Chapter 223: Her Past(1)
Aldric nodded once, deliberately. "It’s your bloodline," he said, his voice low but edged with urgency.
She was in the dungeons and was kept from the happenings of the nation. He needed her to understand, that the tides that were shifting around them were far greater than courtly squabbles. She had to act wisely now. Pride, etiquette, petty grievances... all of it meant nothing in the face of what was coming.
And it was pretty stupid to attack a married couple for being intimate in their own house, no matter what the etiquette says. They had to stand united.
Aralyn’s breath caught, her eyes widening. "My... bloodline?" she whispered, as if the words themselves were foreign to her.
For a moment, she was no longer the imperious woman. She was a girl again, one from a minor, half-forgotten noble house, whose name carried little weight in court. Her family’s lineage was a fractured tale, forever marked by the adoption of a distant ancestor seven generations ago. Nobles had long memories. They never let her family forget their supposed "taint."
And then the plague came. She could still recall the smell of burning linen, the endless funerals, the silence of a house emptied of laughter. She had survived where the rest had not. A lowborn girl with a noble name, brought to the capital to serve as a lady-in-waiting to a distant relative.
She had been eighteen when she attended her first palace ball. The night was a blur of glittering chandeliers and masked faces. For someone from the countryside, this was all new and overwhelming. She took a walk outside. And it was there, in the moonlit gardens, that she met him.
He had worn simple clothes, blending easily among the guests. She thought him a visiting scholar, perhaps a poet. They spoke of everything and nothing—books, stars, the foolishness of nobles, the sweetness of freedom when no one was watching. She remembered how easily he laughed. How his eyes softened when he looked at her. And she remembered the faint crescent mark on his cheek, half-hidden by a stray lock of hair.
For that smile, she had thought, she could give him anything.
And she did.
It was only later, as the guests filed back into the great hall, that she saw him again, standing at the head of the dais, crowned and robed in gold and crimson. The man she had kissed beneath the garden lanterns was the King of Vaeloria.
She had slept with the King.
Panic had clawed up her throat. She had heard the whispers of the Queen’s jealousy, of her cruelty toward the king’s mistresses and their illegitimate children. Aralyn had prayed, desperately, that it had been a fleeting night. That the King would forget her face, and the Queen would never know. That it would all end quietly, like a secret folded into the dark.
But it did not end there. The King had somehow found her, sought her out with a determination that startled her. He entered openly into the house of the noble she had been serving, proclaiming her as his lover before all could bear witness.
In that moment, she thought her life was over; her freedom, her safety, her very existence lay bare before the world.
Yet, instead of leaving her exposed to ruin, the King arranged a safe place for her, shielding her from the prying eyes of the court. And then... he said the unlikeliest thing.
He told her he loved her.
Aralyn, who had yearned for love but never from a King, hesitated. She recoiled from the idea, fearing the impossible. Yet, over time, his care, his patience, the quiet ways he made her feel cherished, softened her heart. She found herself falling in love with him, despite the danger, despite the impossible circumstances.
It did not last. The Queen discovered her, circumventing even the protective measures the King had put in place. Aralyn still trembled, recalling that look: blame, jealousy, hatred, and something darker, something calculating. The Queen demanded her departure.
But the King returned, relentless, unwavering. Aralyn saw the depth of his concern, the fierce tenderness in his eyes, the way he sheltered her even from his Queen’s wrath. She felt guilty for the pain she caused, yet the King leaned on her, soothing her heart with a presence that was both fortress and balm.
When Aralyn learned she was pregnant, she felt she had no choice but to leave. Yet the King did not abandon her. He vowed to protect her, to leave his throne, his comfort, and follow her if she truly wished to escape. He promised she would be safe, that she would be free from harm, even if it meant defying the Queen herself.
And there were trials. The Queen caught wind of the pregnancy, and accidents began to shadow Aralyn’s life. But the King stood as a mountain between her and danger, willing to crush anyone who threatened her.
He wanted to depose the queen, he tried, but failed. He couldn’t do anything further as he respected the loyalty of her uncle. He extended every ounce of grace and protection to Aralyn because he knew she only had him to depend on.
Through it all, Aralyn understood the truth of her predicament: she could not escape, yet she was not without her protector. The King’s love, though dangerous and forbidden, was as real as the blood in her veins.
And... she still remembered the first moment she held her son. Tiny, fragile, and perfect, he bore a mark, just like his father’s, his shaped like a flame, etched on the same pale skin, a crimson testament to their bloodline. She had barely touched him, when the King’s eyes, usually so steady and unreadable, darkened with a shadow of worry and awe.
"I’ll protect him with everything I have," he vowed, his voice low, steady, carrying the weight of a promise heavier than any crown. "I’ll have to."
That night, the world seemed to mark the child’s birth with an unnatural spectacle. The stars fell like sparks from some celestial forge, streaking the heavens with fire. The moonless sky was lit with brilliance, as though the universe itself bore witness.
On the day her son was born, the stars cried fire.
She hadn’t even fed him, and the baby hadn’t even looked at her properly, and yet she already knew: this was her child, her flesh and blood, born of love amid chaos, a defiant spark against the shadows that threatened them. So small... so pale... so perfect. The most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. His father had wanted him, had protected both mother and child, and in that, Aralyn found a fragile, fleeting comfort.
But the world outside their fragile bubble did not rest. Even before the afterbirth was finished, before the midwife could wrap the newborn in warmth, the clash of swords rang through the halls; a violent announcement that the Queen had already sent killers, eager to snuff out her precious son.