The Fallen Heir,

That evening, Edric wandered the dim corridors, his footsteps swallowed by the weight of old ghosts. The castle felt like a mausoleum; its silence thick with the echoes of a past he could never reclaim.

Memories crept in.

He was a boy again, stumbling upon his mother in her chambers. She had been crying, though she had tried to hide it behind embroidered silks.

"Is Father angry again?" he had asked, voice small.

She had stroked his hair, her fingers trembling. "Don't fret, my dear boy," she whispered. "It will pass."

But it never passed.

The servants whispered of Theobald's mistresses, of nights spent in the beds of women who were not his queen. His mother bore it all, a devoted wife to a man who repaid her loyalty with infidelity and scorn. Some said she died of illness. Others whispered she had wasted away—a heart broken beyond repair.

Now, as Edric passed those same chambers, he felt her spirit lingering.

Did he kill you, too, in his own way?

His father had always been cruel. But to claim Eleanor—this sin eclipsed them all.

Determined, he pressed through dimly lit passages toward her rooms. With each step, he pictured her face: the gentle curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes. He still felt the echo of her last kiss before he departed for war, the silk of her embroidered handkerchief clutched against his armor.

Then, a memory surfaced—one he had ignored before.

"We all have roles to play," Eleanor had murmured on the night before his departure. Her hand had lingered in his, her smile just a little too strained. "Be careful, Edric."

At the time, he had thought she meant the war. But now, the words slithered back to him with new meaning.

Had she known what was coming?

Reaching her door, he found it guarded.

The two soldiers looked away, shame flickering in their eyes, as if they knew how twisted the king's choice was.

"I need to speak with her." His voice was taut with restrained fury.

One of the guards hesitated, shifting uneasily. "My lord… the queen—"

The word hit him like a physical blow.

"Queen?"

The guard swallowed, his face pale. "She… she gave strict orders not to receive visitors. Especially you."

A tremor of disbelief rippled through Edric. He took a step back, as if struck.

"She said that?"

The man nodded.

For a moment, Edric couldn't breathe.

Why?

Had Theobald forced her into this? Had she abandoned him willingly? Had she truly betrayed him—or had she been orchestrating this all along?

He pressed his palm against the door, desperation lacing his voice.

"Eleanor," he whispered. "Please… let me in. Let me understand."

Silence.

"I know you are in there..."

No latch lifted. No footsteps approached.

Only the distant drip of wax from a guttering candle.

Slowly, the hope in his chest crumbled into something cold and bitter.

A steward approached from the hallway, bowing with exaggerated caution. "His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room."

The words were a summons, not a suggestion.

Edric followed the steward, his pulse hammering in his ears. The grand corridor spilled into the great hall, its vaulted ceilings stretching high above him like the ribs of some massive, slumbering beast.

Torches flickered along the walls, casting their glow over watchful courtiers, their silk-clad forms shifting in hushed anticipation.

At the far end of the hall, Theobald stood on his dais, draped in the regal colors of crimson and gold. And beside him, veiled in shadow, stood Eleanor.

The sight of her stole the breath from Edric's lungs.

She looked regal.

She looked at home.

And she did not look at him.

Even from across the chamber, he saw the absence of hesitation in her frame, the way she stood—not trembling, but poised.

Theobald's lips curved into a mocking smile. "I thought it only right you hear it from me."

His voice dripped with satisfaction.

"After all," Theobald continued, "it was your victory that secured our new power in the East. And in your absence, dear Eleanor needed a king by her side."

A cold, sickening dread coiled in Edric's stomach.

His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, rage flaring like an inferno beneath his skin.

But then his gaze flickered to Eleanor.

And she smirked.

It was fleeting—so quick that if he had blinked, he would have missed it. But it was there.

And he knew.

She wanted this.

Memories slammed into him—late nights whispering, stolen kisses in candlelight, the warmth of her body pressed against his.

"We all have roles to play."

And now, he understood.

"You have no shame," he growled, voice trembling with fury. "You had countless mistresses. But you went after my woman—"

At that, Theobald's gaze sharpened. A flicker of something dark flashed in his eyes.

Edric pressed on, his voice rising. "To take my wife? Your own son's beloved?"

A murmur swept through the room. The tension cracked like ice beneath the weight of his accusation.

Theobald stepped forward, his tone turning frigid. "She is mine now, Edric. And so is this kingdom. Remember your place."

Edric turned to Eleanor.

"Look at me."

She did.

Not in sorrow.

Not in apology.

But in triumph.

And that was the moment Edric's world shattered.

She had played him.

Every smile. Every whispered vow. Every promise.

A lie.

Had she ever loved him?

Or had he been just another stepping stone on her path to the throne?

"Tell me this is what you want," he pleaded, voice raw. "And I will leave."

Eleanor's fingers twisted in her lap—a nervous habit she never had before. When she finally lifted her gaze, something flickered there. Not just fear. Something darker. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Edric left the castle with his heart in tatters.

A thousand images haunted him—Gareth's lifeless body, Sara crumpled in grief, and worst of all, Eleanor standing beside Theobald, not a prisoner, but a queen.

He had left as a warrior.

Now, he rode as a man with nothing left but vengeance.