The royal court had never known a day so shrouded in silence, yet so heavy with unspoken fire.
In the great marble hall, nobles, generals, and dignitaries stood in disciplined rows, their expressions tense as King Alaric stepped forward atop the golden dais. Draped in royal black and crimson, his presence demanded attention—but today, it did not inspire reverence. It inspired anticipation… and dread.
He did not stall with pleasantries.
"There is no need to deny what all of you have heard," the king began, his voice like steel drawn from a sheath. "The rumors are true. I have sired a child beyond the bounds of my sacred marriage. And the mother of that child now stands before you."
A collective murmur rippled through the chamber.
From behind the royal guards stepped a woman no one recognized—young, graceful, and undeniably beautiful. Her name, when spoken by the king, echoed like a storm-chime breaking silence.
"Her name is Oliver," Alaric declared. "She will be recognized not as a mistress, but as my second wife—by my decree."
Oliver bowed slightly, poised yet clearly out of place in the hall gilded by history and nobility. Her beauty was striking—clear-skinned, long lashes, hair like burnished gold—but when compared to Queen Sandra's ethereal grace, she was as a candle to a moonlit sky.
Yet Sandra said nothing.
Seated upon her ornate throne just beside the dais, she wore her crown with a stillness that made even stone statues seem restless. Her face was unreadable—neither fury nor sorrow showed in her eyes. But beneath the silence, her presence was thunderous.
She held Cain gently upon her lap, his small hands resting atop hers, his silver head tilted ever so slightly—not in confusion, but as though he were listening to things others couldn't hear.
To all who watched, it was clear the boy could not see.
And yet… there was something strange about the way he turned his head with each declaration, how his gaze landed so precisely on Oliver, and then his father. It was almost too natural. Too aware.
But that notion was brushed aside quickly by the nobles who cared more about scandal than mystique.
As the king's decree settled over the hall like frost, the reactions were mixed. Some bowed out of obligation. Others whispered among themselves. A few even offered guarded smiles to Oliver, hoping to earn favor early.
But not all hearts were as easily swayed.
Hidden behind veils of propriety and loyalty, there were those who simmered in quiet fury—not for the child, not for the concubine—but for the disrespect shown to Queen Sandra. To them, she was more than a queen. She was the divine matron of the realm, the moon by which noblewomen set their standards and nobles whispered prayers in secret. Her composure today did not calm them—it ignited them.
"To humiliate her so openly…"
"Has he gone mad? Or does he think we are blind as his son?"
"Does he forget how many families owe her their favor, their rise, their very survival?"
These were not petty courtiers. These were hidden roots of power—the matriarchs of ancient houses, old council members who owed their legacies to Queen Sandra's unseen guidance, and even certain priestesses who called her blessed by the divine.
The king had made his decision.
But Sandra's silence… was not surrender.
And Cain, seated so calmly in her lap, seemed to feel that.
Though the world still saw only blindness in his midnight-purple eyes, he turned his head once more—toward the shadows beyond the marble pillars. Toward where the anger festered in silence. Toward those who were already plotting what would come next.
And still, he said nothing.
But one day, they would remember this moment—not for the king's scandalous confession, nor the introduction of a second queen…
…but for the calm before Sandra's moonlight turned to storm—and the Blind Prince began to truly see.