Page 107 of Goldrage
We buried him and Valentine last week. The funeral plays on repeat behind my eyelids. Small. Private. Just us and the ghosts we carry. I’d stood there, staring at fresh dirt, thinking of all the words I never said to my brother. All the times I chose strategy over honesty, and the moments I could have reached for him but didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I’d whispered to the earth. But sorry doesn’t resurrect the dead.
The gray in this room doesn’t help. It just leaves more space for memories—Julian at eight, following me through the gardens. Julian at fifteen, fury replacing the softness in his eyes. Julian at the end, a gun at his temple as he smiled that terrible, peaceful smile.
My fault. Forever my fault.
If I’d been stronger. If I’d protected him better from our parents. If I’d chosen him over my mission just once?—
The bedroom door creaks. I don’t move.
“Adrian?” Aurelia’s voice is tentative. “Are you awake? You should eat something.”
How is she being so much stronger than me at a time like this? She lost her father and the boy she once loved, yet she’s the one out of bed and I’m wallowing in agony.
She’s always been stronger than me. I love this woman so damn much and pray I deserve her.
“Come here,” I say hoarsely.
She closes the door and pads over the plush carpet. Then she’s in my arms.
The tears come again, hot and shameful. My body shakes with sobs that feel torn from somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept locked for years. All that control, all that careful planning—none of it saved him.
Soon, Aurelia is crying too, both of us seeking the safety we still have left in each other.
Hours pass. Or minutes.
Eventually, I kiss her forehead and say, “Let’s try to eat.”
As I sit upright, the room spins. When did I last eat? I drain the glass of water on my nightstand and Aurelia takes my hand as I get up.
My legs shake when I stand. Weak. Pathetic. Everything I trained myself not to be.
After I change into fresh clothes, we walk together to the patio.
Through the glass, sunlight assaults my eyes. I squint, raising a hand to shield myself from brightness that feels obscene.
Lorenzo and Roby are playing on the grass. They’re kicking a ball back and forth, Roby’s laugh carrying onthe breeze. The sound is an innocent warmth I desperately need.
But it’s also a trigger. Memory slams into me: Julian and me, that same age, that same game. We used to play sports together, so long ago.
I lean against the doorframe as my legs threaten to give out. Aurelia remains beside me, squeezing my hand and giving me all the time I need.
Eleanora is sitting on a stone bench and she claps when Roby scores some invisible goal. Lorenzo scoops Roby up and spins him around. The boy shrieks with delight, and something shifts in my chest. Not healing—too early for that. But maybe the first glimpse of it.
The Consortium is dust. I accomplished what I set out to do. The families scattered to their corners, licking wounds, too suspicious of each other to reunite. Their power is finally broken, their unity shattered.
That’s a relief, but none of it brings Julian back.
However, watching Roby tackle Lorenzo’s legs, watching Eleanora smile, watching life persist despite death—something whispers that maybe this is enough. Maybe this is what I was really fighting for all along.
Not the destruction of an empire. But the chance for something new to grow.
“Ready to sit?” Aurelia asks me softly.
I turn to her then so I can fully witness this beautiful woman in the afternoon light. I trail my fingers through her loose, vibrant red hair, then rest them along her collarbone, just above my emerald necklace. The elegance looks absurd against her worn gray sweater and yoga pants that have seen better days. It’s completelymismatched, like wearing diamonds with pajamas, but seeing it there against her throat is a vision of perfection.
She wears it constantly now. I’ve caught glimpses when she thinks I’m sleeping: the way her fingers find it unconsciously, how she tucks it beneath her shirt like a secret. Even to bed sometimes, the chain tangled in her hair come morning.
