Elara’s POV
The guards dragged the young man through the grand hall with hands bound and shoulders slumped, and the sound of his boots against the marble echoed far too loudly in the sudden silence.
Every step felt like a hammer striking my chest. I had not ordered this scene, not yet, but the castle moved faster than my thoughts sometimes—momentum driven by fear, rumor, and the long memory of bloodshed.
“Who is he?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, cutting through the murmurs that rippled through the court.
James stepped forward first, his armor dusted and his expression tense. “We found him near the Verdanan border, Your Majesty. Alone. Exhausted. No banner, no weapons. Barely conscious when we took him in.”
The man lifted his head at that, dark hair falling into eyes that were too old for his face. There was something unsettling in the way he looked at the room—not defiant, not afraid, but distant, as if he had already prepared himself for whatever came next. His gaze flickered to me only once, and when it did, I felt something twist deep in my gut.
“What is your name?” I asked him directly.
For a moment, I thought he would remain silent. Then his lips parted, dry and cracked, and he spoke in a low, steady voice.
“William.”
The name struck the hall like a dropped blade.
Caden’s posture stiffened beside me, his hand instinctively curling as if around the hilt of a sword that was not there. I felt it too—the shift in the air, the collective intake of breath from the guards and advisors lining the walls.
“William who?” Caden demanded, stepping forward before I could speak again.
The young man met his gaze then, and for the first time, I saw it clearly. Not just the sharp lines of his face or the dark intensity of his eyes, but the resemblance. It was there in the structure of his cheekbones, in the shape of his mouth, in the cold restraint that seemed to be holding something ferocious beneath the surface.
“I am William of Verdana,” he said. “Son of Alexander.”
The world seemed to tilt.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Even the torches along the walls seemed to flicker more slowly, as if the castle itself was listening.
My thoughts raced backward through years of buried history—through dusty archives, half-burned records, whispered warnings. Alexander. My uncle. The man who had murdered my mother. The man who now sought to tear the kingdom apart.
“You are lying,” Caden said flatly, but there was no real conviction in his voice.
William didn’t react. He simply stood there, shoulders squared despite the chains, as if he had expected disbelief. As if he had lived with it all his life.
“I am not,” he replied. “You have the records. The portraits. Look at me.”
I did. Gods help me, I did.
I remembered the sketches I had found in the archives only days before—Alexander as a young man, before ambition hollowed him out, before blood soaked his hands. The resemblance was undeniable. Standing there, in the flesh, William looked like a ghost pulled straight from those yellowed pages.
A cold weight settled in my chest.
“Why are you here?” I asked quietly.
William’s eyes flickered again, and for the first time, something like hesitation crossed his face. “Because I was told to come.”
“Told by whom?” Caden pressed.
“My father.”
The word made my stomach churn.
I took a step forward before I could stop myself. “And what did he tell you?” I asked.
William hesitated, then looked at me again. This time, there was something else in his gaze—recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. “He told me the Queen of the United Kingdom would understand,” he said. “He told me you were the key.”
The murmurs returned, louder now, edged with fear. I felt every eye in the hall on me, weighing my reaction, searching for weakness.
“You will not speak in riddles in my palace,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “If you are Alexander’s son, then you are either a messenger or a weapon. Which one are you?”
William’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I only know what I was taught.”
“And what was that?” Caden asked.
“That peace is a lie,” William said, his voice unwavering. “That blood decides truth. That Verdana was stolen. And that you—” his eyes flicked to me again “—are living proof of that theft.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Enough,” I said, sharply. “James.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Take him to the lower dungeons,” I ordered. “Not the cells for nobles. The secured ones.”
A ripple of surprise moved through the guards, but James nodded immediately. “At once.”
William didn’t resist as they took his arms again. As he was led away, his gaze lingered on me, unreadable to the very end. I did not look away.
When the doors closed behind him, the hall erupted.
“This is madness,” one advisor hissed. “Alexander’s son—inside the palace?”
“He could be lying,” another argued. “A ploy to destabilize—”
“Enough,” Caden said, his voice cutting through them all. “Leave us.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the court cleared. James lingered at the doorway before bowing and following the others out. The doors shut with a heavy finality, leaving only Caden and me in the vast echoing space.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You knew,” Caden said finally, his voice low. “The moment you saw him.”
“I suspected,” I admitted. “But knowing something in theory is different from seeing it stand in front of you.”
Caden ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “If Alexander has an heir, everything changes,” he said. “Succession claims. Legitimacy. Support.”
“I know,” I said softly.
“And if he’s telling the truth,” Caden continued, “then Alexander didn’t just build a movement. He built a legacy.”
The thought made my skin crawl.
“I want him interrogated,” Caden said. “By me.”
I turned to him. “Caden—”
“He is my responsibility too,” he interrupted. “I need to know how deep this goes. What Alexander has done to him. What he believes.”
I searched his face, seeing the storm there—the memories of his own upbringing, the shadow of what his mother once tried to make him into. Slowly, I nodded.
“Do not hurt him,” I said. “No matter what.”
Caden’s jaw tightened. “I won’t,” he said. “Not unless he gives me no choice.”
I exhaled shakily, the weight of the day pressing down on me all at once. Alexander’s son. Another piece on the board. Another threat wrapped in blood and history.
As we turned to leave the hall, I couldn’t shake the image of William’s eyes—the way they had looked at me not with hatred, but with something closer to confusion.
And that, more than anything, frightened me.
Because if Alexander had raised a son who could still doubt, still hesitate, then this war was not just about armies and borders.
It was about inheritance.
And the worst battles were still ahead.