chapter 63
The moon hung low, veiled behind drifting clouds as silence cloaked the palace of Aethelgar. The corridors were empty, save for the soft patter of slippered feet against cold stone. Kara moved like a shadow herself, her steps careful and practiced. Dressed in a muted cloak, she paused only once—just outside the Queen's chamber.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and Esmeralda emerged. No jewels, no elaborate gown—only a dark green cloak drawn tightly over her figure. Her expression was unreadable, yet her eyes shimmered with a hunger Kara had seen only once before—on the night she had asked for the impossible.
Without words, they moved. Through servant passages and hidden stairwells, they glided like whispers through the sleeping palace, until the cool night air touched their skin. Outside, the garden rustled gently under the wind's breath, and beyond it, the city awaited.
Unbeknownst to them, another shadow trailed silently behind. Asriel, ever watchful, had seen Kara slip away and followed with the patience of a hunter. His dark cloak melded with the night, his steps practiced for silence. He kept to the edges of buildings, ducking behind stone walls and carts, eyes never leaving the women.
They moved swiftly, descending from the royal hill into the heart of the city, where the lights burned low and the taverns held their last patrons. Finally, they stopped at an unremarkable wooden door nestled between two shops. Kara knocked twice, paused, then once again. The door creaked open.
Morgana stood in the threshold, her form calm, her face shrouded in the dim light, but unmistakably regal—ancient even. Esmeralda stepped forward, and without hesitation, Morgana bowed her head and kissed the Queen's hand.
"Vahl miren'ta," Morgana whispered reverently. Welcome, my Queen.
Asriel stiffened in the shadows across the narrow alley. His blood turned cold as his eyes locked onto the woman. The face—it was unmistakable. The face of his mother. Morgana.
But he said nothing. Made no sound. Only watched, heart pounding with a confusion and fury he dared not yet unleash.
Inside the tavern, the door closed quietly behind the two women. Asriel remained in the shadows, unmoving, his mind racing. He had to tell Hosea—but he would not mention her face. Not yet. Not until he understood why she had returned. And what it would mean for them all.
----
The room was dimly lit, golden candlelight casting soft shadows on the worn wooden walls. Morgana stood with her back to the door as Esmeralda entered, the soft rustle of her fine gown echoing through the silence. Kara closed the door behind them and stepped aside.
Morgana turned slowly, her eyes meeting Esmeralda's. The Queen of Aethelgar was striking—tall, poised, dressed in silk embroidered with golden threads. Her beauty had once been the talk of the court.
But tonight, as Esmeralda looked at the woman before her, something stirred in her chest. Morgana's beauty was… otherworldly. Ageless. Her raven-black hair flowed like ink, her pale skin almost glowing beneath the candlelight, and her eyes—sharp, deep, ancient—seemed to hold every secret of the world. She didn't need a crown or title to command a room. She was the room.
Esmeralda's lips curled slightly, not quite a sneer, not quite a smile.
"You're not what I expected," she said, voice smooth but edged with something darker. "You look more like a painted goddess than a woman cast out by fate."
Morgana tilted her head slightly. "And you look like a queen desperate to remind herself she still holds power."
A quiet tension stretched between them.
"I see now why my father favors you," Esmeralda said, stepping closer, letting her eyes travel—just a little too long. "You're captivating. Even I—" She stopped herself, catching the strange pull of envy creeping up her spine.
Morgana noticed it. Of course, she did. The jealousy, the insecurity, the need to dominate—she had seen it in many women before. But with Esmeralda, it came wrapped in polished arrogance and silken grace. All show. All bark. No bite.
"I'm flattered," Morgana said coolly, pouring a cup of wine. "Though I did not come here to be admired. Or compared."
"Of course not," Esmeralda said with a faint, mocking smile. "You're here to speak of plans, not beauty." She took the cup from Morgana's hand without asking, taking a sip like a challenge. "Still… it's strange. Standing beside you makes me feel like a shadow. And I don't enjoy feeling small."
"You are not small," Morgana replied, walking slowly around her. "You are loud, and stubborn. And convenient."
Esmeralda turned, caught off guard. "Convenient?"
"Yes." Morgana stopped behind her, eyes cool and unreadable. "You speak of power. You dream of vengeance. You want the throne not because you care for your son, but because you want to win. Women like you burn fast and bright… but rarely for long."
Esmeralda stiffened, her grip on the cup tightening. "Careful, witch. I may not have your magic, but I am Queen. And I have claws of my own."
Morgana merely smiled, her reflection meeting Esmeralda's in the mirror. "And yet… you're here. Doing my bidding."
The silence that followed was thick, humming with tension. But Morgana let it hang.
She could read Esmeralda like an open book. Jealousy. Ambition. Insecurity masked as confidence. A desperate hunger for validation. She was no true threat… not yet. But women like her were useful. They made noise. They made chaos. And Morgana needed chaos.
As Esmeralda looked away from the mirror, clearly rattled but unwilling to show it, Morgana stepped back toward the shadows.
"Dusk," she said, voice like smoke. "You'll bring me what I need. Then, we'll see how much power you truly hold."
Esmeralda, regaining her composure, raised her chin. "I always deliver."
Morgana nodded slowly. "We'll see."
As the door creaked open and Esmeralda stepped out with Kara trailing behind, Morgana turned to the window once more, her thoughts already elsewhere.
"All bark," she whispered to herself, "but bark can still draw wolves… if loud enough."
And outside, in the dark, Asriel watched.
---
Two days later, Valla stood still beneath the gray morning sky, the air thick with the weight of parting. In the palace courtyard, horses stamped nervously as the royal entourage prepared to depart for Aethelgar. Cloaks were drawn tight, saddlebags secured, and goodbyes hung heavy in the air like mist.
Alissa stood tall beside her steed, her fur-lined cloak flowing in the breeze. She was no child—twenty now, with a poise that mirrored her father's. Still, there was something tender in the way her hands fidgeted around her gloves, betraying a storm beneath her calm surface.
King Mathias was already mounted, speaking with the captains and finalizing the travel orders. Not far behind the royal pair, Adam rode among the entourage—not too close to draw suspicion, but not far enough to be overlooked. His eyes sought hers often, and when she glanced back at him, the smallest smile softened her face.
By the palace steps, Grendy stood like a statue, watching his son. He hadn't wanted Adam to go. Mathias had asked him to stay, to be the anchor for Alistair in his absence—a voice of reason when storms rose. But Adam had made his choice, and Grendy, though proud, could do nothing but watch.
Then came the moment Alissa had been avoiding. She turned at the sound of familiar footsteps.
Alistair walked toward her, flanked by Jasmine and little Caelen, who hurried forward ahead of them.
"Aunt Alissa!" Caelen called out, throwing his arms around her waist.
She smiled and scooped him up, hugging him tightly. "You're getting heavier, you little troublemaker."
"I'm going to be good while you're gone," Caelen promised with wide eyes. "I'll watch over Papa and Mama."
"I know you will." She brushed a kiss to his forehead before gently setting him down.
Her gaze lifted to Jasmine. "I guess I won't be here when the baby comes."
Jasmine smiled softly and placed a hand on her rounded belly. "Don't worry. I'll make sure to tell her all about her beautiful aunt. And you'll be back before she starts crying too loud."
Alissa laughed quietly, her eyes shining with warmth and sorrow. Then she turned to her brother.
Alistair stood still, as if unsure how to begin. "So… this is it."
"I'll miss you, Alissa," Alistair said, his voice soft but steady.
"I know," she replied, her tone equally steady. "But you'll manage without me. I'll be back before you know it."
There was a long pause, and Alistair's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he looked away, as if he were struggling to say something more. Instead, he just gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"Take care of yourself," she said, squeezing his shoulder briefly before stepping back.
He gave a slight smirk. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
Their hug lingered before Jasmine gently stepped forward. "They're ready."
Mathias called to his daughter, and Alissa turned one last time to look at her family.
She climbed into her saddle with practiced ease. Adam, a few rows back, straightened as she did, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing that mattered.
A trumpet sounded, the gates opened, and the caravan began to roll out—Mathias and Alissa at the front, banners fluttering behind them.
Adam followed with the other knights and nobles. Grendy watched his son's back with a heavy heart. He couldn't stop him now.
Beside him, Alistair watched the departing figures. Jasmine slipped her hand into his.
"Something's changing," he murmured.
"Yes," she said. "But maybe it's time."
They stood in silence as Valla's future rode out into the unknown, the wind carrying hope, fear, and something else—a promise not yet fulfilled.