My Enemy, My Love

𝔈𝔭𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

Sixty-four years later....

When the last swords fell silent, the West was ash. Their banners, once bright, lay tattered in mud and blood, and their proud keeps crumbled beneath the fury of four kings who had once sworn to hate each other. The West had burned, not only in fire but in memory, and no man or woman who had stood beneath its crest ever returned to reclaim it.

From its ruin came a peace treaty, sealed by the crowns of Bangkok and Chonburi, written in trembling hands that had survived the carnage. The ink was still wet when the first cries of relief rang across the lands. No more Western armies. No more century-old conflict. No more endless cycle of vengeance.

But peace, though precious, came at a terrible cost.

The earth bore scars—villages reduced to smoking timbers, rivers running thick with blood and ash, fields where crops would never grow again. Mothers walked barefoot through battlefields searching for sons they would never find. Children grew up with stories of fathers they never met, their lullabies sung in voices broken by grief.

And among the fallen was Anurak, the Marquis's son, cut down in the fury of the war. His death shattered many, but none more so than Ray. Ray, who laughed loudest when Anurak was near, grew silent in the years that followed. He had a wife, and children who bore his sharp eyes and restless nature, yet a part of him remained elsewhere—trapped forever beside the man he had loved but never spoken his truth to. His laughter, when it came, was brittle, and he lingered too long in the corners of his home, watching the world move on without him.

Meili, once fierce with her grudges, found her own future not bound by chains. No forced match, no bitter tie. She married a man she loved, and together they built something gentle amid the ruins—a life not of power or court intrigue, but of choice. Her children grew up with her stubbornness and fire, but they also knew her laughter, bright as spring rain, a laughter she had thought long buried during the war.

Anurak, no longer flesh but ashes scattered on the wind, watched over them all from the sky. Or so it was said by those who remembered him. They swore he remained in the golden light of dawn, in the hush before nightfall, a quiet guardian over friends who endured, and lovers who could not.

As for Luka and Thyme, their story did not end with victory. For sixty years they ruled side by side, their crowns heavy yet never lonely. What began in hatred, sharpened by a wedding that felt more like a prison, grew into a bond so unbreakable that their kingdoms became one heart. They reigned not as rivals but as lovers, partners, kings.

When Thyme died, Luka wept not as a sovereign, but as a man undone. His grief was legend. He carried it into the years that followed, until his own body began to fail. Yet even in his last days, when he sat in the great temple at Bangkok, the memory of Thyme kept him steady, a warmth against the cold of approaching death.

The council gathered around him, the temple air thick with incense and history. Among them sat two men who had once sworn themselves enemies: Chuo and Saetiao. Their rivalry had been the talk of courts, their battles as bitter as any fought on the field. But in the long span of fifty years, time had done what war could not. They had married, shared their lives, grown old with one another. The fire of enmity had become the warmth of devotion. Their hands, once clenched in conflict, now rested together on the table, fingers entwined.

It was to their granddaughter, Selina, that the eyes of the temple turned. Bright, fearless, a woman born not of conquest but of reconciliation. She was chosen as successor—not merely of Bangkok, not only of Chonburi, but of all the fractured provinces of Thailand. For the first time in centuries, the kingdom would not be divided by lines drawn in blood. It would stand whole, indivisible, under one crown.

The temple bells rang. Selina bowed her head. And in that moment, history turned a page.

No longer would the land be torn by rival thrones and ancient grudges. From that day forward, the story of Thailand was no longer one of division, but of unity. A unity written in blood, in sacrifice, in love both lost and found.

And though the kings who had carved that peace from fire were gone, their legacy endured—in the strength of the crown, in the laughter of children, and in the enduring truth that even hatred, given time, could become love.

The story ended there. But the memory— the memory—lived on forever.

<<<<THE END>>>>