Over in Vallerain.
Ten days remained.
Deric was not saved.
His parents sank into despair. The Empress wept without cease, her sobs echoing through the palace halls.
Yet amid the grief, one soul steeled herself to act.
Kahlan.
She would die for him.
He was her joy, her sorrow, her every hidden ache.
Losing him would shatter what little remained of her world.
Timid by nature, she had once been forged in brutality—childhood training in a fallen kingdom that crushed softness beneath iron discipline.
But after her homeland's ruin and the shaman's curse that bound her spirit, that old fear had resurfaced.
It had kept her silent, hesitant, dragging her feet until time ran out.
No longer.
She left the Crown Prince's wing and crossed to the main palace, heart hammering.
At the Emperor's chambers, she drew a steadying breath as the guard announced her.
The Empress's voice came sharp with worry. "Let her in—quickly!"
Kahlan stepped inside.
Drucia rose, eyes red-rimmed. "Kahlan, dear… what brings you?"
Kahlan met their gazes without flinching. "Your Majesties… I will do it."
The Emperor blinked, stunned. "Do… what?"
"I will save him." Her voice was quiet but firm. "But I have one request. The Jade Mountains beside the Sea of Myriad Flowers, at the kingdom's border—I ask that it be my burial place, among the blossoms."
Drucia's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, child…"
Kahlan's eyes softened, distant. "Your Majesty knows I am but a slave. Yet two years ago, my heart—which I believed long dead—began to beat again. For him alone. I may be timid, but I am not afraid. I am an abandoned soldier with no home, no kin. My death should have come long ago; it would change nothing. But His Highness… he carries the future of a mighty people. The pain this world inflicts on me ends with my last breath. According to the Priest's instructions: I am willing. I give my love freely. I embrace my death. Please—hesitate no longer."
Tears streamed down Drucia's face.
She crossed the room in three strides and pulled Kahlan into a fierce embrace.
"Thank you," she whispered brokenly. "Thank you, Kahlan. May the gods cradle your spirit when you depart. You have given us everything." She turned to her husband. "Dear, prepare our son."
Taking Kahlan's hand, Drucia led her back to the Crown Prince's wing.
Servants drew a milk-rose bath—warm water laced with petals and healing oils, turning the surface creamy white and fragrant.
As attendants gently washed her hair and skin, Kahlan's mind drifted to the day she first arrived.
The prince had been absent for over a month. When he returned, she was cleaning his study—dressed in fitted trousers and a long shirt that split at the waist, swaying softly as she moved.
The door swung open. He stepped in, gaze icy.
"Why are you here?"
She froze.
His voice sent shivers racing down her spine—cold, commanding, lethal.
Turning, she saw a man so strikingly handsome he could ruin kingdoms: dark hair, features carved from marble, eyes colder than winter steel, bloodthirsty and unyielding.
"I… my name is Kahlan D'harrès. I am the Crown Prince's new maid. I'm… cleaning."
Her voice trembled. He advanced. She retreated until her back hit the table.
He caged her in, hands braced on either side.
"I said—why are you here?"
"I—I'm your new maid," she managed.
He hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze up. "Look at me."
Falling into those eyes felt like plunging into an endless abyss.
"Be careful, little beauty," he murmured. "Do not piss me off. Obey without complaint. Disobey, and you'll taste hell. Now leave."
Two years of hell followed.
He tormented her—beat her when moods struck, paraded lovers through his chambers nightly, left her washing her face with tears.
She was the only personal maid to survive longer than six months.
Yet that single glance at his eyes had doomed her heart.
He isolated her—room to study and back, no outside world.
But when his brothers visited, or friends, he laughed freely, treated them with warmth. Seeing his rare smiles made her own lips curve in secret joy.
She knew it was hopeless.
Had her kingdom survived, had she remained the feared general who once commanded battlefields, perhaps she could have stood as his equal.
But she was nothing now. A slave in love with her cruel master.
In the present, Emperor Draca moved Deric from the ice cellar to his bedchamber. He explained everything—Kahlan's offer, her sacrifice.
Deric stared in shock. "Her? She should hate me most of all."
Draca's face darkened. "And yet she steps forward while others flee. Do not insult her choice with pride, boy. You're dying. Accept what mercy the gods offer."
Food that would keep—preserved meats, bread, abundant fruits—was arranged. Herbs and elixirs stood ready per the Priest's notes.
Then Drucia returned, leading Kahlan—skin glowing from the bath, hair damp and scented with roses, clad in simple white silk that clung softly.
She guided Kahlan inside, then stepped out and bolted the heavy door behind her.
The room fell silent except for Deric's ragged breathing and the faint crackle of his fevered skin.
The heavy bolt slid home with a final, resounding *thunk*.
Drucia's footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only silence—and the faint crackle of Deric's fevered skin against the cool silk sheets.
Kahlan walked slowly to the side of his grand bed. Her bare feet whispered across the thick rug.
When she lifted her gaze, she found him staring—cold, unreadable, the same piercing look that had once frozen her in place years ago. She trembled, just a little.
Deric's eyes traced her form. She wore a simple white silk gown—strapped, short, loose-fitting, slipping softly against her skin with every breath.
The fabric was thin enough to hint at the body beneath, yet modest in its purity. She was devastatingly beautiful, yet untouched in a way that set her apart from every woman who had ever entered this room.
A different kind of seductiveness: innocent, luminous, almost sacred.
All this time, he had never touched her. Never taken her to his bed.
Not because he lacked desire—he had felt it stir, sharp and unwelcome—but because some buried instinct warned him she was not to be tainted.
Not like the others. He had kept her at arm's length, tormenting her instead with cruelty, isolation, indifference. And now… now she stood here, willing to die for him.
He could not wrap his mind around it.
According to the Priest's requirements, she could not have been forced. Not by his parents' desperation, not by duty. She had chosen this freely. Willingly. Lovingly.
She twisted her fingers together nervously, head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. Visible tremors ran through her.
Something unfamiliar squeezed in Deric's chest—tight, almost painful. His heart felt… stuffed. Overfull.
He spoke, voice low and rough from fever and disuse.
"Take your dress off. Come onto the bed."
Kahlan hesitated. Only for a heartbeat. Then, with quiet obedience, she reached for the thin straps at her shoulders.
The silk whispered as it slid down her arms, pooling at her feet like spilled moonlight. She wore nothing underneath.
Her skin glowed softly in the candlelight—smooth, unmarked, trembling faintly.
Every curve was offered without artifice, without seduction tricks she had never learned. Just vulnerability. Just love.
Deric watched.
It was a sight he had seen countless times before—women undressing for him, performing, teasing, eager to please. Yet this was utterly different.
No coy glances, no practiced poses. Only Kahlan, eyes downcast, cheeks flushed, stepping forward as instructed.
She climbed onto the wide bed with careful grace, knees sinking into the mattress.
The silk sheets shifted beneath her as she knelt beside him, close enough that he could feel the cool aura of her body contrasting his burning heat.
For the first time, regret cut deeper than the poison.
He had hurt her. Repeatedly. Deliberately. And still she came to him—not as a servant, not as a victim, but as the only one who would give everything.
His gaze softened, just fractionally.