Chapter LXXXV: Love

Lady Jia did not survive Damian’s attempt to use her as a distraction in his plan to abduct Isabella from the palace. He probably choked her too hard for too long—whether it was on purpose or not, no one will ever know. When Isabella saw Jia’s lifeless body, she felt a deep and particular sadness. They had never been close, much less friendly, but the sight of Jia’s death touched her profoundly.

Isabella couldn't shake the feeling that, despite their differences, the cruelty of men had bonded them in a shared suffering. Jia had been on the cusp of a rare escape, set to be the first woman to leave the Dragon King’s harem alive. Instead, she had become the third to die within its confines. This brutal irony weighed heavily on Isabella’s heart as she somehow mourned the loss of a fellow captive, reflecting on the fragile and perilous nature of the lives of the concubines in the palace.

The king arrived at the palace and immediately summoned his court to the throne room. His face was a mask of controlled fury and sorrow as he addressed the assembled nobles and courtiers.

"Last night, my brother, Prince Damian, attempted to escape the palace after stealing something from me. He took my favorite concubine, Lady Isabella, the mother of my firstborn son, and murdered Lady Jia, the concubine I had released from my own harem to join him in his court as a gift." The room was silent, the gravity of his words sinking in.

"Prince Damian perished last night in a conflict," he continued, his voice heavy with remorse. "And I regret to say it was my own sword that took his life. My brother was a victim of his own recklessness and envy, but he was still my brother, and I loved him dearly. His death will haunt me until the day of my own."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the court. "But let it be a warning: no one takes what’s mine and lives to tell the story.”

The court remained silent, absorbing the king's declaration and the dark promise it carried.

Isabella sat by the window, cradling her crying son, Ikkar, in her arms. She rocked him gently, trying to soothe his tears. "He wants my breast," she said to Alicent, her voice tinged with sadness. "But I've already stopped breastfeeding because it’s too painful now that he has teeth, and now my milk is scarce. But it breaks my heart to watch him cry like this."

Alicent, standing nearby, asked, "Do you want me to take him?"

"No," Isabella replied, her eyes fixed on Ikkar's tear-streaked face.

Alicent looked at her with concern. "Are you torturing yourself with his cries?"

"Maybe," Isabella admitted, her voice barely a whisper. Ikkar's cries grew louder, and Isabella, in a desperate attempt, squeezed her breasts to see if there was any milk left. Only a scant drop appeared. "It's dry," she said, her voice breaking.

Alicent gently picked up Ikkar from Isabella's lap, despite what she said. "You should look on the bright side," she said softly. "At least now it will be easier for you to get pregnant again."

Isabella chuckled softly, though her face remained etched with sorrow and trauma. The brief moment of levity did little to ease the heavy weight on her heart.

The king entered Isabella’s room, and she immediately stood up. Alicent bowed, with Ikkar still crying in her arms. The king walked towards them, gently kissing Ikkar on his little head.
"Isabella, Lady Alicent," he greeted, his tone soft but authoritative.

Isabella turned to Alicent. "Alicent, take Ikkar for a walk to calm him down, please."

Alicent nodded, cradling the still-crying Ikkar as she made her way out of the room, leaving Isabella alone with the king.

The king took Isabella’s hand and squeezed it gently. "Are you alright?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.

Isabella nodded slowly, though her expression was pained. "I am very sorry for your loss, Your Majesty," she said softly.

The king's grip tightened slightly, a mix of grief and appreciation in his gaze. "Thank you," he replied, his voice heavy with emotion.

Isabella said she was sorry again, her voice choked with emotion. “I never wanted any of this to happen,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

The king looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and understanding. “I know,” he replied softly. “Of course you didn’t.”

A heavy silence settled between them. The king watched as Isabella’s gaze became distant, her mind clearly preoccupied with troubling thoughts. Finally, he broke the silence. “What are you thinking?” he asked gently.

Isabella hesitated, her eyes lowering to the floor. “I can’t stop thinking about what Prince Damian said before he died,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The king’s brow furrowed. “What did he say?”

Isabella’s lips trembled as she spoke. “‘All that for a whore?’”

The king’s face darkened with a mixture of anger and pain. He clenched his jaw, the weight of Damian’s words settling heavily in the room.

The king opened his mouth to respond, but Isabella’s voice cut him off. “Curiously, I have to agree with him,” she said, her tone tinged with resignation.

The king looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Isabella took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on a distant point. “A royal prince is dead. A brother killed another. And I’m just the whore in the middle of it all. One of them. The one who stayed alive at least.”

The king’s expression darkened, irritation flashing across his face. “Are you saying you would have preferred if I had just let Damian kidnap and rape you?”

Isabella shook her head, her voice firm but weary. “I didn’t mean that. I just—”

The king cut her off, his patience wearing thin. “Then what do you mean, Isabella? Tell me.”

Isabella’s shoulders slumped, and she looked away. “Forget it. You’re grieving, and it doesn’t matter anyway.”

The king's frustration grew. “Explain yourself. What are you trying to say?”

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears, and her voice cracked as she spoke. “I was saved from Damian because he disrespected you, just as I was saved from the Duke of Erkmen because he couldn’t have me before you did. The only reason I wasn’t executed after the Battle of Rosehall was because you wanted me to bear your child before I died.”

The king’s confusion deepened, mingled with irritation. “What are you trying to say with all of this?”

Isabella’s voice trembled, her sorrow evident. “I exist like a ghost—a fallen queen who was supposed to die like a monarch, but instead I was turned into a slave with no other purpose but to please the man who took everything from me. It’s like being dead, but the problem is I’m still alive. I’m still a woman with a beating heart, a heart that can’t accept that I’m nothing more than a spoil of war.”

The king’s irritation flared. “You’re wrong, Isabella. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Isabella, tearful, replied, “The purpose of your harem is to turn princesses and queens into obedient little whores who think of nothing but you in order to survive. As much as I try, I cannot force myself to be like that.”

The king’s laughter was laced with sarcasm. “I know damn well you can’t.”

Isabella sighed, feeling defeated. “I just… You know what? Nevermind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

The king’s anger surged, his face flushed and his eyes intense. “You’re wrong,” he said sharply, his voice rising with each word. “You’re wrong because the purpose of a spoil of war is to be paraded around for everyone to see, and I want to pierce the eyes of anyone who dares to lay eyes on you.” As he spoke, Isabella’s eyes widened in shock, her body tense as she struggled to process his words.

“You’re wrong,” the king continued, his voice growing more forceful, “because I thought that making you bear me a child would be my revenge against your father for betraying me.” Isabella’s face fell, tears welling up as she listened, her heart pounding in her chest.

“But not only did you give me my firstborn heir,” the king continued, his voice softening slightly but still intense, “as now I can only think about having more children if it’s with you.” Isabella’s eyes darted around, her breath catching as she tried to understand his conflicted feelings.

“You’re wrong because I didn’t kill my brother because he disrespected me,” the king’s voice broke, his emotion palpable. “I killed my brother because I fucking love you, Isabella!” His confession came out in a raw, desperate shout, and Isabella’s mouth fell open, her face pale as she absorbed the depth of his words. She stared at him, trembling, overwhelmed by the tumult of feelings his declaration stirred in her.