Chapter 30: Chapter 30

KAMORA

Later that evening, a harsh knock dragged Kamora back to reality. She had somehow drifted into a dreamless sleep—a miracle, considering the number of sleepless nights she had endured—while seated in front of the door to her quarters.

“You are not paid to slack around, Kamora,” Claudia’s voice slammed through the door. “I don’t know what it is my lord told you, but unless he fired you, you should be in your corner, taking care of the young lord!”

Kamora smiled bitterly. ~Oh, Claudia, if only you knew.~

Drawing in a deep breath, she slowly stood, though anxiety pounded in her chest. She didn’t know how she would face Jarosh. She wasn’t even sure she could.

She opened the door gently and bowed before Claudia. The tension between them hung thick in the air, like a cord wrapped around Kamora’s throat.

“Get to work,” Claudia said simply, then turned and left.

Kamora released a quiet sigh and began to make her way toward Jarosh’s room. The hallway felt unnaturally quiet—as if it were holding its breath.

Shadows flickered along the walls, and each step she took seemed to echo her confusion. She didn’t know who to believe or what to think anymore.

She paused in front of Jarosh’s door and took a steadying breath before knocking. When no answer came, she slowly pushed it open and slipped inside.

Jarosh lay on his bed, eyes closed in feigned sleep. Kamora, familiar with his antics, could tell he was pretending.

Perhaps he too felt overwhelmed by the truth they had learned. One could only wonder what thoughts circled his young mind.

Choosing not to confront his act, Kamora walked to his bedside and gently tucked him in. She brushed a stray strand of hair from his face, her fingers soft and trembling.

A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it, and she quickly wiped it away, unwilling to let him see her distress. After adjusting the blankets, she sat beside him with a wistful sigh.

She had come to this house to work. So when had everything begun to go wrong?

She had never questioned her past. In fact, she had always avoided it, believing that whatever life had led her to be found in the depths of a forest couldn’t have been worth remembering.

But now, it seemed she had no choice. Sniffling, Kamora straightened her spine.

If she was going to find the answers she needed, she had to return to the scene of the crime—to the place where she’d been discovered. And to do that, she needed to find the men who had rescued her.

It had been eight years. She could only hope they were still alive.

Her gaze drifted back to Jarosh. His body remained unnaturally still, tense in a way no child’s should be.

The sight softened her, and she leaned over to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. Just as she rose to her feet, Jarosh reached out and held her hand.

She froze and looked down at him. Though he kept his back to her, his grip was firm, desperate.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. His voice was soft as wind chimes, threaded with fear and sorrow.

“I won’t,” Kamora replied, offering him a shaky smile.

“Promise?” he asked, a little more urgently.

“Promise,” she said without hesitation, even though her heart ached with uncertainty.

She wasn’t sure she could keep such a vow. Jarosh wasn’t asking her to stay for the night.

He wanted her to stay—forever. But how could she, when she didn’t even know who she was?

Lord Maroke claimed she was his wife, that she was Jarosh’s mother. But how could she be, when she bore no memory of them?

How could she offer them love when she still felt like a stranger? ~I promise to find out who I am…so I can love you properly.~

***

It was evening. Lord Maroke, now fully dressed, moved about his study in a restless search.

“Are you sure the object is in this room, my lord?” Greyson asked, his arms folded as he watched with quiet skepticism.

“I know I kept it somewhere here,” Lord Maroke muttered, hovering over a shelf in the far corner of the study.

“My lord—”

“It’s a locket,” Maroke interrupted sharply. “With Kamora’s picture inside! Without it, she won’t believe me. She won’t believe we were once in love—that we still are.”

Greyson exhaled quietly. “My lord, I believe you need to calm down. Whether or not you find the locket, this truth will still come as a shock to her. Kamora has no memory of your past together.”

Maroke dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. “What would you have me do? Wait? Sit idly until she remembers? I don’t have that kind of patience—not after eight years without her.” His voice cracked. “I still feel the pain, every day. The agony when they brought her bloodstained clothes to me… I thought—maybe I had been so cruel, she chose to face death rather than return to me.”

“But she is back,” Greyson said gently. “And safe.”

“That’s why I need her to remember,” Maroke insisted, pressing a hand against his chest, where a familiar ache had begun to burn. “I need answers. I want to know why she left. Why she abandoned our son. Why she abandoned me.”

He looked away, his eyes dark with longing and sorrow. “I was cursed with indifference, and still, I loved her,” he whispered. “Despite the heartache I suffered night after night, the pain that tore at my chest every time I remembered her, I never once regretted it. Was that still not enough?”

Greyson said nothing.

The room grew heavy with silence—until a sharp knock pierced the air. Before either of them could respond, Claudia entered, her face tight with concern.

“My lord,” she said, her voice low. “The princess is here.”

***

Lord Maroke was led to the guest room where Claudia had kept the princess waiting.

“What is with this surprise visit?” Greyson whispered beside him.

Lord Maroke remained silent, his expression unreadable. The princess’s sudden appearance was baffling. For all her persistent, annoying schemes to win his attention, she had never once come to his home—and certainly not unannounced.

He entered the room and found the princess seated at the far end, on a long couch near the window. She sipped from a steaming teacup, her gaze fixed outside.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Lord Maroke said with a bow. “Apologies for keeping you waiting.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied softly, her voice smooth as silk. “I should be the one apologizing for arriving unannounced.”

Lord Maroke straightened, frowning slightly. “Is something wrong at the royal palace, Your Highness?”

The princess didn’t respond immediately.

Her lips remained curved in a serene smile, but he knew better. Beneath the surface of that elegant façade was something darker.

She wasn’t the noble figure she pretended to be and unfortunately for him, he had become the object of her fixation.

“You’re too far, Lord Maroke,” she said. “Come closer.”

“I dare not, Your Highness,” he replied with a curt bow.

“Please,” she coaxed, her tone more alluring now. “I need to see you clearly. My eyesight isn’t perfect, and you’re so far away…”

He hesitated, then walked toward her.

She gestured to the seat beside her, but he chose the one directly across instead.

“Please, tell me if something is wrong in the palace,” he said.

“There is nothing wrong,” she answered, her smile widening in an odd, unnatural way.

She set her teacup on the table before her and sighed.

The cheerful expression gave way to one of sorrow.

“I came to apologize—for my behavior toward your son earlier today.”

Though his face remained impassive, Lord Maroke was silently puzzled. Whatever had transpired during her gathering for young nobles, it certainly didn’t warrant this visit.

“Your Highness, you honor me far too much. I am not worthy of such humility. In truth, it is I who should apologize—my son was rude. I will see to it that he’s properly punished.”

“No, please don’t,” the princess said, waving her hand quickly. “It wasn’t his fault. I treated his maid unfairly, and he took it as an insult to his family. Even as a princess, I had no right to do that.”

A soft sound came from the entrance. Lord Maroke didn’t need to turn to know someone had entered. He saw a flicker of irritation cross the princess’s face.

Strange. She’d never been to his house before. How could she recognize any of his staff?

Kamora stepped forward, carrying a tray of snacks and a kettle. She placed them carefully on the table before the princess.

Lord Maroke’s displeasure was immediate. This wasn’t Kamora’s duty—she was meant to be tending to his son.

What was Claudia thinking, assigning her this task? He looked away. Only then did he catch the brief, venomous glint in the princess’s eyes before it vanished.

Suddenly, the princess stood. Out of courtesy, Lord Maroke rose as well.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kamora standing discreetly, her head bowed, trying to blend into the background.

The princess stepped toward him and—without warning—placed a hand on his shoulder, dragging it slowly down to his chest.

Lord Maroke jerked back, his disgust barely concealed. A sharp burn flared in his chest.

“Your Highness, please exercise propriety.”

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, her voice sultry. “I love you, Maroke. Can’t you see how far I’m willing to go for you?”

She stepped closer again, reaching for his face, which he swiftly turned away from.

“I humbled myself to apologize. Why can’t you accept my honesty?”

“Your Highness, this is improper. You’re making me uncomfortable,” he said firmly, glancing quickly at Kamora, hoping she wouldn’t misunderstand.

But the princess caught the glance. Her smile faded, replaced with fury.

“Why can’t you forget her?” she whispered, her voice laced with venom. “You even hired someone who looks exactly like her? Or…” She paused, eyes narrowing. “…Do you truly believe she is your wife?”

Lord Maroke said nothing.

The princess stepped back, eyes wide open in disbelief. Her gaze darted to Kamora—and then she laughed.

A chime-like sound, echoing more like a witch’s cackle than laughter.

“Kamora, leave us,” Lord Maroke ordered, his tone emotionless.

Kamora bowed once and hurried out, never once looking back.

When the door shut, he turned to the princess.

“Your Highness, I have kept my silence out of respect for your father. But as one of the lords of Amalith, I have the power to call for the stripping of your title.”

Her smile wavered.

“Your father would not oppose it,” he continued. “He has sons. And of all his children, it is you he’s most disappointed in. Do not give me reason to act on that authority.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, her voice a forced whisper behind a brittle smile.

Lord Maroke held her gaze, then bowed stiffly.

“Thank you for your apology, Your Highness. I will discipline my son appropriately. But for your own good, I suggest you leave. It would not bode well for news of your visit—at this hour—to spread.”