There was no grand funeral for her.

I'd asked Narelle one time, if she had any family. She said no. She told me, the reason she worked as a maid in the palace was because her family had sold her off. They didn't want her, and decided to give her away. I remembered that night clearly. It was the day we'd admitted our love.

So no one came to her funeral. I was the one who held her funeral. I read the prayers. I stood and silently cried in the customary blue that was worn whenever a loved one died. I was the one who asked for the words Loved Dearly to be carved onto her gravestone. I was the one who was on my knees, crying for someone who should've deserved the world.

"It should've been me." I whispered, fingers digging into the soil. It wasn't a lie. It was the truth. It was my fault she'd died. I'd messed up the plan, and I paid the price.

She had died because I'd forgotten about the plan. What my father had done to her had made all common sense and thought leave my mind.

What my father had done to Narelle... The images flashed through my mind, and I fisted the soil beneath me. Her body was so ruined. I'd seen him torture people before, helped him torture people before, but what he'd done to Narelle made all of that seem like a fucking paper cut.

How could he have done this?

How could I have let him do it?

I fisted my hands in the soil. There was no point in abdicating now. I had nothing to abdicate for. Narelle was gone—because of me. And him.

I rose from the ground, and fixed my stare onto the castle ahead of me.

I knew what I was going to do.

_________

I strode through the hallways of the castle. I knew what I was going to do.

First, I was going to destroy my father and his whole fucked up empire. Second, I would spend the rest of my life atoning for my mistakes, trying to hope that Narelle would forgive me. I'd promised her that I wouldn't be violent anymore. That I was done with killing and punishing and brutality. But she'd have to excuse me for this.

I would make my father pay, and then I would pay. I wouldn't be able to make my father pay if I paid first.

I reached my rooms, and a guard pulled the doors apart. I would've said thank you. Should've said thank you. But I had to be quick. Before my father caught wind of what I was doing. That man could smell out a rebellion from a mile away.

The door shut behind me, and I raced through the foyer and into the door on the left—the door to my private study.

I thumped into my chair, and grabbed the nearest piece of parchment. As much as I didn't want to contact her... She would be reckless enough to try kidnapping me. Or, at least, insane enough hear me out. I dipped my quill into a pot of ink and started to write.

"Dear Ophelia Xander..." My quill flowed over the page.