Chapter 267: His Redemption
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.