She Chose the Wrong Hero

Kael had never cared much for the west garden.

Too quiet. Too far from the throne room. Nothing there but white roses and old statues with broken faces. But tonight, he couldn't look away from it.

He stood in the tower, hidden by thick velvet curtains, watching through the window like a man staring at a wound he couldn't stop bleeding.

She was there.

Elira.

And she wasn't alone.

Aeren Drican.

The quiet one. The shadow. The boy who always stood two steps behind him like a forgotten echo.

But now?

Now Elira was facing him. Leaning in. Talking in low, soft tones Kael couldn't hear. Her body was turned toward Aeren in that way people do when they feel safe. When they trust you.

And Kael hated it.

He couldn't explain it—not fully. Elira hadn't been his, not officially. Not even before the war. But she had always been close. Always watching him with that look, like she believed he was the answer to something only she could see.

Until today.

Now she looked at him like a stranger.

And worse, she looked at Aeren like he meant something.

Kael's hands clenched at his sides. He didn't realize how hard he was gripping the curtain until the fabric tore under his fingers.

The guard outside his chamber knocked once. "Everything alright, sir?"

Kael didn't answer.

He couldn't stop thinking about Aeren's face.

So calm. So steady. The way he'd turned and walked away from Elira like he chose to. Like he wasn't afraid to leave her behind.

That had been Kael's role once.

Before the war. Before the fire. Before the gods started whispering.

---

Kael moved to the edge of the tower, where a sword rested on the wall. His fingers brushed the hilt.

People called him the Chosen One. The Hero of Flame.

But for the first time in years, he felt small.

Not because Aeren was stronger. He wasn't. Not yet.

Not because Elira had changed.

But because Kael had always believed he was irreplaceable.

And now, watching from the shadows, he saw the truth:

She was learning how to live without him.

---

He left the tower with no destination, just fury twisting beneath his skin.

When he reached the training yard, the sun was just beginning to rise. Soldiers were gathering. Squires yawning. Blades being drawn and tested.

Kael grabbed a wooden practice sword without speaking.

"Your Highness?" one of the knights asked, surprised.

Kael didn't answer. He walked straight into the circle and pointed to the nearest man.

"You. Fight me."

The knight hesitated. "My lord, it's barely dawn—"

Kael lunged first.

The fight was brutal and short. Kael didn't hold back. Not like he used to. Every strike came harder than needed. Every block came late—he wanted the pain. He wanted the edge of it to cut through the anger curling in his gut.

The sword cracked. The knight fell.

Kael stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from a split lip he hadn't even felt.

Around him, no one cheered.

They just stared.

---

Back in his chambers, Kael washed his hands slowly, watching the blood swirl down the basin.

He looked at his reflection.

Still the golden boy.

Still the hero.

But his voice, when he finally spoke aloud, was cold.

"I won't lose her again."