enjoyebooks CHAPTER 141
CHAPTER 141
POV: Sebastian
The mirror does not accuse me.
That almost feels worse.
I expect judgment when I look at my reflection—expect Cordelia’s shadow behind my shoulder, expect the weight of ghosts pressing my spine forward—but the man staring back at me is simply tired. Older. Human.
I loosen the collar of my shirt and turn away.
“Sebastian.”
Evangeline’s voice reaches me from the doorway. Calm. Steady. Always real.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I say.
She doesn’t push. She never does. That restraint has taught me more than any command ever could.
When I join her, she is seated near the window, a book open but unread. She looks up, assessing me the way she always has—without fear, without illusion.
“You’re thinking again,” she says.
“I always am.”
“Yes,” she replies, “but this is the heavy kind.”
I sit across from her. “Cordelia.”
She doesn’t flinch. That matters more than she knows.
“She never leaves my thoughts,” I continue. “Not because I loved her. Not even because I hated her in the end. But because she represents the man I might have been if I had chosen differently.”
Evangeline folds her hands. “You did choose differently.”
“I chose power,” I correct. “I chose control. I chose what felt inevitable.”
“And what does that cost?” she asks quietly.
I laugh once, bitter. “Everything, if you’re not careful.”
Silence settles—not uncomfortable, just honest.
“I blamed myself for years,” I say. “For not seeing her clearly. For being fooled. For believing I could fix what was broken by keeping it close.”
“You weren’t wrong to hope,” Evangeline says. “You were wrong to think hope alone was enough.”
I nod. “I thought acknowledging guilt meant drowning in it.”
“And now?” she asks.
“Now I understand something else,” I say. “Responsibility doesn’t mean punishment. It means correction.”
She smiles faintly. “That sounds like progress.”
“It feels like relief,” I admit.
The boys find me later in the training yard.
Adrian stands straight, posture precise. Mark lounges beside him, sword resting against his shoulder like an afterthought.
“You’re late,” Mark says.
“I’m on time,” I reply. “You’re early.”
“That’s new,” Adrian remarks.
I pick up a blade. “So am I.”
They exchange a look.
We spar—not to dominate, not to impress. I let them move. Let them make mistakes. Let them recover.
Mark overextends. Adrian counters. I step between them before instinct takes over.
“Again,” I say. “Slower.”
Adrian hesitates. “Shouldn’t we—”
“Listen,” I interrupt gently. “Not to me. To yourselves.”
Mark squints. “You feeling alright?”
I smile. “I’m learning.”
We continue. When we stop, they are flushed and laughing, not bruised.
Adrian wipes his brow. “You didn’t shout.”
“I didn’t need to,” I answer.
Mark grins. “I like this version of you.”
“So do I,” I say.
Later, alone, memory finds me anyway.
Cordelia’s voice—smooth, deliberate. The way she said my name like it was already hers.
I remember believing strength meant never admitting uncertainty. Remember thinking leadership was isolation.
I was wrong.
“I could have been worse,” I murmur to the empty room. “That doesn’t make me good.”
But it makes me accountable.
And that is enough to begin.
Evangeline joins me at supper. The boys are louder than usual, arguing about philosophy instead of politics, teasing each other instead of guarding their words.
“You did something,” she observes.
“I stopped trying to be what I was taught,” I reply.
She lifts her glass. “To unlearning.”
I echo the gesture.
When the boys leave, she stays.
“You’re not trying to erase the past,” she says. “That’s why this works.”
“I can’t erase it,” I reply. “Cordelia existed. So did my failures.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And so do my choices now,” I finish.
She reaches across the table, takes my hand.
“I never wanted perfection from you,” she says. “Only presence.”
I squeeze her fingers. “You deserved better than what I was.”
“You’re becoming better,” she answers. “That counts.”
That night—no, not night. Later. When the palace quiets into something breathable.
I stand on the balcony, looking over a kingdom that no longer feels like a weapon in my grip.
“I won’t be my father,” I say aloud.
The wind carries it away, but the vow remains. I was many things. I am still learning. I am not defined by the man I could have been—but by the one I choose to become.