The night bled into dawn, but Clara had not slept.
She sat at the edge of the canopy bed, still dressed in her formal gown, the silk wrinkled and stained from gripping the fan too tightly. Her wrist still bore the phantom imprint of Alaric's grip—possessive, bruising, unforgettable.
But it wasn't the pain that haunted her.
It was the look in his eyes.
Not dominance. Not cruelty. Something worse. Something fractured.
What truth is he talking about?
A soft knock at her chamber door snapped her back into the present.
"Enter," she called, her voice hoarse.
It was Elise, her most trusted handmaid, eyes wide and pale. She hesitated before stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
"My lady… they've summoned you to the Inner Court. Now."
Clara stood instantly. "At this hour?"
Elise nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Queen Dowager is there. And the High Council."
Clara's blood ran cold. The Inner Court wasn't a place of protocol—it was a place of power.
And secrets.
As she was led through the shadowed halls of the palace, the guards flanking her on either side, Clara couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
No... everything had shifted.
The doors to the Inner Court creaked open, revealing a grand chamber dimly lit by flickering torches. At the center sat Queen Dowager Lysandra, veiled in black lace, her eyes sharp as obsidian.
Beside her stood Alaric—flawless, unreadable, and entirely too calm.
"Lady Clara Whitmore," the Queen Dowager said, her voice echoing across the room. "We've come to discuss your future."
Clara lifted her chin. "I wasn't aware I surrendered it to be discussed."
Alaric's mouth twitched, just slightly. But the Queen wasn't amused.
"You stand as the betrothed of our crown prince," Lysandra said icily. "Yet your conduct suggests rebellion. That cannot go unchecked."
Clara felt the trap close around her like a velvet noose.
"I act with dignity, not defiance. Unless those two are the same in this palace."
Alaric stepped forward. "Enough." His voice was quiet but lethal.
Clara met his gaze, fire in her chest. "No, you listen. I will not play pawn in a game I wasn't allowed to join."
Lysandra's hand twitched. "Then perhaps we must ensure you learn your place."
Before Clara could respond, a second set of doors burst open.
Everyone turned.
A tall man cloaked in midnight robes entered, flanked by two royal sigils. The royal archivist.
He approached the throne, bowing low before handing the Queen a sealed parchment.
"Your Majesty," he said gravely. "We've found it. The lost decree... the original marriage pact."
Clara's blood froze.
Lysandra broke the seal and scanned the page. Then her eyes lifted—piercing, triumphant.
"Lady Clara Whitmore," she said slowly. "Your mother signed this contract before her death. You are not merely a bride-to-be."
Alaric stepped closer, brows drawn. "What are you talking about?"
"You are already married," the Queen whispered, eyes gleaming. "To the crown."
Silence crashed over the chamber.
Clara's breath caught. Her heart thundered.
"No…" she whispered. "That's impossible. There was no wedding."
Lysandra smiled coldly. "You were bound in secret. For protection. For power. It was sealed in blood. And now…"
She turned to Alaric.
"You are not her captor, my son. You are her consort."
Clara took a step back, the weight of the revelation cavin
g into her spine.
And Alaric—
For once, even he looked shaken.
[To be continued…]