Sir Alaric lowered himself in a half–bow, voice poised to speak the instant the baby began to fuss but Isolde spoke first, her head still bowed.
“He’s but a babe, Your Majesty,” she said softly, eyes lowered. “Surely beneath such noble
regard.”
From the corner of my eye I spotted the glint of a blade hidden in her sleeve. I stepped between her and King Edmund, scooped the child into my arms, and said, loud enough for the throne room to
hear:
“He looks exactly like Lady Isolde, Your Majesty. Strange, though–I can’t find a trace of Sir Alaric
in him.”
The King was no fool. A single look from him, and two guards closed in behind Isolde.
He nodded approvingly at me and speak to Isolde. “Let me see your face, my lady.”
Isolde lifted her chin the barest inch–and the King’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the
Queen Dowager.
“I feel an odd fondness for the boy,” he mused. “Perhaps he should remain in the Royal Keep.”
The Queen Dowager stiffened. “He is far too young to be parted from his mother.”
“Then leave the mother here as well,” the King replied, gaze sharpened with meaning.
Sir Alaric opened his mouth, but the King waved a hand, already turning away.
“I tire of this. You may all withdraw.”
He pointed at me before I could step back. “You–well done.”
Prince Julian beamed so brightly he nearly blinded me, dropped to his knees, and thanked his father for the praise–earning a withering look for the theatrics.
Outside the gate
Sir Alaric barred my path, anger barely leashed.
“What were you playing at in there?”
I blinked, all innocence.
“Only the truth. The baby doesn’t favor you at all. And he’s full–term, though Lady Isolde was only
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seven months along. You should be grateful he’s healthy.”
“If you’re scheming against me” he began, voice low with warning.
But the moment his eyes fell on my mother behind me, the words withered in his throat.
“Elowen…” He used her old stage name like it was a charm to turn back time.
Mother’s child had reached four months; the swell showed plainly beneath her gown.
“Give me a little longer,” Alaric begged, hand hovering over her waist. “I can make this right–for you and Elinor.”
Mother’s laugh was cold. “Your son already draws breath, yet you still need a spare for your witch’s
brew?”
“No–no, I only ask that you keep our child,” he stammered. “I can offer him everything once the
King hears me out-
“Your heir and your Lady still wait in the palace,” I said coolly, tilting my head. “Tread carefully, Sir Storme–there’s only so far a man can stretch before he tears.”
His face drained. He lunged, but Mother’s icy, titled voice cut him short.
“Mind yourself, sir.”
I cast him a final glance–measured and cold. Let him toss and turn tonight, haunted by everything slipping through his fingers.
The next morning
Prince Julian raced in from the palace, breathless with gossip.
“They found her–an exiled princess of the old line!”
Lady Isolde–no, the last princess of the fallen dynasty–and her infant had been thrown into the
water cells beneath the Royal Keep. Sir Alaric was hauled away as he tried to force yet another
audience with the King, claiming he possessed evidence of the final rebel faction.
A lover to a traitorous princess–how could he not have known?
Thanks to the Queen Dowager’s petitions, Alaric was merely confined to House Storn Princess’s sentence was carried out. Only then would his own fate be decided.
until the
I had no intention of waiting that long.
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Chapter 9
Through Prince Julian’s connection, I was granted one final visit to the dungeon where Isolde was
imprisoned.
She glared at me with undisguised hatred, furious that I would dare show up–smug, composed, and standing in the place she once claimed as hers.
“We’ve known who you were all along,” I said calmly. “Everything Father did–all the fawning, the games–was to draw you out.”
“He despised you, Isolde. If not for the influence behind your bloodline, our family would’ve been living a peaceful life, just the four of us.”
Realization dawned in her eyes. “So that’s why you dared threaten me at the Springtide Banquet…”
I only smiled and blinked. “Still worked out well for me, don’t you think? My little brother will be born any month now. Yours…” I tilted my head toward the darkened depths of the dungeon. “Well, I don’t hear him crying anymore.”
Isolde slumped to the floor, her pride shattered.
“I knew,” she whispered hoarsely. “He never truly loved me. Even in bed, he called out your
mother’s name.”
Then a bitter laugh slipped from her lips. “But I fooled him too. That child? Never his.”
Before her death, Isolde named Sir Alaric as her co–conspirator. Claimed every scheme had been
masterminded by him.
“You call yourself a king? You butchered my kin and crushed my house beneath your heel! You’re no different from that oath–breaking wretch who promised me protection. May you both burn for
what you’ve done!”
King Edmund’s gaze sharpened, his voice calm but laced with steel.
“Your kin lived in splendor while the rest of the realm starved. Your father’s so–called legacy was
bought with the blood and broken backs of peasants. You speak of glory–yet all I see is rot hidden
beneath velvet.”
“And Sir Storme? He will join you soon enough–once the truth is confirmed.”
The proof Alaric had gathered to claim glory became the very blade pressed to his throat.
Though the Queen Dowager begged mercy, King Edmund spared only his life.
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A royal decree was issued: Alaric Storme was to be exiled to Frostmoor Colony. There would be no trial. No farewell. Just a quiet escort from his estate at dawn, bound in chains beneath a heavy cloak -gone before the neighbors even stirred.
Frostmoor was a sentence, not a place. No man returned from there. And the Crown intended it that
way.
As the decree was read, Mother drank the tincture of rue and wrapped the remains of her four–month–old child in a fine brocade box. It was sent to House Storme by courier.
I rode ahead to deliver it, just in time to see Alaric lift the lid, eyes brimming with hope.
“Elowen,” he murmured, “I knew it–you still care for me…”
And then he saw it. The crimson bundle. The death of his last illusion.
He screamed and collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
When he woke, he was à man undone–raving, fevered, lost to madness.
The day of his exile, we came to see him off. Mother and I stood at a distance as the chains were locked in place.
She had long sworn off marriage, devoting her life to healing women of the common folk.
With her growing reputation came peace–and laughter returned to her lips.
Alaric, lucid for once, looked at her over and over, as though memorizing her face.
“If I’d told you the truth from the beginning,” he asked, voice cracking, “would things have been
different?”
“You didn’t,” Mother said gently. “You let us suffer.”
“If my parents hadn’t found me in time, would you really have left me rotting in the Quarry pits to
wait for you forever?”
“No! I only meant to hide you in the countryside for safety. I never wanted to send you to ruin.” He
reached for her, desperate. “You don’t know what it meant, seeing you at the banquet…”
My cheek throbbed at the memory.
If he truly cared, why strike me? Why throw us into that fountain like yesterday’s refuse?
His love was always tangled–never clear, never kind.
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Even if he spent every night by my side, begging for forgiveness like a ghost with nowhere else to
go I could never forgive him.
And neither could Mother.
She leaned in, whispering into his ear.
“I hired someone to kill you on the road.”
Then she turned away, taking my hand in hers.
“Safe travels.”
Alaric never made it to Frostmoor.
The Queen Dowager mourned him for a while–but soon, she poured all her affection and attention
onto me.
After all, I was the only child he ever truly had.
Prince Julian was restored to his rightful place in court, though he still snuck out often to visit me.
One day, Mother took us out to fly kites beneath the open sky.
As Julian and I laughed, running through the field, she watched us with a soft smile.
“This life of sorrow has ended,” she murmured. “All I wish for now… is peace.”
Chapter 9
