Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 40: The Aftermath

I woke to a dull throb behind my eyes, a relentless drumbeat against my skull. My vision swam into focus, the familiar patterns of my ceiling slowly solidifying. I pushed up, a searing pain lancing through my head, forcing me back down with a groan.

"Aleah?"

The voice, soft and hesitant, came from the corner of my room. I turned my head, wincing, to see Brock in the armchair, a book resting unread in his lap. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually vibrant demeanor dulled by exhaustion. A wave of guilt washed over me. Had he been here all night, worried about me?

"Are you awake?" he asked, a rhetorical question given my earlier attempt to sit up.

"Yeah," I mumbled, pressing a hand to my aching temple.

I heard the rustle of his clothes as he rose and walked to my bedside, perching gently on the edge of the mattress. His hand, warm and comforting, settled on my leg beneath the covers. It was then I noticed I was still in the same clothes from Breya's funeral. And then, like a dam breaking, the memories flooded back. The fire.

The monstrous blaze that had swallowed the church in seconds. The fire that had stolen my brothers.

Sometimes, I truly wonder if I'm cursed. I had the power of death simmering beneath my skin, destined to shatter my kingdom and everyone in it, yet I couldn't stop that fire. Every day is a battle to deny it, to ignore the whispers, to tell myself I could never unleash such destruction, never slaughter my own people. The fire, their fire, only fuels the terrifying possibilities.

It's becoming harder, each passing day, to suppress the hatred festering within me—hatred for Amora, for my parents, for every injustice I've ever endured.

"Do you... remember anything?" Brock's voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the turmoil in my mind.

"I remember everything," I said, the words heavy with sorrow. "And I wish I didn't."

Brock nodded slowly, a silent understanding passing between us. Perhaps he felt the same crushing weight.

"Aleah, I know... I know it might be too early," he began, rising and fidgeting with his hands, a nervous habit I hadn't seen in him before. "But if you ever want to... talk about what happened."

I nodded, the image of Clif's face flashing in my mind. The despair in his eyes, as if he knew he wouldn't return. Yet, he'd offered that small, sad smile just before he turned and ran back into the inferno, Tristain on his heels. Sebastian had followed without hesitation. They had always been inseparable. A fresh wave of worry washed over me for the kingdom's future. Who would lead us now? Brock, most likely. Assuming he survived until coronation.

The thought of Brock being gone turned my stomach. It felt impossible, his absence from my life was unthinkable. I don't know what I would do without him. Then, there was Darian. The terrifying thought that he too could have died. A life without him, I realized with a jolt, would devastate me. Despite my earlier denials, my feelings for Darian were clear. I had to talk to him, to tell him. The only mistake was ever pushing him away. I needed to see him.

But first, Brock. I needed to understand what truly happened. The last thing I remembered was weeping beside Brylee after her harrowing escape.

"Is Clif and...?" I started, unable to finish the agonizing question.

Brock's head dropped, a single, solemn nod.

I didn't want to believe it. A sliver of irrational hope clung to me, desperate for some impossible reprieve. They had been a constant, if distant, presence in my childhood. As the war escalated, their visits became rarer, fleeting glimpses every six months. I had missed them then, a quiet ache. Now, the realization that I would never see them again, never have another moment to tell them I loved them, tore at me.

A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek, and Brock was there in an instant, his warm, protective arms enfolding me. I felt safe, shielded within his embrace, and clung to him, never wanting to let go. My only brother. If I let go, would he too vanish?

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a steadying balm. "Everything will be okay."

"Their bodies... did they find them?" I asked.

Brock shook his head. "We have both Sebastian and Tristain's bodies, but Clifton's has not been found yet."

It was still probably buried under all the rubble. Clifton had been the first one to offer himself up to the fire, and now, he might never escape from it.

"You know," I said, my voice thick with tears, "since they're gone, you're the obvious choice for the throne now." My words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Brock took them in slowly, his silence stretching for a long moment.

"Yes," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I suppose I am."

"We have to protect you, Brock," I insisted, pulling back slightly. "I don't care what you say. If these... these murderers want the throne, their next obvious target will be you."

"I don't need protecting, Aleah." His tone was firm.

"Yes," I countered, my voice rising. "Yes, you do."

Brock sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We'll talk about this later," he said, changing the subject. "I know someone who's been wanting to see you."

My blood ran cold. I knew, instantly. But I wasn't ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just wanted Brock, the quiet comfort of his presence. Seeing Darian now would only complicate everything.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't want to see anyone."

"What? No one at all?"

"Just... maybe not today," I clarified.

Brock stepped back, a single nod acknowledging my refusal. "Okay then," he said. "I understand. I'll give you some space."

And then he left, leaving me alone. Just as I always was.