trembling. “Don’t do this to me, my king. If you send me away, our child will hate you forever for tearing apart our family and keeping me away.”
The king’s resolve wavered, torn by the thought of his unborn child. Dara, sensing his hesitation, moved closer, her voice softening. “We could be a family, as it was meant to be all along. Please, don’t fight me on this. I have been your most loyal companion all these years. No woman has ever loved you as I have.”
The king’s anger persisted, but it was now intertwined with a deep sense of inner conflict. His emotions were a tempest of fury and sorrow. With a final, pained glance at Dara, he turned and left, feeling as though he was leaving behind a fractured part of himself.
The king longed for Isabella with an ache that gnawed at his very soul. It had been over a month since he last saw her, and over three months since he had touched her. The distance was unbearable. Sometimes, he would enter her room just to close his eyes and pray for a miracle, hoping that when he opened them, she would be there. But every time, he was met with the same emptiness.
The scent of her that lingered on her clothes and bedsheets was beginning to fade, just like the traces of Ikkar in his crib. The sight of the empty crib was a stab to his heart. He loved his son more than anything, and that love now fueled a growing fury within him. Isabella had taken his son away from him, and she had no right to do so. His last memory of her was of her screaming and crying about Ikkar's safety—yet, in her desperation, she had done the most reckless thing imaginable. She had taken their child out of his sight, out of his protection.
The longing for Isabella, the pain of missing her, and the gnawing fear for Ikkar’s safety—all of it was too much to bear. But anger—that was easier to handle. Anger was a fire that consumed the sorrow, the helplessness, the heartache.
In a surge of fury, the king began to wreck havoc on her room. His hands, usually so controlled, tore through her belongings with a blind rage. He ripped the sheets from the bed, threw the pillows across the room, and shattered the delicate ornaments she had once cherished. Her dresses, once so carefully hung, were torn from the wardrobe, their intricate embroidery ruined under the force of his hands.
He destroyed everything, sparing nothing in his wrath. The walls echoed with the sound of breaking glass, the tearing of fabric, the splintering of wood. By the time he was done, the room was a shell of its former self, a reflection of the turmoil within him.
Breathing heavily, the king stood in the midst of the destruction, his chest heaving. But the fury had done nothing to quell the pain. The room was ruined, just as he felt ruined, but Isabella was still gone, and so was Ikkar. All that remained was the emptiness and the echoes of a love that had been torn apart.
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