Chapter 62
The early morning light filtered softly through the high arched windows of the prince's chamber, casting long golden rays across the cold stone floor. Prince Hosea stood near the table, eyes flicking over a map spread before him, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. His sharp features were pinched in thought when a faint shift in the air drew his gaze.
From the far shadows, Asriel emerged.
Silent, composed. Just as he always was.
"You asked for me, Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly.
"What did you find?" Hosea asked, not turning.
Asriel stepped forward. "This morning, before the sun fully rose, Kara—the maid—brought a woman through the eastern servant gate. She was cloaked and hidden well. I followed them through the outer corridors, but I lost them near the old storage halls."
Hosea turned then, staring hard. "Did you see her face?"
Asriel paused—only for a heartbeat—but enough to feel the weight of memory.
He had seen her face.
The same face he'd never forgotten.
Morgana.
His mother.
Burned by villagers without a trial. Left for dead—until she was not. Until Celine had found him. Saved him. Given him something to live for.
The face he had mourned… now alive, walking in the palace he now served.
But Hosea couldn't know that. Not yet. Not ever, perhaps.
"No," Asriel lied smoothly. "She kept her hood low. I saw nothing but shadows."
Hosea stared at him for a while, his gaze sharp and probing, before nodding slowly. "Very well. Keep watching Kara. And Esmeralda. If they're involved, they'll lead us back to the woman."
Asriel bowed, suppressing the storm inside. "As you wish, my prince."
And then, like a phantom, he stepped backward, merging once more with the shadows, leaving Hosea alone with his thoughts.
As the door creaked faintly from the wind, Hosea muttered to himself, "Who are you… and why do they hide you?"
---
Sunlight poured through the tall windows of Queen Esmeralda's chamber, catching the glimmer of the jewels being fastened around her neck. The room buzzed with the quiet efficiency of her maids as they dressed her for the banquet—combing her hair, straightening the fine embroidery of her gown, dabbing perfume on her wrists.
Esmeralda remained still before the mirror, poised, regal—until her gaze shifted slightly, catching a familiar reflection. Kara had entered quietly, just as she always did, her presence like a shadow gliding over the floor.
Esmeralda's voice broke through the soft hum of the room.
"You may all leave," she said smoothly.
The maids paused, glanced at each other, then obeyed without a word. The last sound was the soft click of the door closing.
Esmeralda turned slowly, her sharp eyes settling on Kara. "Speak."
Kara bowed her head. "I did as you instructed, my queen. She's at the tavern. I saw to it myself."
A subtle smile tugged at Esmeralda's lips. "Very well. You take me to her at dusk—when the palace sleeps."
Kara inclined her head again. "Yes, Your Grace."
Esmeralda turned back to the mirror, smoothing her gown with graceful fingers. "And how is my dress for the banquet?"
"Everything is going smoothly," Kara replied.
"Good. You may leave."
The door closed once more, leaving Esmeralda alone with her reflection.
She stared at the glass for a long time, her features composed yet distant.
Too long… far too long have I tolerated you, Tommen.
And that little bastard of yours…
I gave you everything. I loved you. But you never respected me enough to love me in return.
Her hands, once steady, trembled briefly—then clenched in her lap.
You will learn, my king, that even the quietest storm can destroy everything you built.
A slow, cruel smile played on her lips.
And now, I will show you what a woman scorned is truly capable of.
---
The polished stone floor of Aethelgar's palace gleamed under the golden light of the chandeliers above as Ronan and his older brother, Garran, strode down the great hall. The cold air smelled faintly of iron and incense, the scent of power lingering in every corner of the castle.
"I still don't understand why we are here," Ronan muttered.
"Because we are Lord Roderick's sons," Garran replied, a half-smile playing at his lips. "And you, little brother, are finally back from the Citadel. People talk."
"I've barely stepped foot back in the city, and already—"
"Quiet," Garran warned softly, just as a door opened to their left.
Their father, Lord Roderick, emerged, his back straight and his expression sharp as ever. "Garran," he greeted with a nod. Then his eyes shifted to Ronan. "You're here."
"Father," Ronan said with a slight bow.
Before more could be said, the heavy doors at the end of the hall opened again, and in swept King Tommen, robed in black and crimson, and beside him, his ever-silent shadow—Prince Hosea.
The brothers and their father bowed in perfect unison.
Tommen's eyes scanned them, lingering first on Garran, then shifting to Ronan. "Lord Garran," he said, voice like velvet on steel. Then he tilted his head slightly toward the younger one. "And you must be the younger one… I can't seem to remember the name."
He tapped his fingers together, mockingly thoughtful.
"Ronan," the boy said, steady.
"Right," Tommen mused, as though only now recalling something buried beneath years of war and wine. "I remember now. You used to come here with your father. Always hiding behind his cloak." He chuckled. "You were quiet."
"Yes, Your Highness," Ronan replied, his tone respectful.
Prince Hosea stood beside his father, unmoving. His eyes swept over them all with calculated indifference. He said nothing. He didn't have to.
Once, years ago, he and Ronan had been inseparable—boys running through the palace gardens, sword-fighting with sticks, whispering dreams of glory. But time and blood had changed everything. Now they were strangers.
Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds. No warmth. No recognition. Hosea looked away.
"I hear you've just returned from the Citadel," said Tommen. "If you're half as smart as your brother and your father, then Aethelgar may have a place for you after all."
With that, he turned away, walking off with regal ease. Hosea followed without a word. Lord Roderick, after a final glance at his sons, followed them.
Ronan's gaze lingered on the retreating figures, something unreadable flickering in his expression.
"Careful with the way you stare," Garran muttered under his breath, bumping his brother's arm. "That's the king and the crown prince."
Then he hooked his arm around Ronan's shoulder and steered him down another hallway.