Leander’s POV
I can't sleep. The crown sits on my desk where I left it, heavy even in its absence.
The King. My father's crown. My father's throne. My father's kingdom.
My father's secrets.
I find myself in the nursery again, drawn here by something I can't name. The babies lie in their cradles, peaceful in the soft candlelight. Cecily sits in the rocking chair beside them, humming a lullaby as she cradles one against her chest.
She looks up when I enter, her smile warm and welcoming.
"You should be sleeping," she says softly. "Tomorrow will be exhausting—more celebrations, more audiences. You need rest."
"I couldn't." I move closer, looking down at the infant in his cradle. Adney. No, Sybil called him Cassiel. And my mind won't stop churning, won't let me find peace. "My mind won't quiet."
"You're thinking about her." Cecily's voice is gentle, understanding. "About what she said tonight."
Crown Princess Sybil of Ziana. The lost heir everyone assumed dead. The rightful queen of a stolen throne. But Rosetta was an orphan, my father raised her at court, gave her a home when she had nothing.
I remember her arriving as a little girl. Quiet and graceful, with those striking gray eyes that seemed to see everything and beautiful chestnut hair. My father treated her with such kindness, such particular care… I thought it was simply his generous nature.
What else did I not see?
"She's clearly unwell," Cecily continues, rocking gently. "The poor thing has suffered so much. All those losses, the madness that followed… it's tragic, really. But to make such wild accusations, to claim our children as hers..."
Our children.
The words feel wrong in my mouth, though I don't know why. I sink into the chair opposite Cecily, memories flooding back unbidden.
Rosetta and I were real once. What we had was passionate and all-consuming, the kind of love poets write about. I fell in love with her when I was a boy, pursued her despite her supposedly minor noble status because I couldn't imagine my life without her in it.
"I know you loved her," Cecily observes quietly. "Once."
"Yes." There's no point denying it. "I did."
Those early years were blissful. We were young and so in love and certain we'd found something rare… Then came the losses. The first miscarriage destroyed something in both of us, the second one made it worse.
By the third, fourth, fifth… Each one carved away pieces of who we were until there was nothing left but grief and guilt and desperate hope that maybe the next time would be different.
Five miscarriages. Three stillbirths. Eight dead babies.
Each loss destroyed me too. Made me feel like I was killing her slowly. That my love, my touch, my desire for children was what kept hurting her.
I know that might not be rational. But rationality doesn't matter when you're watching the woman you love endure that kind of pain. The guilt consumed me eventually and I convinced myself that distance would save her.
That if I stopped touching her, stopped wanting her… Rosetta wouldn't have to suffer anymore. So I pulled away.
I became colder, more distant. Stopped visiting her chambers, stopped seeking her company. I told myself it was mercy when it was cowardice.
But I went to her anyway. That last night. The night she conceived the last baby.
I close my eyes against the memory. I was drunk. Or I told myself I was drunk. The wine loosened something in me that I'd been holding too tight. I went to her chambers, remembering what we'd been once.
One passionate night after months of nothing. That’s not too much, right?
But that one night left her pregnant again. That one night forced her to suffer another loss because of me. Because I couldn't stay away from her.
When both of my wives labored simultaneously, I couldn't watch another stillbirth. Couldn't bear to see another wrapped bundle of what might have been. The midwives came to me with news: Cecily had delivered two healthy boys. Rosetta had delivered stillborns again.
They showed me a wrapped body. Small, still, heartbreaking. I never looked inside. Couldn't make myself pull back the cloth and see those tiny features, that perfect miniature person who would never draw breath.
Nine pregnancies. Why would the ninth be different from the previous eight losses?
But she claims it was different. Claims those babies are hers, stolen through conspiracy.
I watch Cecily with the infant in her arms. She's been devoted since their birth, barely letting servants help. She feeds them herself, changes them, rocks them through the night when they cry.
This fierce, maternal love seems so genuine, so absolute.
"Could you love someone so deeply if they're not your blood?" I ask quietly.
Cecily looks up, surprised. "What do you mean?"
"A mother knows her children. You love them with everything you are. That's proof, isn't it? That they're yours?"
"Of course they're mine." Her arms tighten protectively around the baby. "Leander, you're not actually doubting…"
"No." But the word comes out too quickly, lacking conviction. "No, of course not."
She rises, placing the sleeping infant back in his cradle with practiced care. "You should rest. The poor delusional woman has upset you, made you question things that shouldn't be questioned. Our sons are here, healthy and strong. That's what matters."
I nod, but the doubt remains, gnawing at me like a persistent ache.
After Cecily has retired to her chambers, I summon Duke Phideus privately. He comes quickly, still dressed in his formal attire from the celebration.
"Your Majesty." He bows, his expression grave. "I cannot apologize enough for what happened tonight."
"Is she really the Crown Princess?" The question comes out more abruptly than I intended. "The lost heir of Ziana? Is that true?"
Duke Phideus straightens, meeting my eyes directly. "Yes, Your Majesty. Absolutely."
The confirmation hits me like a physical blow and I sink into my chair, processing the implications. "Did my father know?"
"Yes. He and I protected her together. We were waiting for the right time to restore her to Ziana's throne. King Wilius raised her at his court, gave her a false identity, kept her safe while the usurpers consolidated their stolen power."
"And the accusations about the children?" My voice comes out rough. "She claims they're hers. That some conspiracy stole them from her."
Duke Phideus is quiet for a long moment.
"Princess Sybil believes they're hers with the certainty only a mother can have. She says she held them after birth, that she saw them breathing, heard them crying. She insists one of them bears the same birthmark she carries—the four-pointed star of Ziana's royal bloodline."
"That's madness." But there's no conviction in my voice. "Nine pregnancies, eight losses previously. Why would the ninth suddenly be different? The midwives showed me a stillborn."
"Did you investigate the births?" Duke Phideus leans forward, his voice gentle but challenging. "Did you actually examine what the midwives showed you? Or did you accept what was convenient because you couldn't bear to look closer?"
Silence stretches between us. The admission comes out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "I couldn't bear to look. After eight dead babies, I just... I couldn't."
Duke Phideus's expression softens with something that looks like pity.
"Perhaps you should look more carefully now, Your Majesty. Question the witnesses who were present at both births. Examine the evidence that exists. Look at the timing of events, the pattern of deaths among those who might have testified to what really happened."
"What pattern of deaths?"
"The head midwife fell down stairs three weeks after the births. Dead. The physician drowned. Two other servants died in accidents. All within six weeks. All witnesses to what happened that day."
Ice floods my veins. "You're suggesting…"
"I'm suggesting you investigate before dismissing the possibility out of hand."
He stands, preparing to leave, then pauses at the door.
"May I offer one more suggestion? Not as Duke to Your Majesty, but as an old friend of your father's. As the uncle who flew kites with you in the palace gardens when you were seven and skinned your knee trying to climb that oak tree your mother specifically told you to avoid."
I feel my mouth twitch slightly at the memory. "You never told her."
"I never told her."
He moves back into the room, sinking into the chair across from me with none of his earlier formality.
"Leander, you should grant Princess Sybil a nursery visit. Let her see the children, hold them properly. Watch how she interacts with them, watch how they respond to her. Then decide for yourself whether what you're seeing is delusion or truth."
"And if it's true?" I whisper. "If those babies are hers, if they were stolen from her while she was bleeding and helpless?"
His voice is gentle but firm. "Then you'll have a choice to make about what kind of man you want to be. Not what kind of king—what kind of man."
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