Harbingers of Apocalypse: Pale Horse

27

🪻《Fated love》🪻

The throne room was silent, only the sound of distant winter winds pressed against the tall obsidian windows. The torches that lined the hall burned low, their flames flickering with a ghostly blue glow that danced across the polished stone.

Amadeus sat upon his throne—an ancient seat of enchanted silver and carved dark crystal. Tonight, even its magic felt restless beneath him but not as restless as his thoughts.

He should have been studying the omens. He should have been preparing for the growing disturbance in the coven's energy, the whispers of a child with power enough to fracture fate itself. But instead, all he could think of was her.

Clodette.

Her name pulsed in his mind like a wound that refused to heal.
He had tried—tried for years—to bury the truth beneath duty, beneath his revenge, beneath the cold demeanor. He had told himself he no longer loved her. Told himself it was better for her, better for him, better for the world.

All lies.

Fools' lies.

He leaned back against the throne, exhaling. His eyes drifted shut, just for a moment, just to rest—
And the throne responded.

Ancient runes beneath the armrests warmed under his palms, glowing faintly. A gentle pull—subtle but irresistible—tugged at his consciousness, drawing him downward into enchanted sleep.
Amadeus did not fight it.
He didn't even try.

He stepped into her dream like stepping into moonlight. Lavender grass waved in a serene meadow beneath a sky full of silver constellations. Fireflies drifted like floating sparks. Everything was soft, gentle, the kind of dream Clodette always had when she needed peace.

And in the center of it, sitting in the grass with her arms wrapped around her knees, was Clodette.
Her pale blond hair shimmered under the dream-moon. There was a softness in her face he had not seen in years—no tension, no fear, only quiet vulnerability.
Amadeus's breath froze in his chest.

"Clodette..."

She turned, eyes widening in shock. For a moment she simply stared—uncertain, unbelieving.
Then her lips parted.

"...Amadeus?"

He walked toward her slowly, reverently, as though one wrong step would shatter the entire dream. The dream made him appear unarmored—no crown, no robes of power, only a simple dark tunic that clung to his tall frame. The silver markings along his arms glowed faintly in the moonlight.

"Your dream pulled me here," he said softly. "Or perhaps I... pulled myself in."

Clodette swallowed, her dream-self flickering with emotion. "I didn't think you wanted to see me."

He winced—pain flashing across his features like a crack through ice.

"I told myself I didn't," he admitted, voice hoarse. "I told myself it was better for you if I stayed away. But the truth is—

Clodette stepped back, her voice shaking. "You said I was a pebble in your shoe. Why did you hurt me? Why did you trick me?"

Amadeus remained silent.

But she already knew the truth. Revenge.

Her father had hunted him because he was a Seraphim. His blood promised power, and armies were sent to capture him. Instead, they destroyed everything—his people, his home, his family.

Clodette lowered her gaze, guilt tightening her chest. Though she never ordered it, the massacre happened because of her father.

Perhaps Amadeus hated her for it. Yet even knowing this, even after his betrayal, she could not hate him.
Because she still loved him.