Chapter 3

The Great Hall of the Palace of Mu was a cavern of judgment. Sunlight streamed through the high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but it did little to warm the cold, oppressive silence. Banners depicting the stoic bear of the Mu kingdom hung limp against the stone walls, silent witnesses to the Prince’s public disgrace. Rowen stood in the center of the vast, polished floor, his head bowed, the full weight of the court’s eyes upon him. He was dressed in the mud splattered, travel worn leathers of his patrol, a stark contrast to the formal robes of the courtiers who lined the hall, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

On the massive, carved wooden throne at the far end of the hall sat King Hector. And he was furious.

This was not the jovial, wine-sharing father from his private chambers. This was the King. His large frame, usually so full of warmth and bonhomie, was rigid with regal authority. His kind face was a thundercloud, his brows drawn together, his mouth a hard, grim line. When he spoke, his voice was not a father’s disappointed rumble, but a king’s furious boom that echoed off the stone walls, making the very banners tremble.

“You have defied a direct royal decree, Prince Rowen,” Hector’s voice thundered, each word a hammer blow. “A decree put in place for the safety and sovereignty of this kingdom. You crossed the border into Dariah. You engaged with their royal family. You have, through your recklessness, potentially jeopardized the fragile peace we have maintained for two decades!”

Rowen did not flinch. He did not look up. He kept his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the marble floor, accepting the public rebuke as his due. He had known this would be the price.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Hector demanded.

Rowen finally lifted his head, his emerald eyes clear and steady, meeting his father’s wrathful gaze. “Lives were in danger, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice respectful but firm. “Innocent lives. I could not stand by and allow a slaughter to happen on our very doorstep, regardless of which side of the river it was on.”

“Your sentiment does you credit as a man, but it damns you as a prince!” Hector roared, rising from his throne. He slammed a massive fist onto the armrest, the crack echoing like a gunshot. “Your duty is not to your sentiment! It is to this kingdom! To Mu! Do you understand the consequences? Do you understand the insult the Darians might take from our ‘intervention’? They are a proud, arrogant people. They may see your heroism as an act of war, a statement that their own soldiers were not capable of defending their own royals!”

“I ask for the court’s forgiveness, and for yours, my King,” Rowen said, sinking to one knee and bowing his head low. “My actions were my own. The fault is mine alone. I will accept any punishment you deem just.”

Hector stared down at his son, his chest heaving. For a long, tense moment, the only sound was the King’s harsh breathing. Rowen thought of his mother. If his father, a man of such gentle and reasonable temperament, was this furious, Lila would be a blazing inferno. The thought sent a chill of a different kind down his spine, not of fear, but of a strange, guilty anticipation.

“You are confined to the palace until further notice,” Hector finally bit out, his anger receding into a cold, hard resolve. “The court is dismissed.”

The words were a final, unarguable command. The courtiers bowed as one and began to file out, their whispers a rustling tide of gossip. Rowen rose, bowed once more to the throne, and turned to leave, his shoulders straight, his dignity intact despite the public humiliation.

After the Great Hall had emptied, leaving only the King and his most trusted general, the heavy doors boomed shut. General Blake, who had stood stoically by the throne throughout the entire ordeal, stepped forward into the now-hushed space.

“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice a low, gravelly counterpoint to Hector’s earlier roar.

Hector sank back onto his throne, the fury draining out of him, replaced by a profound, weary anxiety. He ran a hand over his face. “Do not tell me I was too harsh, Blake. The boy needed to understand the gravity of what he has done.”

“No, my King. The Prince understood the risks. That is not why I speak.” Blake paused, choosing his words with care. “I speak of what I saw in that forest. I have trained the Prince since he could hold a wooden sword. I have taught him everything I know. But what I saw today ... that was not my training.”

Hector looked up, his interest piqued.

“He was ... like nothing I have ever seen,” Blake continued, his eyes alight with a warrior’s awe. “He moved with the speed of lightning, with a grace and lethality that was not human. It was as if some ancient god of war was moving through him. The bandits ... they were hardened killers, and he dismantled them as if they were children. It was a terrifying, magnificent thing to behold.”

The General took a step closer, his voice dropping even lower. “Your Majesty, it brought to mind the old words. The prophecy of the Seer of the Grey Peaks, long before our time.” He quoted from memory, his voice taking on a rhythmic, solemn cadence. “‘When shadows lengthen and the old crowns falter, a son of two bloods, born of beauty and raised by strength, shall wield the power of the storm. He will be a warrior unseen for a thousand years, and in his hands shall lie the fate of all the fractured kingdoms, for he alone can stand against the coming dark.’”

Hector’s face hardened. He waved a dismissive hand. “Those are myths, Blake. Children’s stories to frighten them into behaving. My son, Rowen, is a gifted warrior, yes. He is a fine prince. He is nothing more than that. Do you understand me?”

His tone was sharp, final. But Blake, who had served his king for thirty years, understood the subtext perfectly. It was not dismissal; it was a desperate command for silence. To speak of such prophecies, to spread rumors of a warrior-god in their midst, would be to paint a target on Rowen’s back. It would attract the attention of forces, both within the kingdoms and without that were best left undisturbed.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Blake said, bowing his head in complete understanding. “He is just an ordinary prince.” He turned and left the King alone with his thoughts, his secrets, and the terrifying, magnificent burden of his son.

As expected, Lila was a blazing inferno.

Rowen found her in her private solar, the room that was usually his sanctuary of warmth and comfort. Today, it was the heart of the storm. She was pacing back and forth before the hearth, her silk gown whispering angrily with every sharp turn. The scent of roses was sharp, almost thorny. Her face was pale, her brown eyes, usually so soft, were dark with a fury that eclipsed his father’s. This was not a queen’s political anger; this was a mother’s terror disguised as rage.

“How could you?” she began the moment he closed the door, her voice a low, trembling hiss. “How could you be so foolish, so reckless? Of all the places in the world, Rowen, you went to Dariah.”

“Mother, people were going to die. I couldn’t—”

“I don’t care!” she snapped, whirling to face him. “I don’t care if the whole Darian royal line was about to be slaughtered! Your life is worth more than all of them combined! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you there? They are our enemies!”

“Why?” Rowen asked, the question that had burned in him for years, a question that now, after seeing the Darian princesses, felt more urgent than ever. “Why are they our enemies? What did they do to us, to you, that warrants such hatred? Father would not tell me. You will not tell me. I am a man grown. I deserve to know the truth.”

Lila’s face closed off. The fire in her eyes was banked, replaced by a shuttered, painful silence. She turned away from him, staring into the flames of the hearth. “It is not a story for today,” she said, her voice flat. “It is enough that you know the danger is real. The hatred is real.”

She turned back, her eyes boring into his, her expression one of desperate, fierce pleading. “You will not go back there, Rowen. You will never, ever cross that border again. Promise me.”

“Mother, I cannot promise that. If people are in danger”

“Promise me!” she insisted, her voice breaking. She walked to him, grabbing the front of his tunic in her fists, her knuckles white. “Promise me on my life, Rowen. Swear to me, on my life, that you will never set foot in Dariah again.”

The oath was a cage. An emotional blackmail of the highest order, but he saw the raw, genuine terror in her eyes, and his resolve crumbled. To see her so undone, so afraid for him ... he couldn’t bear it. He felt trapped, his duty as a man warring with his love for his mother.

“I promise,” he said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. “On your life, Mother. I will not cross the border again.”

She let out a shuddering breath, her entire body seeming to sag with relief. But the anger still simmered in her eyes. She was not ready to forgive him. Seeing this, seeing the need to bridge the chasm her fear had opened between them, he changed the subject.

“I brought back a gift,” he said softly. “A token of gratitude from the Darian princesses.”

He opened the door and gestured for the servant outside to bring Ava in.

The girl entered, hesitant and trembling. She was a fragile, scared-looking thing, but undeniably beautiful, with wide, doe-like eyes and a cascade of dark, wavy hair. She was dressed in a simple servant’s frock that did little to hide the graceful lines of her young body.

Lila was taken aback, her anger momentarily forgotten as she took in the sight of the terrified girl.

Rowen, his mood shifting, a dark playfulness entering his eyes as he sought to jolt his mother from her anger, let a cruel smile touch his lips. He gestured to Ava. “The princesses offered her to me. You can use her as a new handmaiden, Mother. A slave, if you wish. And when you grow tired of her, you can feed her to your dogs. The Darians are so generous, are they not?”

The effect was instantaneous and horrific. Ava’s face, already pale, drained of all color. A choked sob escaped her lips, and her entire body began to shake uncontrollably, her eyes filling with tears of pure terror. She looked at Rowen as if he were a monster.

“Rowen!” Lila gasped, horrified. The last of her anger evaporated, replaced by a surge of protective maternal instinct. “Stop it! Quit playing around, you are scaring the poor girl to death!”

She rushed forward, ignoring her son completely, and gathered the trembling Ava into a warm, motherly embrace. “Shh, shh, little one. It’s all right,” Lila murmured, stroking the girl’s hair. Ava flinched at first, then melted into the embrace, the first kindness she had known in days. The feel of Lila’s soft body, the scent of roses, the gentle, soothing voice, it was overwhelming. Sobs racked her small frame. “Don’t be afraid. He’s just joking. He has a terrible sense of humor. No one is going to hurt you here.”

Seeing that Ava was still shaking, Lila smiled gently. “Fenris! Geri!” she called.

From a cushion by the fire, two small, fluffy balls of fur came bounding over. They were puppies, a mix of wolfhound and something smaller, their paws too big for their bodies. They began to yip and tumble around Lila’s feet, licking at Ava’s feet. A watery, hesitant smile finally touched Ava’s lips as she reached down to pet one of the soft, wriggling creatures.

Rowen came closer, his earlier cruelty gone, replaced by a genuine gentleness that startled Ava. He crouched down beside her and stroked her hair, his touch surprisingly soft. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “My mother is right. It was a terrible joke. I will protect you, Ava. From this day forward, I promise you will always be safe, and you will be happy.” His emerald eyes were sincere, and looking into them, she felt her fear begin to recede.

Lila straightened up. “Maids,” she called, and two servants entered. “Take Ava to the west wing. Draw her a bath, find her some proper clothes. Make her comfortable.”

As the maids led the still-sniffling but visibly calmer Ava from the room, the atmosphere changed once more. The chamber was empty. The anger was gone. The maternal comfort had been dispensed. Now, there was only the two of them, and the memory of what had passed between them before he’d left. The air grew thick with a different kind of tension, a heavy, sensual silence.

Rowen rose to his full height and turned to face his mother. He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing before her, his body nearly touching hers. He was the warrior again, the man, the lover. He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above hers.

“Are you ready for me?” he whispered, his voice a low, possessive growl that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated desire through Lila’s body.

Her promise, her anger, her fear it all dissolved in the potent heat of his gaze. She could only give a small, shy nod, her heart hammering against her ribs.

A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Good,” he murmured. He did not kiss her. He made her wait. “I will be back tonight. After the palace sleeps. Be ready for me.”

He turned and left the room, leaving her standing there, her body trembling with a mixture of shame, fear, and the most intense, soul shattering anticipation she had ever known.

The Darian palace was a riot of celebration. Banners of gold and blue flew from every turret. The common folk, fed a story of their heroic prince, cheered themselves hoarse as the royal procession made its grand entrance.

Freya stood on the steps of the palace, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She had heard the news, that her children’s entourage had been attacked by bandits, and that her son, her handsome Asher, had fought them off single-handedly, saving everyone. A surge of maternal pride, so rare where Asher was concerned, had filled her.

As the carriages drew to a halt, she ran down the steps, her silks flying behind her. She bypassed Asher and went straight to her daughters, hugging Bella and Ariel tightly, her hands checking them for any injury. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt?”

“We’re fine, Mother,” Ariel assured her, though her body was stiff in her mother’s embrace.

Freya then turned to Asher, her sapphire eyes shining with pride. “Oh, my son! My brave boy!” She reached to hug him.

Asher, basking in the roar of the crowd, gently but firmly pushed her aside. “Please, Mother,” he said, a smug, heroic smile plastered on his face. “Let me greet my people.” He raised his hands to the cheering masses, his false glory a shining, sickening mantle around him. King Robert appeared at his side, clapping him on the back, his face beaming with a father’s pride in his perfect, valiant heir. Bella and Ariel watched, a shared look of utter disgust passing between them. They felt pathetic, trapped in the lie Asher had forced upon them the moment Rowen had ridden away. “You will tell everyone that I fought them off. No one is to ever speak of the man from Mu. Is that understood?”

Later that evening, in the quiet privacy of Freya’s chambers. The sisters sat with their mother, the air thick with their shared trauma and resentment.

“It was all a lie, Mother,” Bella said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Asher hid in the carriage like a frightened child. He was weeping. He would have surrendered us all to those animals.”

“Bella is right,” Ariel confirmed, her own voice quiet but firm. “We were disarmed. The bandit leader was about to ... he was about to take us. We would have been lost.”

Freya’s perfect face paled. “Then who ... who saved you?”

“A warrior,” Bella said, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “He came out of nowhere, Mother. Like a storm. We’ve never seen anyone fight like that. He and his men, they destroyed those bandits in minutes.”

A flicker of interest lit Freya’s eyes. A true hero was a rare thing. “And who was this warrior?”

Bella hesitated, then said the words. “He was the Prince of Mu.”

The name struck Freya like a physical blow. Mu. The kingdom of her sister. The kingdom where her son ... her son had died. A sudden, impossible thought, a tiny, insane flicker of hope, ignited in the desolate wasteland of her heart. The letter from Lila ... what if it was a lie? A cruel lie to punish her, to keep the boy for herself? What if her son was alive?