The Gentleman's Agony

One year after Elara's coronation, the kingdom reached a tipping point.

The reforms had spread to half the provinces. Thousands of Proxies had transitioned to the Shared Bond system. The old system of exploitation was crumbling, slowly but surely, under the weight of evidence and public pressure.

But the resistance had also grown stronger. The nobles who opposed the reforms had consolidated their power, forming a coalition that controlled significant portions of the kingdom's economy and military. They weren't trying to overthrow Elara anymore—they'd learned that direct confrontation didn't work. Instead, they were trying to make the kingdom ungovernable, to create so much chaos and instability that Elara would be forced to abandon the reforms.

And it was working.

The economy was struggling as nobles withdrew their investments and hoarded their wealth. Trade routes were disrupted as merchants loyal to the coalition refused to do business with provinces that had adopted the reforms. Military units were divided, with some commanders loyal to Elara and others loyal to the coalition.

The kingdom was teetering on the edge of civil war.

"We can't keep going like this," General Blackwood said during an emergency council meeting. "The coalition is getting bolder. They're openly defying your orders, Your Majesty. If we don't act soon, we're going to lose control of the kingdom."

"What do you suggest?" Elara asked.

"Military action. We arrest the coalition's leaders, seize their assets, and restore order by force."

"That would start a civil war."

"We're already in a civil war, Your Majesty. We're just not admitting it yet."

Silas felt Elara's turmoil through the bond. She didn't want to use military force, didn't want to become the tyrant she'd sworn never to be. But she also couldn't let the kingdom descend into chaos, couldn't let the coalition destroy everything they'd worked for.

"There has to be another way," she said. "Some way to resolve this without bloodshed."

"I don't see one," the General replied. "The coalition isn't interested in negotiation. They want you gone, and they're willing to destroy the kingdom to make that happen."

"Then we give them what they want," Silas said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"What do you mean?" Elara asked.

"The coalition wants me gone. They see me as the real threat, the source of your power, the reason you can't be controlled. If I leave, if I break the bond and disappear, they might be willing to negotiate."

"No." Elara's voice was sharp. "Absolutely not. We're not breaking the bond."

"It might be the only way to prevent a civil war."

"I don't care. We're not doing it."

Through the bond, Silas felt her fear and desperation. She was terrified of losing him, terrified of being alone, terrified of what breaking the bond might do to both of them.

But he also felt her understanding that he might be right, that his presence might be the obstacle preventing a peaceful resolution.

"Your Majesty," Duke Ravencroft said carefully, "Silas may have a point. The coalition's primary objection has always been the bond between you. They see it as unnatural, as a threat to the proper order of things. If the bond were broken, if Silas were no longer in the picture, they might be willing to accept the reforms."

"Or they might see it as weakness and push even harder," Elara countered. "Breaking the bond doesn't guarantee peace. It just guarantees that I'll be alone and vulnerable."

"You won't be alone," General Blackwood said. "You'll have the military, the loyal nobles, the support of the people. You'll still be Queen."

"But I won't have Silas. And without him, without the bond, I'm not sure I can do this."

Through the bond, Silas felt her raw honesty, her admission that she needed him not just as a partner but as a source of strength and stability.

And he felt his own conflict. He wanted to stay with her, wanted to keep the bond intact, wanted to continue fighting by her side. But he also wanted to prevent a civil war, wanted to save the kingdom from tearing itself apart, wanted to do what was best for everyone even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness.

"We need to think about this carefully," he said. "Not make any hasty decisions. Let's take a few days to consider all the options."

"Agreed," Elara said, though through the bond, Silas felt her relief that he wasn't pushing for immediate action.

The council meeting ended, and Silas and Elara returned to her quarters. They sat together in silence, both of them processing the impossible choice they might have to make.

"I can't lose you," Elara said finally. "The bond—it's not just a magical connection. It's part of who I am now. Breaking it would be like cutting out a piece of my soul."

"I know. I feel the same way."

"Then why are you even considering it?"

"Because sometimes the right choice is the one that hurts the most." Silas took her hand. "Elara, I don't want to leave you. But if my presence is what's preventing peace, if breaking the bond is what's needed to save the kingdom, then I have to at least consider it."

"The kingdom isn't worth more than you are."

"Isn't it? How many people will die in a civil war? How many Proxies will continue to suffer if the reforms fail? How many lives is our bond worth?"

"Don't do that. Don't make this about numbers and calculations. This is about us, about our lives, about our right to be together."

"And what about everyone else's rights? What about their right to live in peace, to not suffer, to have a chance at a better future?"

Through the bond, Silas felt Elara's anger and frustration. She knew he was right, knew that their personal happiness couldn't be prioritized over the welfare of the kingdom. But she also knew that breaking the bond would destroy them both, would leave them hollow and incomplete.

"There has to be another way," she said. "Some solution that doesn't require us to sacrifice everything."

"Maybe there is. But we need to be prepared for the possibility that there isn't."

They spent the next three days exploring every option, consulting with advisors, running scenarios, trying to find a path that didn't require breaking the bond.

The discussions were exhausting. They met with Duke Ravencroft, who argued that Silas's departure might be necessary but should be temporary. They consulted with General Blackwood, who warned that the coalition might see Silas's absence as weakness and push for even more concessions. They spoke with Madame Thorne, who provided intelligence about the coalition's internal dynamics and their true demands.

"They're not just afraid of your power," Madame Thorne explained during one late-night meeting. "They're afraid of what you represent. A Proxy who became equal to a Queen, who helped reshape the kingdom, who proved that the old hierarchies aren't natural or inevitable. You're living proof that their entire worldview is wrong."

"So they want me gone not because I'm dangerous, but because I'm inconvenient," Silas said.

"Exactly. If you disappear, they can pretend you were an aberration, a one-time exception that doesn't challenge the fundamental order. But if you stay visible, if you continue to be part of the government, you force them to confront the reality that Proxies are people, that the system is unjust, that change is necessary."

"Then maybe I should stay. Force them to confront that reality."

"And risk a civil war that will kill thousands? Silas, I understand the impulse. But sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is step back, let others take the spotlight, work behind the scenes instead of in front of them."

It was pragmatic advice. But it was also deeply frustrating.

Silas had spent fifteen years being invisible, being ignored, being treated as if he didn't matter. And now, just when he'd finally gained visibility, when people were finally paying attention to him, he was being asked to disappear again.

"I hate this," he said to Elara that night. "I hate that my existence is a problem. I hate that the only way to achieve peace is for me to hide."

"You're not hiding. You're making a strategic retreat. There's a difference."

"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like I'm being erased."

"You're not being erased. You're being temporarily removed from the public eye. You'll still be working on the reforms, still be advising me through the bond, still be making a difference. You just won't be visible while doing it."

"That's not the same as being present."

"No, it's not. But Silas, we don't always get to choose how we make a difference. Sometimes we have to work within constraints we don't like, make compromises we don't want to make, accept limitations we find unjust."

Through the bond, he felt her own frustration and sadness. She didn't want him to leave any more than he wanted to go. But she also understood that sometimes doing the right thing meant making personal sacrifices.

"How long do you think I'll have to stay away?" he asked.

"I don't know. Months, certainly. Maybe a year or more. It depends on how quickly we can implement the reforms, how stable the kingdom becomes, how much the coalition's influence wanes."

"A year. That's a long time to be in pain."

"I know. But we've endured worse. We can endure this."

They also consulted with the magical theorists about the bond's limitations. Professor Vex explained that the bond had a range—they could be separated by up to about two hundred miles before the connection would become too strained to maintain.

"Beyond that distance, the bond will start to deteriorate," she explained. "You'll experience increasing pain, disorientation, and eventually the bond will collapse entirely, killing you both."

"So I need to stay within two hundred miles of the capital," Silas said.

"Ideally, you should stay within one hundred and fifty miles. That will keep the bond stable while still putting enough distance between you and the political situation."

"And the pain? How bad will it be?"

"Significant. The bond is designed to function with both participants in close proximity. Stretching it over long distances will cause constant discomfort for both of you. Not unbearable, but definitely unpleasant."

"Define unpleasant."

Professor Vex hesitated. "Imagine a constant headache, combined with a feeling of incompleteness, like you're missing a limb. It won't incapacitate you, but it will be a constant background presence, affecting your mood, your energy levels, your ability to concentrate."

"For months."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Silas. But there's no way around it. The bond requires proximity. Anything else is going to hurt."

Silas absorbed this information, adding it to the growing list of reasons why this plan was terrible.

But every path led to the same conclusion: the coalition wouldn't negotiate as long as Silas was in the picture. His power, his influence, his bond with Elara—these were the obstacles that prevented compromise.

And if they wanted to avoid a civil war, if they wanted to secure the reforms, if they wanted to save the kingdom, Silas had to leave.

It was that simple. And that terrible.

On the fourth day, Silas made his decision.

He'd spent three days thinking about it, weighing the options, considering every alternative. And every path led to the same conclusion: his presence was the obstacle preventing peace. As long as he was visible in the capital, as long as his power loomed over every negotiation, the coalition would never agree to compromise.

He had to leave.

"I'm going to leave," he told Elara. They were in her private quarters, sitting together on the couch, connected by the bond but feeling more separate than they had in months. "Not permanently, not forever. But I'm going to remove myself from the political situation, go somewhere remote, give the coalition what they want."

"And the bond?"

"We'll keep it intact. But I'll be far enough away that I'm not a visible presence in the capital. The coalition can pretend I don't exist, and you can negotiate with them without my power hanging over the discussions."

"That won't work. The bond requires us to stay within a certain distance of each other. If you go too far, we'll both suffer."

Silas had thought about this. The bond had a range—they'd discovered it during the early days after the coronation, when they'd experimented with how far apart they could be. Within about fifty miles, the bond functioned normally. Beyond that, it became uncomfortable. Beyond a hundred miles, it became painful. Beyond two hundred miles, it would probably kill them both.

"Then we'll push the limits. We'll find out exactly how far apart we can be before the bond becomes painful, and I'll stay just within that range."

"Silas, that's going to hurt. Constantly. Every day you're away, we'll both be in pain."

"I know. But it's better than a civil war. And it's better than breaking the bond completely."

Through the bond, he felt Elara's resistance warring with her acceptance. She didn't want him to go, but she understood why he had to. She knew that his presence was preventing the negotiations from succeeding, knew that the coalition would never compromise as long as they saw him as a threat.

"How long?" she asked, her voice small and frightened.

"As long as it takes. Until the coalition agrees to negotiate, until the reforms are secure, until the kingdom is stable."

"That could be months. Years."

"I know."

"I hate this. I hate that we have to make this choice."

"So do I. But we're making it anyway, because it's the right thing to do."

They held each other that night, connected by the bond, sharing their grief and fear and determination. And in the morning, Silas left.

He traveled to the northern mountains, to a remote monastery that had agreed to shelter him. The monastery was ancient, built into the side of a mountain, accessible only by a narrow path that wound through treacherous terrain. It was the perfect place to disappear—isolated, defensible, far from the political machinations of the capital.

The journey took five days. Silas traveled alone, disguised as a simple traveler, avoiding the main roads and staying away from populated areas. He couldn't risk being recognized, couldn't risk the coalition learning where he was going.

The path to the monastery was treacherous. It wound up the mountainside, narrow and steep, with sheer drops on one side and rock walls on the other. In places, the path was barely wide enough for a single person, and the wind howled through the passes with enough force to knock an unwary traveler off the edge.

Silas made the climb slowly, carefully, his body protesting every step. He was still recovering from the injuries he'd sustained during the various assassination attempts, and the physical exertion was taking its toll.

But he kept climbing. Because this was necessary. Because the kingdom needed him to disappear. Because sometimes doing the right thing meant enduring hardship.

The monastery itself was a marvel of ancient architecture. It had been built centuries ago by monks who sought isolation and enlightenment, carved directly into the mountainside, with buildings that seemed to grow out of the rock itself.

The main structure was a series of interconnected chambers and halls, with living quarters for the monks, meditation rooms, a library, and a central temple. The walls were thick stone, designed to withstand the harsh mountain weather, and the windows were narrow slits that let in light while keeping out the wind.

It was beautiful in its austerity. Simple, functional, peaceful.

It was also exactly one hundred and fifty miles from the palace. Far enough that Silas wasn't a visible presence in the capital, close enough that the bond could still function. Barely.

The distance was agonizing.

The moment Silas crossed the threshold of one hundred and fifty miles, he felt the bond strain. It was like a rope being pulled taut, stretched to its limit, threatening to snap at any moment.

The pain was immediate and intense. Not the sharp pain of injury, but a deep, aching pain that permeated everything. It felt like part of him was being torn away, like he was being slowly separated from something essential to his existence.

And through the bond, he knew Elara was feeling the same thing.

The monks welcomed him without questions. They'd been told to expect a guest who needed sanctuary, and they provided it without asking for explanations. They showed him to a small cell—a simple room with a bed, a desk, and a window that looked out over the mountains—and left him alone.

Silas sat on the bed and tried to adjust to the pain.

It was constant. Unrelenting. Every moment of every day, he felt the bond straining, felt the distance between him and Elara like a physical wound.

He'd spent fifteen years learning to dissociate from pain. But this pain was different. It came through the bond, bypassed all his carefully constructed defenses, touched him at a level where dissociation didn't work.

He felt it. All of it. Every moment of every day.

And through the bond, he knew Elara was feeling the same thing.

The first night was the worst. Silas lay in bed, unable to sleep, feeling the pain and the loneliness and the desperate need to be close to Elara. The bond was screaming at him to return, to close the distance, to restore the connection to its proper state.

But he couldn't. He had to stay. For the kingdom. For the reforms. For all the Proxies who were depending on them to succeed.

So he endured.

The days settled into a routine. Silas would wake at dawn, meditate to manage the pain, eat a simple breakfast with the monks, and then spend his days in the library, reading and thinking and trying to stay connected to Elara through the bond.

The connection was weak at this distance. He could still feel her emotions, still sense her presence, but it was muted, distant, like trying to hear someone speaking from the other side of a thick wall.

He knew she was negotiating with the coalition. He could feel her frustration, her determination, her careful navigation of political complexities. But he couldn't help her, couldn't advise her, couldn't be there to support her when things got difficult.

All he could do was endure. And trust that she would succeed.

The monks were kind. They didn't pry into his reasons for being there, didn't ask about the pain they could see in his face. They simply accepted his presence and provided what comfort they could.

One of the monks, an elderly man named Brother Aldric, took a particular interest in Silas. He would sit with him in the library, sharing tea and conversation, offering wisdom without being preachy.

"Pain is a teacher," Brother Aldric said one afternoon. "It shows us what matters, what we're willing to endure, what we value enough to suffer for."

"I've had enough teachers," Silas replied. "I've spent fifteen years learning from pain."

"And what has it taught you?"

"That suffering is meaningless. That pain doesn't make you stronger or wiser or better. It just makes you hurt."

"Perhaps. But the choice to endure pain for a purpose—that has meaning. You're here, suffering, because you believe it will help others. That's not meaningless suffering. That's sacrifice."

"It doesn't feel noble. It just feels like it hurts."

"Nobility rarely feels noble in the moment. It's only in retrospect, when we see the results of our sacrifices, that we understand their value."

Silas wanted to argue, but he was too tired. The constant pain was wearing him down, grinding away at his energy and his will.

But he kept enduring. Because Brother Aldric was right—this wasn't meaningless suffering. This was sacrifice for a purpose. And that made it bearable.

Barely.

Every day, Silas felt the bond straining, felt the pain of separation, felt Elara's loneliness and his own echoing through their connection. It was like being slowly torn apart, like having a wound that never healed, like dying by inches.

The pain was constant, unrelenting, impossible to ignore. It wasn't the sharp, immediate pain of injury—it was a deep, aching pain that permeated everything, that colored every moment, that made even simple tasks feel overwhelming.

Silas had spent fifteen years learning to dissociate from pain. But this pain was different. It came through the bond, bypassed all his carefully constructed defenses, touched him at a level where dissociation didn't work.

He felt it. All of it. Every moment of every day.

And through the bond, he knew Elara was feeling the same thing.

The monks at the monastery were kind. They provided him with a simple room, basic meals, and the solitude he needed to endure the separation. They didn't ask questions, didn't pry into his reasons for being there. They simply accepted his presence and left him alone.

Silas spent his days in meditation, trying to manage the pain, trying to maintain his connection to Elara despite the distance. He could still feel her through the bond—her emotions, her thoughts, her presence. But it was muted, distant, like trying to hear someone speaking from the other side of a thick wall.

He knew she was negotiating with the coalition. He could feel her frustration, her determination, her careful navigation of political complexities. But he couldn't help her, couldn't advise her, couldn't be there to support her when things got difficult.

All he could do was endure. And trust that she would succeed.

The separation lasted six months. Six months of constant pain, six months of loneliness, six months of feeling incomplete and broken.

But it worked.

In his absence, Elara was able to negotiate with the coalition. Without his power looming over the discussions, without the threat of his intervention, the nobles were willing to talk, willing to compromise, willing to accept the reforms in exchange for certain concessions.

The negotiations were difficult. The coalition demanded guarantees, safeguards, assurances that the reforms wouldn't go too far, that the traditional power structures would be preserved to some degree. Elara had to give ground on some issues, had to accept compromises that she didn't like, had to make deals that felt like betrayals of her principles.

Silas felt every moment of the negotiations through the bond. He felt Elara's frustration when the coalition made unreasonable demands. He felt her anger when they tried to water down the reforms. He felt her exhaustion as the negotiations dragged on for weeks, then months.

And he felt her determination. Her absolute refusal to give up, her commitment to securing the reforms no matter what it cost her personally.

The coalition's demands were extensive. They wanted the reforms implemented gradually, over ten years instead of five. They wanted exemptions for certain provinces, certain estates, certain types of magical work. They wanted oversight committees, review boards, mechanisms to slow down or reverse the reforms if they proved "economically disruptive."

Elara fought them on every point. She negotiated, compromised, found middle ground where she could. But she also held firm on the core principles—the Shared Bond system would become standard, Proxies would have rights and protections, the old system of exploitation would end.

It took three months of intense negotiations. Three months of Silas sitting in the monastery, feeling Elara's struggles through the bond, unable to help except by enduring his own pain and trusting her to succeed.

There were moments when it seemed like the negotiations would fail. When the coalition would walk away, when civil war seemed inevitable, when all their sacrifices would be for nothing.

But Elara persisted. She found allies among the more moderate nobles, built coalitions within the coalition, created pressure from multiple directions. She used every political skill she'd learned, every bit of leverage she had, every ounce of determination she could muster.

And slowly, gradually, she wore them down.

The breakthrough came in the fourth month. Lord Pemberton, who had been leading the coalition's negotiating team, privately approached Elara with a proposal. If she would agree to a longer implementation timeline and certain safeguards, he would convince the coalition to accept the reforms.

It wasn't everything Elara wanted. But it was enough.

She accepted the deal.

The coalition agreed to a peace treaty. The reforms would continue, expanding to all provinces over the next seven years instead of five. The Shared Bond system would become the standard, with the old Proxy system being phased out gradually. Proxies would be given rights, protections, and the option to leave service if they chose.

There would be oversight committees to monitor the implementation, review boards to address concerns, mechanisms to adjust the timeline if necessary. It wasn't perfect, but it was workable.

Most importantly, it was real. Binding. Enforceable.

The reforms were secure.

Silas felt Elara's relief and triumph through the bond when the treaty was signed. He felt her exhaustion, her satisfaction, her pride in what she'd accomplished.

And he felt her desperate need to see him again, to close the distance, to restore the bond to its proper state.

The feeling was mutual.

But she got the reforms. Not everything she wanted, not as quickly as she wanted, but enough. Enough to make a real difference, enough to save thousands of Proxies, enough to begin the transformation of the kingdom.

And that was worth six months of pain and separation.

That was worth everything.

The coalition agreed to a peace treaty. The reforms would continue, expanding to all provinces over the next five years. The Shared Bond system would become the standard, with the old Proxy system being phased out gradually. Proxies would be given rights, protections, and the option to leave service if they chose.

It wasn't everything Silas and Elara had wanted. There were compromises, concessions, delays. But it was progress. Real, substantial, lasting progress.

And when the treaty was signed, when the peace was secured, Silas returned to the capital.

The journey back took three days. With each mile closer to the palace, Silas felt the pain of separation easing, felt the bond strengthening, felt Elara's presence becoming clearer and more immediate.

He traveled faster on the return journey, driven by the desperate need to close the distance, to restore the bond, to be whole again. The pain that had been constant for six months was finally easing, and the relief was almost overwhelming.

At one hundred miles from the palace, the bond shifted from painful to merely uncomfortable. At seventy-five miles, it became tolerable. At fifty miles, it felt almost normal.

And at twenty-five miles, Silas could feel Elara clearly again. Her emotions, her thoughts, her presence—all of it came flooding back through the bond with an intensity that made him gasp.

She was waiting for him. He could feel her anticipation, her joy, her desperate need to see him again.

He urged his horse faster, covering the last miles at a gallop, not caring about dignity or protocol or anything except getting to her as quickly as possible.

By the time he reached the palace gates, the pain was almost gone, replaced by a growing sense of anticipation and relief.

The guards recognized him despite his travel-worn appearance and let him through immediately. He dismounted and ran through the palace corridors, following the bond like a compass pointing home.

Elara met him halfway, running from her quarters, and they collided in the middle of a hallway, holding each other with desperate intensity.

The bond snapped back into place properly, the distance finally closed, the connection restored to its full strength.

It was like coming home after a long exile. Like finding water after months in a desert. Like breathing freely after being underwater.

They were whole again.

The reunion was overwhelming. The moment they were close enough for the bond to function properly, the pain of separation vanished, replaced by a flood of relief and joy and love so intense it was almost painful.

They held each other for a long time, not speaking, just feeling the bond reconnect, feeling whole again after six months of being broken.

"I missed you," Elara whispered.

"I missed you too."

"Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't. Not unless I absolutely have to."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Through the bond, he felt her belief in his promise, her trust that he would keep it, her love for him that had only grown stronger during their separation.

And he felt his own love for her, his gratitude that she had endured the separation, his pride in what she had accomplished while he was gone.

They had sacrificed their happiness for the kingdom. And the kingdom had been saved.

It was worth it. Painful, difficult, almost unbearable—but worth it.

Because some things were more important than personal happiness. Some causes were worth suffering for. Some goals were worth any sacrifice.

And they had achieved their goal. The reforms were secure. The Proxies would be free. The kingdom would be better.

Everything else was just details.

Through the bond, he felt Elara's resistance warring with her acceptance. She didn't want him to go, but she understood why he had to.

"How long?" she asked.

"As long as it takes. Until the coalition agrees to negotiate, until the reforms are secure, until the kingdom is stable."

"That could be months. Years."

"I know."

"I hate this. I hate that we have to make this choice."

"So do I. But we're making it anyway, because it's the right thing to do."

They held each other that night, connected by the bond, sharing their grief and fear and determination. And in the morning, Silas left.

He traveled to the northern mountains, to a remote monastery that had agreed to shelter him. It was as far from the capital as he could get while still maintaining the bond, and the distance was agonizing.

Every day, he felt the bond straining, felt the pain of separation, felt Elara's loneliness and his own echoing through their connection. It was like being slowly torn apart, like having a wound that never healed, like dying by inches.

But it was necessary.

Because in his absence, Elara was able to negotiate with the coalition. Without his power looming over the discussions, without the threat of his intervention, the nobles were willing to talk, willing to compromise, willing to accept the reforms in exchange for certain concessions.

It took six months. Six months of pain, six months of separation, six months of feeling incomplete and broken.

But it worked.

The coalition agreed to a peace treaty. The reforms would continue, expanding to all provinces over the next five years. The Shared Bond system would become the standard, with the old Proxy system being phased out gradually. Proxies would be given rights, protections, and the option to leave service if they chose.

It wasn't everything Silas and Elara had wanted. There were compromises, concessions, delays. But it was progress. Real, substantial, lasting progress.

And when the treaty was signed, when the peace was secured, Silas returned to the capital.

The reunion was overwhelming. The moment they were close enough for the bond to function properly, the pain of separation vanished, replaced by a flood of relief and joy and love so intense it was almost painful.

They held each other for a long time, not speaking, just feeling the bond reconnect, feeling whole again after six months of being broken.

"I missed you," Elara whispered.

"I missed you too."

"Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't. Not unless I absolutely have to."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Through the bond, he felt her belief in his promise, her trust that he would keep it, her love for him that had only grown stronger during their separation.

And he felt his own love for her, his gratitude that she had endured the separation, his pride in what she had accomplished while he was gone.

They had sacrificed their happiness for the kingdom. And the kingdom had been saved.

It was worth it. Painful, difficult, almost unbearable—but worth it.

Because some things were more important than personal happiness. Some causes were worth suffering for. Some goals were worth any sacrifice.

And they had achieved their goal. The reforms were secure. The Proxies would be free. The kingdom would be better.

Everything else was just details.

End of Chapter 25