My husbands first love

Chapter || 42

Maximilian stood in the dim candlelight of his war cabin, fastening the last buckle of his armor. The metal was cold against his skin, the weight of it pressing down on him like a silent reminder of what was to come. His sword lay on the table beside him, its steel dulled with wear, its hilt molded to the shape of his grip from years of wielding it. He ran his fingers over the blade, a touch almost reverent, almost final.

There was no glory in this. No honor. No righteous cause burning in his chest.

He was going to war because he had nothing left to hold on to.

Elizabeth was happy, that was what he told himself. And wasn't that what mattered? Wasn't that all he had ever wanted? If she smiled then his purpose was fulfilled. Even if it left him empty, even if it hollowed him out until there was nothing left but duty and steel and blood.

But the truth was, if he couldn't have her, then he didn't want anyone at all. She was the most perfect woman in this world, in his eyes. She was perfect. She is everything good in this world. But he ruined that. He knows how much he hurt her in the past abandoning her. He ruined her happiness. He did it himself. He didn't have any right to want her.

The thought settled like a boulder in his stomach, heavy, suffocating.

A horn blared in the distance. His soldiers were ready. His time was up.

Stepping out into the open air, the battlefield stretched before him in a sea of shifting armor and restless horses. And beyond that—the enemy. A dark, seething wave of men, waiting. Watching. Death stared back at him through their empty gazes, through the sharp glint of their swords raised in the cold morning light.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he would die today.

He gripped the reins of his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and lifted his sword. His voice rang out, strong, steady, commanding. "Charge!"

They surged forward, hooves thundering against the earth, war cries splitting the sky. He fought like a man with nothing to lose, because he didn't. His blade cut through flesh and bone, his movements sharp, precise, automatic. He was a warrior, forged in fire and blood, and today, he would either carve his way through the enemy or let the battle swallow him whole.

But the battle was long, grueling, relentless. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred with sweat and blood. And as the fight dragged on, exhaustion sank its claws into him, whispering 'just stop. Just let go.'

And for a moment, he wanted to.

To let his sword fall. To stop struggling. To surrender to the inevitable.

But then—her.

Her laughter in the garden. Her stubborn glare. The way she looked at the fireworks, eyes wide, face glowing with light. The memory struck like a blade to the chest.

Live for her.

He forced himself to move, to fight, to survive. But he was already slowing, his reflexes dulling under the weight of his wounds. And then, pain.

A sharp, searing agony as an arrow lodged deep into his already wounded shoulder. His breath hitched, his knees buckled, and before he could recover, another blow—then another. Swords drove into him, tearing through flesh, spilling warmth down his sides.

His vision swam. His grip slackened.

Blood gushed from his lips as he staggered, his body screaming, failing. The battlefield tilted, the sky above him blurring into nothing but color and light.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe he would die here.

And this time, he didn't know if he wanted to fight it. The pain no longer registered, only a distant echo in the hollow shell of his body. The battlefield blurred, the clash of steel and cries of dying men fading into nothing but a dull hum in his ears. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the scorched earth, warm at first.