Chapter 49
The high chamber of Aethelgar's council hall was a place of echoes and ancient stone, where daylight spilled through long stained-glass windows and draped the marble floor in hues of red and gold. King Tommen sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a deep green cloak trimmed with silver thread. Time had been kind to him—his hair, though streaked with grey at the temples, still held its dark luster, and his shoulders bore the weight of the crown with enduring strength. There was a quiet authority in the way he moved, and in the stillness with which he listened.
Around him, his council spoke in measured voices. Lords and advisors of long-standing debated matters of grain stores, the eastern road repairs, and the merchant petitions from the lowlands. Tommen listened, responding only when needed, his voice low and firm.
Then Lord Erek, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, leaned forward.
"There is another matter, Your Majesty. Whispers grow louder each day—young girls, daughters of merchants and lowborn alike, have gone missing. Vanished, with no trace left behind."
The chamber fell silent for a breath.
Tommen's brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward the tall windows, his fingers curled around the edge of his chair. He seemed to stare far beyond the room, as though haunted by shadows none could see.
"Launch an inquiry," he said at last, his voice heavy. "Discreet, but thorough. The matter is not to be taken lightly. Whoever is behind this wickedness shall be brought to justice, and punished with no mercy. See to it."
The councillors nodded grimly.
Lord Varion, a broader man with a thick beard and long memory, cleared his throat.
"There is still the matter of the Prince's birthday banquet, sire. The boy turns nineteen in but a fortnight. And with it comes talk of his future bride."
At that, murmurs rippled around the table. The matter of Prince Hosea's marriage had long stirred tension. Some looked to strengthen bonds with the western provinces; others, to distant kingdoms. But now, the talk of Valla returned.
Lord Hesten, an older noble from the western coast, scowled.
"This alliance with Valla—'twas ill-considered from the beginning. A waning kingdom with little to offer. We should look to stronger bloodlines, richer dowries."
"But the girl," spoke Lady Tharien, one of the few women to hold a seat at the table, "has made a name for herself. The people admire her, even beyond her borders. She is no ordinary maiden."
"Aye," said another. "Her name is spoken even in the halls of the Citadel. She is learned, composed. Not without merit."
King Tommen raised a hand, and the room hushed once more. His expression was unreadable, eyes shadowed with thought.
"Both sides speak truth," he said quietly. "Valla is not a kingdom of mighty swords or vast armies. But strength comes not only in banners or coin. That girl bears a will I have only seen in few."
He paused, then rose from his seat. The air in the chamber shifted with the weight of his next words.
"Let there be a contest. One of wisdom, of wit, of grace. If she proves herself worthy—before my court and my kingdom—then she shall have my blessing. Let it not be said that Aethelgar crowns a queen lightly. But let it also not be said that we turn blind eyes to promise when it stands before us."
He looked to his gathered council. "If she is as they say—then she shall be my daughter-in-law, and the future Queen of Aethelgar."
There was no cheer, no thunderous applause. Only the solemn nods of those who understood the weight of the king's word.
And so, the matter was set into motion.
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The room was dimly lit, the flickering of a single lamp casting long shadows across the carved stone walls. The hour was late, and the hush of night lay thick—broken only by the soft, steady breathing of young Prince Raymar, fast asleep on Hosea's bed. Limbs sprawled in that careless way only children mastered, his curls tumbled across the pillow like dark ink.
Raymar looked like Esmeralda—there was no denying it. He bore her graceful cheekbones, her delicate jaw, the same refined brows and thick lashes. But his eyes… those vivid blue eyes belonged to Tommen. They were the unmistakable mark of their bloodline—deep, watchful, too knowing for a boy of just nine summers.
Hosea sat nearby, eyes fixed on the scroll he had stolen from Esmeralda's chamber. Its parchment was blank—utterly, maddeningly empty. He turned it over, inspecting the texture, the seams. No seal. No ink. Just silence.
Yet something lingered beneath the surface. A faint scent—strange and bitter—clung to the edge. He lifted it close and inhaled. Wormwood? Perhaps mandrake? No, there was something else—an alchemical trace.
His thoughts raced back to a lesson half-forgotten, one of the old tomes buried in the royal library: hidden ink that only revealed itself with heat or light.
He moved toward the lamp, holding the parchment just above the flame. The warmth licked at the air, and slowly, as though waking from slumber, words began to breathe to life upon the surface:
"The plan is almost ready. Do not ruin it. And do not get caught. You are my last hope."
Hosea stared at the script, his expression unreadable.
"The plan…" he murmured. His jaw tensed. What plan? What was she weaving beneath their feet?
A soft sound drew his attention—Raymar shifting under the covers with a faint whimper, caught in the snare of a dream. Hosea moved quickly, rolling the parchment and slipping it into a slit behind his writing desk.
"Brother…" the boy murmured, his voice barely a whisper.
Hosea sat beside the bed, watching him. Raymar's brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together in discomfort. Gently, Hosea reached out and ran his fingers through the boy's thick hair. Raymar stilled under his touch, his breathing evening.
He looked peaceful now.
A boy who had not yet been touched by the rot of court. A boy too young to understand the cruelties whispered through palace halls.
Hosea had not expected to feel anything for Esmeralda's child—he had been born of the woman who stole everything. But Raymar was different. He was innocent. Unspoiled.
"He may look like her," Hosea whispered, "but his heart is still his own."
And may it stay that way.
He lingered there, beside his sleeping brother, eyes heavy with thought, the hidden scroll's message burning quiet in the back of his mind.
You are my last hope.