SIA
Adrianna's voice floated through the cluttered guest room, brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously counted the bags packed for their imminent departure. "We're almost done here… Can you fetch those bags as well?" she asked, her eyes flicking toward me with barely restrained urgency.
Rebecca was still in motion, her hands darting between folded clothes and half-zipped satchels, the air around her thick with anxious energy. Though they moved with purpose, the house told a different story—one of disorder and haste. Stray books, forgotten accessories, and loose garments painted a picture of hurried goodbyes. We were running behind. Lunch preparations had stretched longer than expected, and with Merc due to arrive in less than fifteen minutes, followed by Edward, Lav, Sara, and Lucius, tension hovered just beneath the surface.
As I sat on the sofa, observing the semi-chaotic dance of packing, my thoughts involuntarily wandered. It had been over a day since Lucius left on his errand, gone without much explanation. His recent dealings with Dargan hovered in my mind like a mist, dense and obscuring. I didn't know the details, but I had learned that when Lucius cloaked something in silence, it was rarely insignificant.
A shaft of afternoon light filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, casting golden patches on the wooden floor and warming the room in soft amber tones. Outside, the world had cleansed itself of yesterday's rainfall, now wrapped in a rare moment of stillness and calm. Inside, however, there was nothing but noise—shuffling feet, whispered frustrations, half-hearted laughter.
I reclined against the cushions, quietly watching the unfolding rhythm of two women caught between urgency and care. Adrianna and Rebecca clashed and reconciled over details both trivial and vital. A missing satchel. A bag was zipped the wrong way. Their chaotic harmony brought an odd comfort, reminding me of how fleeting these moments had become.
Lunch was ready, yet we chose to wait, not out of necessity but sentiment. This meal, this shared table, might be the last time we'd sit together like this for a while—soon, each of us would drift in separate directions, caught in the whirlwind of duty and conflict.
Merc's arrival was heralded not by voice, but by the distinctive echo of his boots on the wood—steady, unhurried, certain. I recognised him before I saw him. When our eyes finally met, we exchanged a silent nod, one laced with unspoken understanding. I gestured toward the guest room where Rebecca was still rearranging items, though Merc knew exactly where she was. Still, he waited—his unspoken request for permission almost... tender. I nodded again, more warmly this time.
Not long after, Edward entered with a flourish—his mana presence flaring just enough to turn heads, never one for subtlety, unlike Merc. He went straight to Adrianna, drawn to her like a tide to the moon. She chided him, of course, as she always did. But even in her mild scolding, there was affection.
"Maybe he's finally worked up the nerve to ask her," I mused, unable to stop the upward twitch of my lips.
It was obvious to anyone with eyes—Edward loved her. In the way his voice softened when he spoke her name, in the way his gaze lingered longer than it should. Adrianna knew too, and her occasional encouragement, however slight, only fed the simmering tension between them.
I watched the gentle unfurling of these relationships around me: the tenderness blooming between Rebecca and Merc, the silent yearning in Edward's eyes, the calm encouragement of Adrianna, and the teasing affection between Lucius and Sara. It made me ache. All of them found warmth, connection, and a sense of belonging.
And what did I have?
Memories...
My husband, Rartar—the so-called Saint of Varis, the Survivor of the Unthinkable—was a man loved by a nation and absent from my life. One of the two commanders leading the United Alliance, yes. A hero. A martyr in progress. Yet with each rising accolade, he grew more distant, as though his soul drifted further from the world we were meant to share.
I had followed him across half the continent, left the Central Region, abandoned my knighthood and past for him... and received only silence in return.
No letters, no replies to the ones I wrote after he departed for the mission, not even waiting for an additional 5 minutes despite Lucius informing him about my arrival within that timeframe.
No answers.
No acknowledgement of the sacrifices I had made, the dreams I had let rot. I was his wife only in name, a title that became emptier with every passing year.
They all believed in him. Worshipped him. And perhaps, at one time, so did I. But now, all I could remember were the nights I cried myself to sleep, letters clutched against my chest, hoping—naively—that tomorrow would bring a reply.
It never did.
I blinked hard, banishing the moisture gathering at the corners of my eyes.
It was three years ago when Lucius first looked at me—really looked at me—not with pity, but with recognition. And in that fragile moment, some part of my heart shifted, breaking and rebuilding itself around the quiet presence of a boy who never saw himself as anything more than a tool of survival.
But to me, he had become something else entirely.
It was a boy—barely fourteen, maybe fifteen—who taught me what it felt like to be loved. Truly, wholly, unconditionally loved. Not out of obligation, not out of habit, not because of duty or shared vows, but because he wanted to. A teenage boy, barely past the age of innocence, who had lost the memories of the first eight years of his life, was the one who opened my eyes to a truth I had been too afraid, too weary, or perhaps too numb to see. He taught me love not as an idealistic dream, but as a living, breathing presence—warm, flawed, human, and utterly beautiful.
The emotional maturity he carried within him was… staggering. Unnatural, almost. But there was nothing forced or practised about it. His wisdom wasn't born from books or polite society—it was raw, experiential, and intuitive. Lucius had a way of looking at people, of looking at me, that made me feel as though every fragmented part of myself had finally been noticed. He understood pain not just by seeing it, but by having lived it. And when he loved, it wasn't cautious or half-hearted—it was unwavering, consuming in the gentlest way.
I still remember, vividly, the first time he spoke to me with meaning, not just words, not just polite conversation, but meaning. His voice had trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of the emotion he carried. He had said:
"Life's too strong and unpredictable for us to let someone take us for granted… We've got a life, right? So why not spend it with someone who notices us? Loves us. Cares for us. Every single day. Every moment. Why should we give ourselves to someone who can be perfectly fine without us around, when there are people whose lives get darker… harder… just because we're not there?"
Those words—clumsy, a little chaotic, lacking the structure of polished language—were the most profound thing I had heard in years. He didn't know how to thread perfect sentences, didn't know how to temper his emotions with subtlety. But I understood. Gods, I understood. My heart, dulled for so long, stirred at those words, and in that moment, a fragile warmth bloomed in my chest. It was misplaced, inappropriate, and terrifying… but it was real. It was him. And I was never the same again.
Rartar. A good name. A noble man. Loyal, resolute, unwavering in his convictions. A war hero. A saint. A survivor. A man defined by duty before anything else. He was my husband, and by every external measure, a good one. But in all honesty… he simply wasn't the man I wanted to grow old with. Maybe he was too righteous, too devoted to the greater cause. Maybe I was just too ordinary, too needy for someone like him. All I ever wanted was his presence, his affection, his acknowledgement. I waited for years for one kind word, one heartfelt embrace, one moment where I felt seen. But nothing ever came. Not a letter, not a whisper. Hundreds of notes I sent… and not one returned.
Eventually, I stopped expecting. Stopped hoping. Stopped breathing around the space he left behind. Until Lucius walked into my life.
And from the very first night I shared with him—that night—I knew something had shifted beyond repair. That night didn't mark the beginning of my betrayal, no. It marked the end of my delusion. I had already made my decision before our fingers ever intertwined, before our breaths ever mingled, before our bodies ever touched. I was already done with Rartar. I just hadn't admitted it to myself yet.
I had given Rartar every ounce of loyalty, sacrificed opportunities, abandoned my career, left the Central Region… all for him. I wanted to build something real together. But he was never there. He never made space for me—not in his heart, not in his thoughts, not in the life he had chosen. And so, yes… when he returns, if he ever returns, I will face him with the truth I've buried for years. I will look him in the eyes and I will divorce him. Not out of anger, not for revenge. But because it is over, and it has been for a very long time.
Lucius… Gods, Lucius. Even with a girlfriend—my former student, no less—I couldn't stop myself. I tried. I truly did. At first, I convinced myself it was maternal affection, concern for a child so alone, so burdened. But that illusion crumbled the moment I began to crave his presence more than I feared its implications. Every time he came close, I felt myself pulled toward him like a leaf drawn into a storm—helpless, mesmerised, and aching.
My resistance, if you could call it that, was flimsy. A paper shield held up against a tidal wave. I told myself I was strong, principled, moral… but my hands trembled every time his fingers brushed against mine. My lips hesitated only long enough to justify my guilt before they pressed against his with quiet desperation. I stopped pretending soon enough, stopped hiding behind shame and excuses, and gave in—wholly, irrevocably, truthfully.
And he… he didn't recoil. He didn't shame me or pity me. He reciprocated. With tenderness. With passion. With presence.
Lucius cared for me in ways Rartar never even considered. He made sure I ate when I forgot, wrapped blankets around my shoulders when I was cold, and ran errands for me before I could ask. He noticed the smallest things—when I smiled less, when my voice grew faint, when my eyes lingered too long on distant memories. He'd bring me tea and sit beside me, not speaking, just being. Sometimes, he'd hold my hand for no reason at all, and in those moments, the ache inside me would soften, if only a little.
He prioritised me. Not his ambitions. Not his reputation. Not duty or legacy. Me. And that alone broke every wall I had built to protect myself. Sometimes I catch myself smiling like a fool just thinking about him, about his scent, his voice, the slight smirk he gives when he teases. My heart races, my breath shortens, and my mind wanders into the warmth of his embrace.
Is this what love is? The kind they write poems about? The kind they paint into songs that echo through time? The kind they say you feel once in a lifetime, if you're lucky?
It must be.
I am convinced.
Because these last three years—despite the chaos, the secrecy, the guilt—have been the most alive I've felt in decades. And I wouldn't trade them for anything. Not even for the illusion of honour. Not for vows long shattered. Not even for forgiveness.