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Chapter 6: The Return and the Reckoning
At dawn, the carriage rattled along the cobblestone path toward the grand palace of Solareth. Princess Ruth sat quietly inside, cradling a small bundle wrapped in fine cloth. Beside her, the ever-watchful Liora kept her eyes sharp, while David, the trusted driver, guided the horses with steady hands.
The morning mist hovered low over the sprawling estate. The palace loomed ahead—a magnificent marble structure rising high on a gentle hill, gleaming faintly in the soft light. Turrets and spires pierced the sky, adorned with banners of deep violet and silver—the royal colors of Caelis.
As they approached, the heavy oak gates swung open silently. Rows of guards in polished armor lined the path, their helmets catching the first rays of sun. Each soldier bowed deeply as the carriage rolled by, a quiet murmur spreading among them at the sight of their princess.
David slowed the horses, pulling the carriage to a halt in front of the main entrance. A sharp-eyed steward, dressed in deep blue livery, hurried forward, bowing low before the window.
"Your Highness," he said in a hushed tone, "a servant awaits to escort you to your chambers."
Ruth nodded silently. The carriage door was opened, and the servant motioned for her to step down. As she descended, the baby stirred, letting out a soft cry.
Ruth glanced down at the baby in her arms, her brow furrowing with concern. He hadn't been fed since birth, and the soft cries grew more urgent. How long could a newborn go without nourishment? The thought gnawed at her—she hoped he was strong enough to hold on just a little longer.
The early morning air was crisp and cold, but the palace grounds were alive with a quiet energy. Servants and attendants busied themselves along the marble steps and lush gardens, preparing for the day ahead.
The princess, with the baby still cradled in her arms, was led through grand halls lined with tapestries depicting the kingdom's history—scenes of battles, celebrations, and solemn treaties.
At last, they reached a private chamber—a large room filled with heavy velvet drapes, a carved wooden bed, and a small fireplace where embers glowed faintly. The windows overlooked the eastern gardens, where the sun was just beginning to rise higher.
As the servant turned to leave, the door creaked open behind them. Prince Felix stepped in quietly, pausing as his gaze fell on the infant cradled in Ruth's arms.
For a moment, the world seemed to still.
Felix's usually composed face betrayed a flicker of shock. He took a careful step forward, his dark eyes fixed on the child. The baby was perfect—soft ash-blond hair, delicate features, and eyes that held a deep violet shimmer, almost unnatural in their intensity.
Ruth met his gaze calmly, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
"This is Uri," she said softly—the name she had chosen for him, meaning 'light,' because he was exactly that.
Felix blinked, swallowing hard. "Uri?" His voice was low, wary. "You… you brought a child here. Where did you find him?"
She straightened, her posture steady. "He belongs to a friend. A friend who could not keep him safe."
He frowned, stepping closer. "But this child… what are you planning to do by bringing him here? You could leave him to a servant to raise and check up on him sometimes. Why bring him here?"
"Because I promised to keep him safe myself, not leave it to others—too much could go wrong. And because we know you're barren. Four different magical herbalists diagnosed you during our trip. You know I stayed back a little longer, trying to find a way to heal you. Yes, they had herbs, but said it would still take a miracle to have a child.
Even though I pledged to protect this child, he's also our shield against scandal—against disgrace and the curses people would throw at us for not having an heir. He's not ours by blood, but he can still be ours to claim and keep safe," Ruth admitted without hesitation.
He studied her, his jaw clenched. The secret of his barrenness had been a heavy burden between them—shared only in whispers, only in private moments filled with frustration and silent sorrow.
"I see," he said finally, voice tight but resigned. "You've carried this weight for me."
Ruth's smile softened. "We carry it together."
Felix nodded slowly, looking down at the baby again. "And this name? Uri. Were you the one to name him?"
She met his eyes with quiet certainty. "Yes. It means 'light.' For him, and for what he represents—hope, even in darkness."
Felix exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. "Then let him be our light."
Ruth met his eyes steadily. "Yes, fine—but now go and find someone who can breastfeed him, quietly. He's very hungry and hasn't eaten since birth. For now, it must stay between us."
"Felix frowned, crossing his arms.
" I understand and all, but why do I have to be the one hunting for a wet nurse? I'm no servant, you know—third prince of Elandria or not."he said sharply, the name of his homeland ringing with pride.
"I might be your husband, but that doesn't mean you can order me to do this.
Yet in the very next moment, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber. Muttering under his breath, he summoned a servant to begin the search—reluctant, yet resolved to protect this fragile secret… and, admittedly, more than a little afraid of his wife.
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Later that morning, the palace courtyard was alive with anticipation. The grand hall, a vast chamber with vaulted ceilings and stone pillars, was already filled with nobles, advisors, and courtiers. At the head of the room sat King Xavier Caelis, regal and imposing, his sharp eyes fixed on the door.
The chamber buzzed as whispers spread. The herald stepped forward, raising his voice to carry across the hall.
"Her Majesty, Princess Ruth Caelis, has returned to Solareth!"
The heavy oak doors swung open, and Ruth entered, the baby resting in her arms. The room fell silent as every eye turned to her.
Crown Prince Zurich, tall and commanding, stood near the king's side, his dark gaze sharp and calculating. His three wives—Chole, Belle, and Denise—watched silently, their expressions ranging from curious to wary.
Prince Levi lounged by the back wall, a careless smirk on his face as he observed the scene. Nearby, Jeremy, the second prince, nodded respectfully, though his eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Queen Autumn sat beside her husband, her composed face unreadable, but her gaze lingered on Ruth with a mix of surprise and approval.
Ruth's steady voice broke the silence. "Father." She bowed deeply. "I have returned."
King Xavier's stern features softened as he regarded his daughter and the child. "You have been away for nearly a year. Your husband returned before you, mentioning you had some unfinished business. Is this what he meant — you had a son during that time?"
She nodded, her eyes unwavering. "Yes, father."
Zurich's lips curled into a thin smile, though inside he seethed. He had wanted to be the one to produce an heir, not his sister—or this child. He was certain he had given her husband those magical herbs to ensure barrenness. What was this now? Still, he forced himself to appear pleased. "A son? At last."
The king gestured toward the royal guards. "Bring the child to me."
Two guards stepped forward cautiously, their hands steady as they accepted the baby from Ruth. The child cooed softly, reaching out with tiny fingers.
King Xavier's eyes narrowed as he examined the boy. Though the child's features were softened, his eyes held a rare, captivating violet—a trait rare yet not unfamiliar.
"His eyes," the king murmured, "unique… powerful."
He cradled Uri gently, a rare grin spreading across his face. "This is the next heir—the next future Crown Prince of Solareth."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Even the usually impassive Chole's eyes widened in surprise.
Zurich's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Ruth's heart pounded fiercely, but her face remained calm and unreadable. Thank God she had insisted the herbalist weave a touch of magic to give the child a faint resemblance to her, to make her story more believable. For a brief moment, the heavy burden of the kingdom felt almost bearable.
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Far away, in the jagged mountain passes where the sun was nothing but a pale smear behind choking mists, a lone rider ascended the narrow, treacherous path. At the summit, half-buried in the black rock, stood a squat stone fortress. Its walls wept with damp, its windows were little more than arrow slits, and from within came no sound—only the faint stench of rot and iron.
The hunter dismounted, his gauntleted hands gripping the swaddled infant as if the child were a package to be delivered, not a life to be saved. He struck the heavy wooden door three times, each knock echoing like a hammer in a tomb.
An elderly couple answered. Their faces were carved in stone—not kind, not cruel, simply devoid of anything that could be called human warmth. Their eyes were cold and unblinking as they stepped aside.
Inside, the air was heavy with the copper tang of blood and the acrid smoke of burnt herbs meant to hide it. Several children moved like shadows, their small bodies marked with fading bruises, their wrists scarred from shackles long since removed. A few had unnatural eyes—a deep, molten blue that caught the dim torchlight, another a feverish, glinting red.
They did not speak. They did not smile. Even their breathing seemed measured, as though any sound might bring punishment.
The hunter crossed the stone floor, boots crunching on grit, and placed the bundled infant on a rough wooden table.
"This is another Xant child," he said flatly. "He stays until he is of age to be sentenced."
The couple nodded once, the gesture more a transaction than an acceptance. Around them, the other children kept working—scrubbing floors until their fingers bled, hauling buckets of icy water with trembling arms—never lifting their gaze.
The hunter left without another word, but the silence inside did not change. It was the same silence that swallowed every cry, every plea, until the day the mountains claimed them all.
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Two days later
In the cold, damp cell of a remote prison, Noa sat huddled in a dark corner. Her skin was pale, her eyes sunken. The despair clung to her like a second skin.
The heavy iron door creaked open, and a hunter stepped inside.
"It's time," he said flatly. "Your sentence has been set."
Chains were clamped around her wrists and ankles. As she was led away, the hunter muttered coldly, "You'll have one last meal. Enjoy it."
Noa's eyes stared blankly ahead as she was dragged through the dim corridors.
"This is the end," she whispered, voice barely audible. "May my children survive... and live well."
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only silence.
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