Page 71 of Mated To The King's Gamma
I pour myself a cup, the heat seeping through the metal mug into my palms. It’s too hot to drink, but I hold it anyway, welcoming the discomfort. Across the lawn, I spot Kyson standing by what remains of the ornate fountain that once graced the center of the gardens. Water no longer flows from its carved spouts; instead, the basin sits cracked and dry, filled with debris.
Clarice approaches him, carrying two mugs. Even from this distance, I can see the gentle way she offers one to him, and the measured way he accepts it. She doesn’t hover or push conversation. Instead, she stands beside him, offering silent support as they both gaze at the ruined fountain.
Liam sidles up beside me, a small bottle of vodka in his hand and I arch a brow at Dustin who shrugs because truthfully none of us are watching his drinking, even Azalea has kept her mouth closed about Kyson’s drinking. She still is disapproving but now is not the time for her to stop him when he has lost quite literally everything. “Think we’ll find anything worth saving in the west wing?” Liam asks, voice pitched low.
I follow his gaze to where Trey directs a small team carefully shifting through a collapsed section of wall. “It’s not about what we save,” I reply.
Liam makes a sound that might be agreement or might be doubt. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. “The basement levels might still be intact, Trey seems to think we can gain access now, I’ll be sending him first though in case that shit collapses on us, I don’t fancy being buried alive,” he says after a moment. I nod in agreement.
“The old dungeons were built to withstand almost anything.” I say.
The thought of the dungeons—with their cold stone walls and centuries of dark purpose—brings a grim smile to my face. “Fitting, isn’t it? The places meant for suffering survive, while everything beautiful burns.”
“If you’re going poetic on me, I’m finding someone else to stand next to,” Liam retorts, but there’s no bite to it.
Across the lawn, I notice Kyson has been joined by Azalea. His voice doesn’t carry to where we stand, but his posture has changed. He stands straighter now, shoulders squared, chin lifted as he peers down at her. A moment later we are called to come over through the mindlink.
“We should go see what they have to say,” I say, abandoning my coffee on a nearby table.
“Should we? Azzy is probably gonna put us to work. I would rather hide over here?” Liam chuckles, and follows as I make my way across the debris-strewn lawn.
We gather at what once was the orchard. We stand in a loose semicircle, faces drawn and hollow-eyed. Clarice hovers at the edge, her hands busy organizing supplies even as her attention remains fixed on the conversation. And there, at the center of it all, Kyson stands with a stillness that speaks more loudly than any words could—the stillness of a decision already made but not yet voiced. From the corner of my eye, I spot Abbie walking along where the trees used to lead into the forest, Tyson grasps her hand as he skips awkwardly over the rubble with Tandi and a few of the orphanage kids in tow. She has kept herself busy with helping them, knowing I don’t want her or Tyson near the castle.
Kyson clears his throat, and the murmured conversations die instantly. “We can’t rebuild here. Not as it was.”
Eight simple words, but they land like physical blows. I see the shock ripple through the gathering of our people exchanging glances, a guard’s shoulder slumping imperceptibly, Clarice peers over sadly.
No one speaks. No one challenges him. Because despite the finality of his statement, we all knew this moment was coming. The damage isn’t just extensive—it’s complete.
Kyson’s gaze sweeps over the ruins, and for a moment, his composed expression fractures, revealing glimpses of the boy who ran through these halls, the young man who trained in these yards, the king who ruled his kingdom. I’ve known him long enough to see what others might miss—the slight twitch at the corner of his eye, the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw.
“My father raised me in these halls. I bled here. Buried people here. Built a future here.” He pauses, swallows hard. “But it’s gone. And staying here would only bury us with it.”
The silence that follows is profound. Even the constant background noise of shifting rubble and rescue efforts seems to dim, as if the very air recognizes the weight of this moment.
I watch as Azalea moves to stand beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She doesn’t try to take over or soften his message. She simply stands with him in this difficult moment, a united front.
I find myself studying the faces around me, gauging reactions. Most show a mixture of resignation and grief.
“The decision is made,” Kyson concludes, his tone brooking no further discussion. “We leave within the week. Salvage what can be saved, document what must be remembered, and prepare our people. We are moving to Landeena,” He hesitates, then adds more softly, “This place may have fallen, but we stand. Remember that. It doesn’t matter where we go as long as we remain together.”
With those words, the meeting disperses, people breaking into smaller groups to discuss logistics and assignments. I remain where I am, watching as Kyson turns to speak quietly with Azalea, their heads bent close together. There’s an intimacy to their conversation that makes me look away, feeling somehow like an intruder.
Instead, I find my gaze drawn back to the ruins of the castle—the home that wasn’t just a building but a symbol of everything we stood for when my gaze lands on Abbie once again. She moves quietly, efficient, and strangely calm. I’ve been watching her for days now, trying to reconcile this composed woman with the frightened, fragile creature I first met. The transformation isn’t just in how she carries herself—shoulders squared instead of hunched, steps silent yet purposeful—but in something deeper, a fundamental shift in how she faces the world.
She never asks to leave. Not once has she suggested going to the safer confines of the town houses where most families have been relocated. Instead, she throws herself into helping us here, unwilling to leave just like the rest of us.
She is not the same Abbie who once flinched at raised voices and averted her eyes when addressed directly.
She takes Tyson for a walk along the outer perimeter, carefully guiding him away from unsafe areas. Her hand rests protectively on his shoulder as she points to birds circling overhead, distracting him from the destruction around them.
“She’s stronger than any of us gave her credit for,” Liam remarks, materializing beside me with his usual unsettling silence.
“Trauma does that,” he continues, undeterred by my lack of response. “Either breaks you completely or forges something unbreakable.” His eyes track Abbie’s movement with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
I turn to face him fully. “Has she been foll…”
His smile is sharp-edged and unreadable. “Following me?” he asks. “Among other things. You gotta do something about that goo-goo eye she has for me, making me uncomfortable.” he says.
