Drama made for speed watchers! Kalos TV’s short stories are addictive
Chapter 13
Roland knew that uncovering the truth from three years past would take time. Records faded, memories blurred, and silence was often bought with gold
or fear.
But even so, he could not still his restless heart.
He stood by the window, unmoving, eyes locked on the gates, straining for the sound of approaching hooves. The moment his guards returned, he nearly leapt forward.
“Did you find anything?”
The cloaked rider dropped to one knee. “Your Grace, a summons from the palace. His Majesty requests your presence immediately.”
Roland’s brows drew together. “Is the King unwell?”
“The messenger offered no explanation, only that it was urgent.”
The royal palace was ablaze with torchlight that night, a hive of tension beneath its gilded surface.
As soon as Roland stepped into the Privy Council Chamber, a stack of parchment came flying toward him, striking his chest and scattering across the floor.
“Have a look at your handiwork!” the King thundered from the dais, his face thunderous. “The esteemed Prince Roland–stooping to play bodyguard for some scheming noble girl?!”
Roland stooped to gather the pages. His eyes scanned the words–and narrowed in disbelief.
Each letter was a blow. One recounted how Cecily had shared a private excursion on Dragonmere with Lord Whitestone’s heir–who, within the week, broke off his betrothal to a Marquess’s daughter,
Another detailed how she had been seen at St. Elara’s Abbey with the Chancellor’s son, alone and unsupervised. The man later demanded to annul his marriage. His wife, a formidable lady of House Briarwood, raised such an uproar that both families were dragged into a bitter feud still whispered about in
court.
“You thought her a spotless lily?” The King sneered. “The Viremonts are a decaying house draped in hollow titles. And that girl–she’d slit her own wrist for a chance to marry into royalty. There’s no trick too low for her.”
Roland’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the papers. His thoughts spun back to the voices he’d overheard that afternoon, to Cecily’s mocking laughter. Just when he thought he’d hit the depths of disillusionment, she proved there was always deeper to fall.
“Brother, I…”
He had just begun to speak when a steward hurried into the chamber.
“Your Majesty. A message from House Viremont. Lady Cecily requests an audience tomorrow–to offer Your Grace birthday tributes in person.” Roland froze
Tomorrow. His birthday.
He had planned to confess his heart in front of the court, to make her name known as the future Lady Thorne.
And now…
The King slammed a palin against the table. “Absolutely not!”
“Let her come,” Roland interrupted, his voice like frost. “And extend an invitation to Lord Viremont as well.‘
The steward nodded and turned to go, but Roland stopped him once more.
“Send word to investigate how Lady Eleanor has been treated in the Viremont household over the years.”
The King narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning now?”
“Just one mure day, Aldric,” Roland replied, his gaze dark and unwavering “I’ll bring you the truth you seek. ”
The King gave a short, derisive laugh, but didn’t press further. “Yery well. But mark me, Roland the House of Thorne will never welcome a woman like
her.”
Night descended
Roland stood in his study, staring down at the pile of letters his steward had placed on the table. Chapter 13
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Each sheet weighed nearly nothing–but as he opened the first envelope, they felt heavy as lead.
The first was a nursemaid’s journal entry.
“Lady Eleanor has not spoken in three months. Her silence began after witnessing her mother die in childbirth. Lord Viremont returned that very night, bringing home the other girl…”
His hands trembled.
When Eleanor was twelve, Cecily’s name–day was marked with a lavish feast–nobles filled the hall, and the celebration spilled into the manor’s courtyards. Eleanor, meanwhile, had been locked in the attic and forgotten for three days. Since then, she’d refused to sleep without a lamp beside her bed.
At thirteen, Eleanor had been promised a place in the Crownspire Academy. But Baldwin stripped the offer from her and gave it to Cecily. When Eleanor protested, she was beaten and made to kneel in the family chapel for hours. Since then, she had suffered from recurring illness.
The last letter detailed her fifteenth birthday.
“No one remembered the lady’s coming–of–age ceremony. She knelt at her mother’s grave for a full day and night. She took no water. Not a soul came for her.”
Roland crushed the parchment in his hand, pain clawing at his chest like iron hooks.
He remembered the scene at Viremont Manor just days ago–Eleanor’s rage, her trembling voice. At the time, he’d dismissed it as childish petulance.
And when Cecily had suffered a single strike from the Heirloom Flail, he had ordered Eleanor punished with ninety–nine lashes in retaliation.
Just this morning, he had longed to know the truth, to confirm the identity of the girl who once climbed the tree to rescue a bird’s nest.
But now… he was afraid to know.
What if it had never been Cecily?
What if all along, the girl who shone in his memory–the one who wore white, whose smile lingered like spring–had been Eleanor?
And what, then, had he done to her?
He dared not imagine it.
Chapter 13
