The key—an ornate silver relic with a kidney-shaped bow—slid from Heimdal’s palm into the ancient lock. It turned with a reluctant click, followed by the slow groan of the heavy oak door swinging inward.
The room, though not used, was kept clean and neat. A breath of fresh air drifted past him, tinged faintly with rose oil, lavender, and something older—like the fading scent of parchment and silken robes tucked away for too long.
Yes, he had instructed the maids not to touch Astrid’s clothes.
He stepped inside, lit the torches by the door, and the golden glow flooded the chamber. The room was frozen in time. It looked the same since the last time he was here, a year ago. He would spend the night on her bed every year on the day he confessed his love to her, and she confessed back.
Moonlight filtered through the gauzy, white drapes, spilling across the marble floor like liquid silver. A pale shimmer glowed on the edges of the furniture: the hand-carved dresser with inlaid pearls, the four-poster bed draped in ivory lace, the mirror she once stood before each morning as he fastened her necklace, brushing aside those thick tresses of honeyed chestnut hair that cascaded way below her waist.
He let the door shut behind him with a gentle thud and stood there for a moment, as if uncertain whether he had stepped into memory or dream. Felagio lingered at the threshold, unsure.
"You may wait outside," Heimdal said quietly.
The esquire bowed and backed away without a word, leaving the king alone with the ghost of the past.
The king crossed the chamber slowly, each step echoing against the marble floor. His fingers brushed the edge of the vanity table, where a half-empty crystal vial of her favorite perfume lay. He carefully opened the lid and sniffed the vial, trying to catch her scent. He closed his eyes, and he could almost hear her laughter. He picked up the silver comb he used to tame her tangled hair after her every bath. He used it to smoothen his tousled hair.
Heimdal moved to the chair by the window, the same place Astrid used to sit when she embroidered or knitted before and after lunch. Sunlight would stream in then, setting her hair aglow. He would watch her from the doorway, sometimes announcing himself, sometimes just standing there, letting her presence fill the emptiness inside him.
He picked up the half-finished sweater she was knitting for Alaric before that tragic event. A lone tear escaped from the corner of his eye.
He stood and walked toward a counter in the corner. On the wall was a painting of Astrid, with bright eyes full of light. Then the candles flickered, and her eyes changed. It was filled with pain.
Heimdal blinked thrice, and he was once again looking at Astrid’s bright eyes. What the heck was that? Was it because guilt was gnawing at me?
With a slow exhale, he poured himself a glass of dark wine from the decanter left sealed on the side table—a vintage she favored. The liquid gleamed like garnet. He took a sip and closed his eyes.
"How did we get here, Astrid?" he whispered aloud. "Why did you leave me? Didn’t you say that we grow old together?’
No answer came, even the breeze seemed to calm down.
"I named Reuben the crown prince today," he said, his voice quieter now. "Alaric gave up his succession right. He seemed to be happy when I banished him to Calma. He wanted to be away from me."
"I was wrong, Astrid. I failed you. I failed our son. I was a terrible father to him. Maybe, if you are here, you will hate me because I ignored him. But if you are here, things should have been different."
A tremor passed through his hand. He set the glass down before it could fall.
He reached into his cloak and drew out a small, delicate locket. It was hers—he had taken it from her neck the day she died. Inside was a miniature painting of her cradling a newborn Alaric, her face aglow with pride. He opened it now, tracing the image with a calloused thumb.
"Do you think he still remembers your lullabies?" Heimdal murmured. "You used to hum to him until he fell asleep against your chest."
He closed his eyes as if trying to chase a memory. "He doesn’t smile at me anymore. But it is my undoing. I only have myself to blame."
Something tightened in his throat. Not grief—he had lived with grief. No, this was something colder.
The silence in the chamber deepened, as if the room itself mourned with him.
Outside, the faint echo of music and waves of laughter drifted through the distant corridors, the sound of a palace celebrating its new crown prince.
But in Astrid’s boudoir, there was only stillness.
Heimdal clutched his chest and kneeled before Astrid’s portrait.
"I failed you, Astrid. I ruined our son. Forgive me."
After a long time, Heimdal stood and moved toward the bed. He sat on its edge, careful not to disturb the lace draped over its side.
"I never stopped loving you," he said. "Even when I married her."
He buried his head into his hands. The weight of the crown had never been heavier than it was tonight. The cost of his choices had come due—and it wasn’t gold or blood he paid with, but the memory of the only woman he truly loved and the son he pushed further away.
He sat there a long while.
Eventually, Felagio knocked softly on the door.
Heimdal didn’t answer.
The wineglass was empty beside him, the locket clutched loosely in his hand.
"My king...?" Felagio’s voice sounded urgent.
"I am alright, Felagio. You can go. I will spend the night here."
Felagio did not argue. He bowed and left. He will call a few knights to stand guard.
King Heimdal turned to face Astrid’s portrait again, his back against the window.
"Come out." He said, his voice croaked.
"I know you are there. You can come inside the way you always do." King Heimdal paused and waited. But there was nothing. No movement.
He sighed. "I have something of hers which I want to give you."
The curtains swayed, and King Heimdal felt the sound of the rushing air. A man, wearing a dark cloak, stood beside him, his face hidden behind his hood.
He stood there, unblinking as he hungrily took in the portrait of the woman on the wall.