Chapter 294: Princess Emeriel

Emeriel stood before the tall mirror, staring at her reflection as Amie fastened the buttons of her gown. The fabric felt soft against her skin; its simple yet elegant style prioritized comfort. Behind her, the faint clinking of glass jars echoed as Madam Livia brewed her morning potion.

It had been four days since she fully awoke. Most of Emeriel's bruises had faded, her face looked less pale, and the dark shadows under her eyes were diminishing. Though her left arm still ached occasionally, the swelling had subsided, and she could use it without much trouble. She flexed her fingers cautiously.

"You look so beautiful, my princess," Amie sighed wistfully, stepping back to admire her work.

"Thank you, Amie." Beautiful wasn't the word Emeriel would use, but she looked better than she had in recent weeks. That was enough for now.

Livia approached with a steaming wooden cup. "Here," she said. "Drink this while it's still hot, Princess."

Emeriel took the cup, its bitter scent rising as she brought it to her lips. She drank quickly, grimacing at the sharp, burning taste.

"Sorry about the taste," Livia grimaced. "But it's for your own good. You've made remarkable progress, and I'm glad to see you doing better."

Emeriel managed a small smile. "Thanks, Livia."

"It's just Livia now," the headmaid reminded her, for what felt like the hundredth time.

"That will take some getting used to. Until then, you're still Madam Livia."

Livia sighed, shaking her head faintly. "Amie, you may leave us now," she instructed. The young girl bowed and slipped out, the door closing softly behind her.

Emeriel adjusted her gown, smoothing it over her hips. Through the mirror, she noticed Livia shifting uncomfortably, her hands fidgeting with her apron.

"Is anything the matter?" Emeriel asked, meeting her gaze.

Livia hesitated. "It's just… I know what he did was brutal and unforgivable. But I hope you'll keep an open heart. Lord Zaiper is not that kind of man. He's more likely to—"

"Livia—"

"—and I know," Livia rushed on, "I know he hasn't come to see you since that first day, but he—"

"We will be alright," Emeriel interrupted firmly, turning to face the headmaid. "There's no need to worry. He is my destined mate. Dormant bond or not, severed or not, I'm not letting him go."

Relief washed over Livia, her shoulders slumping. "He will likely push you away," she mumbled. "He won't even see Lord Vladya."

"He can try."

Livia regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well, Princess. I will leave you to finish getting ready." She inclined her head and left, the door clicking shut.

Left alone, Emeriel turned back to the mirror, adjusting her sleeve. "It's alright, my Beloved, I will come to you."

Emeriel approached the corner leading to the Royal Residence. She moved slowly, her body still weak, but carried herself with grace, concealing her exhaustion.

"You may go back, whoever you are," Wegai's firm voice cut from around the corner. "The Grand King is not receiving visitors—"

Emeriel turned the corner, and Wegai stopped instantly. His sharp gaze softened as he straightened, bowing low. "Princess."

"Is His Majesty inside?"

The head soldier faltered, his lips parting, but no words came. The pause was answer enough. Emeriel stepped past him.

Entering through the grand entrance, the familiar corridors felt eerily still. Servants paused in their work to greet her hastily, their eyes lingering curiously before they hurried on.

At the door of his bedchamber, Emeriel paused, then reached for the handle. She half-expected it to be locked, but it turned easily.

The chamber was dark. Stepping inside, Emeriel paused, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. All the curtains were drawn, blocking out the sun. The scent of stale ale and unventilated air filled the room. She searched for him.

His once-immaculate bedchamber was a mess. Clothes were strewn across the furniture, and empty ale bottles littered the floor. But…he doesn't drink. Emeriel's heart lurched. King Daemonikai had once told her ale upset his stomach and made his beast restless.

Then, she heard a faint groan. Following the sound, she found him sprawled on the floor, his large frame partially hidden in shadow, his head resting against the bed, eyes closed.

"Your Grace?" she called tentatively.

Nothing.

Emeriel bent down, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Your Highness…?"

His eyes snapped open, startling her. His gaze, unfocused at first, darted around the room before locking onto hers. They watched each other without reaction from him. Then, without warning, images of him, unhinged and merciless, tore through her mind—memories of that night.

Emeriel squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to banish the images and steady her breathing.

Then, he sighed. "It's nice to know you can still visit my dreams."

Pulling herself together, she cleared her throat. "It's not a dream…"

Daemonikai blinked. For someone surrounded by gallons of ale, he didn't look drunk, but he didn't look entirely present.

"You know, I think I prefer this dream," he said. "It's better compared to…"