[Seraphine’s POV]
The gates of Blackthorn opened like a great iron jaw.
For weeks I had imagined this return a hundred different ways: Guards ripping the twins from my arms and nobles turning their backs… And Aldric announcing that the heirs belonged to him and the history he wanted to write.
Instead, the courtyard erupted. “All hail the king! All hail the queen!”
“The heirs! The heirs of Blackthorn!” Voices thundered against stone. Servants craned their necks, clinging to shutters, and guards pounding spears on the ground in a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
I sat astride my horse, with one twin against my chest and the other strapped to Aldric’s. My fingers trembled, half from exhaustion, half from disbelief.
“They’re… cheering,” I whispered.
Rowan, riding on my other side, gave a faint, strained smile. “News travels fast. They think you’re heroes.”
“Is that what we are?” I asked.
He looked away. “To them, yes.”
Whispers rippled through the crowd as we passed. “The queen rode to Blackharrow herself—”
“—risked her life for the heirs—and the king bled for them, nearly died—” The words slid over my skin, strange and unreal.
At the base of the steps, Aldric dismounted, wincing as his stitches pulled. He moved carefully, as if one wrong shift might wake pain that never fully slept. A guard hurried forward to take the child from him.
“I’ll do it,” he said, voice low.
I watched him lift our son from the sling with unexpected tenderness—hands sure but careful, as though he were handling glass that might shatter under the weight of his own touch. He cradled the boy against his chest, crown forgotten, cloak askew.
No armor. No sword. Just a man holding his child like he was terrified to break him. Something inside me wavered.
We climbed the steps together. The roar of the court rose behind us, and the twins fussed at the sudden noise and light. As soon as we crossed the threshold, the great hall swallowed us, cooler and dimmer, crowded with nobles and courtiers already gathered.
I had expected them to be suspicious. Hungry. They were that too, but there was awe in their eyes.
A herald stepped forward, voice booming. “Behold King Aldric of Blackthorn, returned from the mountains with the royal heirs!”
Murmurs swelled. “Heirs—plural—”
Aldric stood before them with our son in his arms. I felt my knees tremble. He glanced at me and raised his voice.
“Today,” he said, “I present to you the future of this kingdom.”
He turned slightly so they could see the baby’s face—red, squished, and unimpressed. A ripple of laughter broke the tension.
“They are mine by blood,” Aldric went on. “But they live because of their mother’s courage.”
“Let it be recorded,” he continued, looking straight at the assembled court, “that Seraphine of Eryndale, Queen of Blackthorn, risked enemy lands, defied ambush, and faced down betrayal to protect the heirs of this throne. Any who question their parentage question my word.”
My heart stumbled. He wasn’t just claiming the children, he was naming me.
“Their mother,” he said clearly, “is your queen. And any threat to her—or to them—will be treated as treason against the crown.”
Silence. Then, slowly, bows. Heads bowed not only to him now—but to where I stood, still clutching our daughter, too stunned to move. I swallowed.
Aldric shifted his stance. “One more matter,” he said. He looked toward Rowan.
“Rowan of Eryndale,” he called. “Step forward.”
Rowan stiffened. “Your Majesty.”
“This man,” Aldric said, voice ringing through the hall, “showed loyalty beyond all measure. He guarded the queen when I could not. He fought at my side in enemy territory. He saved my life. He saved my children.”
Rowan’s throat bobbed.
“Therefore,” Aldric continued, “before all assembled, I name him Commander of the Eastern March. With full authority over its garrisons and defenses.”
Gasps fanned through the room.
Rowan blinked. “Sire, I—”
“You will accept it,” Aldric said quietly. “As the smallest part of what I owe you.”
Their gazes locked—king and knight, rivals and allies. Something wordless passed between them.
Rowan bowed. “Then I serve,” he said. “For them.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the babies.
Some vultures still circled with their eyes, calculating, weighing, measuring, but they said nothing. Aldric’s tone had made the message clear: these children were under his protection. And so was I.
***
Later, behind closed doors and with the noise of the court muffled by thick stone, Aldric stood before me without his crown. No courtiers and no guards. Just us. He looked different here—less a king, more a man stripped down to whatever truth he had left.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
I folded my arms, fingers digging into my sleeves. “For which part?”
His mouth twisted. “All of it.” He didn’t look away.
“I thought that ruling required cutting out my heart,” he said. “I thought if I cared too much, this kingdom would be torn from me like every other thing I ever loved. So, I made myself into something hard. Something… sharp.”
I stared at him, surprised by the word loved on his tongue.
“And in cutting my heart out,” he continued softly, “I carved pieces out of you too. That was my mistake.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“I hurt you,” he said. “I made you afraid in your own home. I pushed you to hide what should have been celebrated. I gave you every reason to believe I would use our children as tools. Then I had the gall to be angry when you tried to save them from me.”
His jaw clenched. “I am sorry, Seraphine. For every moment of cruelty. For every bruise. For every silence when you needed words instead. I cannot change what I was, but I can change what I am now. For them.” He hesitated. “For you. If you’ll let me.”
I couldn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how.
***
That night, the castle lay quiet for the first time since our return. The revelry had faded, leaving only distant laughter from the barracks and the occasional creak of the old stones.
I found myself walking toward the nursery almost without deciding to. A soft glow spilled from inside, and I paused in the doorway.
Aldric sat by the window, cloak discarded, shirt loose at the collar. His bandaged ribs peeked from beneath the linen: the wound seemed still pulling as he held our daughter.
She lay against his arm, with a tiny hand curled around his thumb. He watched her—with a look I had never seen on his face.
Absolute devotion. The kind of reverence people had once shown him on the battlefield. Only here, it was directed at a child who had no idea who he was.
He didn’t notice me at first. His lips moved silently—counting breaths, perhaps. Or prayers. I wondered if he remembered how.
“Aldric,” I said softly.
He started. His gaze snapped up, finding mine in the half-light.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he looked down at our daughter, then back to me, and his voice broke.
“I don’t know how to be the man you needed back then,” he said. “But tell me how to be the man you need now.” The words seemed to hang between us, fragile and enormous.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t say a word. Because I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to take all the pieces—of him, of me, of what we had survived—and turn them into something that wasn’t just less broken, but actually whole.
I stepped into the room anyway. Not yet answering, but not walking away, either.