Chapter 47 – The Tyrant's Heir
The castle didn't sleep anymore.
Even when the fires were extinguished, and the bodies were buried, and the blood had dried in the cracks of the marble, a silence lingered. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that made your skin crawl. The kind that whispered, *something else is coming.*
Zara sat on the windowsill of the royal tower, her gaze far out over the blackened courtyard. She could still see where the grass had been scorched. Where the stone walls had been patched. Where guards stood with tighter grips on their weapons.
The palace had become a cage. A fortress of paranoia.
Lucien hadn't left the war room in three days.
He met only with commanders and shadow informants, rising before dawn, eating with soldiers, returning to bed long after midnight. Zara only saw him in fragments—like a ghost drifting past her in silence.
And when she did see him… he looked like he was vanishing.
---
On the fourth morning, she snapped.
She pushed open the doors to the war chamber without knocking.
The council fell silent at once.
Lucien stood at the map table, circles of sleeplessness under his eyes, hair tied back messily, gloves discarded. His hands were ink-stained and bleeding from callouses.
Everyone watched Zara enter—but only he looked tired.
"Out," she said to the council. "All of you."
They hesitated.
Lucien didn't.
"You heard her."
The room cleared within seconds.
Zara walked up to him, eyes blazing. "When was the last time you ate something warm?"
He said nothing.
"When did you sleep for more than two hours?"
"Zara—"
"When did you even look at yourself in the mirror?"
His silence was answer enough.
She grabbed his wrist. He flinched slightly—still not used to her touch. But he didn't pull away.
"You're killing yourself to save a kingdom that would sooner slit your throat if you showed weakness."
"I don't care."
"Well I do!" she shouted, surprising even herself.
Lucien blinked.
Zara stepped closer. "I care if you die. I care if you vanish into this cold tyrant role you keep playing. I married a monster, yes. But even monsters bleed. And I'm tired of watching you pretend you don't."
Lucien looked at her long and hard.
Then he laughed—a dry, broken sound.
"You're the only person who's ever shouted at me and survived."
Zara's voice softened. "Then maybe you need more people who aren't afraid of you."
Lucien dropped into the nearest chair, covering his face with his hand.
Silence stretched.
Finally: "I got word from the northern border. The rebels aren't just moving in silence anymore. They've taken two villages. They're rallying soldiers. Ex-royal guards. Mercenaries."
Zara's stomach dropped. "Are they coming here?"
Lucien nodded. "Within the month. Maybe less."
"And what are we going to do?"
Lucien looked up. And in that moment, Zara saw the weight he'd been carrying alone.
"We're going to prepare for war."
---
The preparations began immediately.
Zara became part of it.
She trained harder, longer. Her bruises faded, but new ones replaced them daily. Her grip on her blade grew firmer. Her breath more controlled. The servants had started calling her *The Silent Flame*—a girl who once cowered, now a walking ember.
She held council meetings when Lucien was absent.
She inspected the new recruits. Interrogated suspected traitors.
She was no longer the prince's wife.
She was his shadow.
---
Then came the whisper.
It arrived in the form of a folded parchment, slipped under her chamber door late at night.
> *The heir is not safe. The bloodline is the real target.
> He must not be born.*
Zara stared at the words for a long time.
Her fingers went cold.
*He*?
What did they mean—
She dropped the parchment, her hand flying to her stomach.
No.
No, it wasn't possible.
But...
But the signs—her missed cycle, the nausea, the fainting two nights ago. She had blamed it on the stress.
She staggered backward, hand over her mouth.
Pregnant.
With the heir to the throne.
---
She didn't sleep that night.
By morning, she had made her decision.
She walked straight to the physician's tower, demanded a test.
An hour later, she stared at the result in silence, holding the paper with trembling fingers.
Confirmed.
She was carrying Lucien's child.
The tyrant's heir.
---
She didn't tell him that day.
Or the day after.
She didn't know how.
Every night she watched him unravel a little more—drinking too much, brooding too long, barely looking at her as if some part of him already knew something terrible was coming.
How could she give him hope… when she might not survive long enough to deliver it?
---
On the fifth night, as thunder rolled in the distance, Zara found herself outside his chamber again.
She hesitated, then pushed the door open.
Lucien stood by the fireplace, shirtless, sword in hand, running a cloth along the blade as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
"You should sleep," she said.
He didn't look up. "Can't."
She stepped inside. "Can we talk?"
He nodded once. Still no eye contact.
She walked to him slowly. "Do you remember the night of the assassination attempt?"
"I remember everything," he said bitterly.
"And the way you held me after?"
Silence.
Zara's hand moved to his.
Lucien froze.
"I need you to hold me like that again," she whispered. "Because I'm scared. And because I have something to tell you."
He turned his head, eyes finally locking onto hers.
And for the first time in weeks, she saw fear—not in herself.
In him.
"What is it?"
Zara took a breath.
Then: "I'm pregnant."
The silence after was thunderous.
Lucien stared, as if the word had gutted him. "Say it again."
"I'm carrying your child."
He stumbled back a step. Sat down like his legs couldn't hold him.
"You're… certain?"
She nodded.
Lucien buried his face in his hands, his chest heaving.
"You shouldn't have told me," he whispered.
Her heart cracked. "Why?"
"Because now I'll burn the world to protect you. And I'm already losing myself."
Zara walked to him, knelt in front of him, cupped his face in her hands.
"Then lose yourself in me. Not the war. Not the fear. Me."
Lucien looked at her, eyes wet with something raw and rare.
And when he kissed her, it wasn't desperate.
It was real.
---
That night, he didn't leave her side.
And when she slept, his hand never left her stomach.