A Crown Too Heavy

Clara stood motionless in the Inner Court, her mind whirling. The words from Queen Dowager Lysandra echoed in her ears, each one sinking deeper into her chest.

You are already married...

Her knees nearly buckled as the reality of the situation slammed into her. She had always known her life was not her own. But this—this was worse than she could have imagined.

Alaric's gaze lingered on her, sharp and intense. For the first time, he looked unsettled, his normally composed expression faltering ever so slightly.

But Clara couldn't focus on him. Not when her whole world felt like it was crumbling at her feet. The weight of the secret marriage, the power it gave the crown, the uncertainty of her future—it all seemed unbearable.

She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to stand tall.

"You—" She tried to speak, but her voice cracked, the shock still lingering in her throat. "This was my mother's doing? She... signed me away?"

Lysandra's lips curled into a thin smile. "Not signed away, my dear. Bound. In the eyes of the kingdom, you belong to the crown. The pact is as real as your blood."

The word "blood" rang in her ears. Clara could feel the throb of her pulse beneath her skin, a harsh reminder that her life was no longer her own.

She turned toward Alaric, her gaze filled with a mix of anger and betrayal. "And you?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You knew this?"

For a long moment, Alaric didn't respond. He merely stood there, his jaw clenched tightly as if he were battling with his own thoughts.

Finally, his voice broke the silence. "I didn't know," he said, his tone flat, though the storm behind his eyes told another story. "I was told you were merely a political match. The contract was supposed to be a formality. But..." He paused, his gaze flicking to the parchment still in Lysandra's hand. "This changes everything."

Clara felt the stir of something cold and sharp in her chest. Everything. The word hung in the air like a heavy weight. What did it mean for her? For her future? Could she ever escape this palace, this life?

Before she could ask more, Lysandra's voice cut through her thoughts like a blade. "You've always been the wild card, Clara. But now, you will learn your place. No more rebellion, no more resistance. You will stand beside Alaric, as his wife, as the future queen."

Clara's fists clenched at her sides. No. She would never accept that. The idea of being a pawn in their game, of being bound to a man she barely knew—let alone the prince who was more distant and cruel than she ever imagined—made her feel suffocated.

But she would not give up. Not yet.

"I will never kneel to you," Clara spat, her voice filled with defiance. She turned to Alaric, eyes fierce. "And I will never kneel to him."

A flicker of something crossed Alaric's face. Was it surprise? Regret? For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Clara thought she saw a crack in his stoic demeanor—a vulnerability she had never imagined him capable of showing.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, hidden behind the cold mask he wore.

Lysandra, however, was unmoved. She stood from her throne, the black lace of her gown sweeping across the floor like a shadow. Her eyes were hard as stone as she regarded Clara.

"This isn't a matter of choice, Lady Whitmore. The marriage has been sealed. The crown has decided."

Clara wanted to scream. To fight. But her voice caught in her throat. She was trapped. No matter how much she fought, no matter how much she resisted, she was bound by a contract her mother had signed.

Alaric stepped closer, his presence like a weight pressing down on her chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers.

"You will learn, Clara," he said, his voice quiet but filled with something she couldn't decipher. "You will learn that this is bigger than you. Bigger than your pride. And when you do, you'll understand why it must be this way."

Clara didn't know whether to be angry or relieved. But one thing was certain: she wasn't going down without a fight. She would find a way out of this—no matter what it took.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, breaking the tension between them. A servant appeared at the door, bowing low before addressing Lysandra.

"My Queen, the High Council awaits your presence. They wish to discuss the upcoming arrangements."

Lysandra gave a sharp nod, dismissing Clara with a cold glance. "This conversation is over. You will return to your chambers and wait for further instructions."

Clara opened her mouth to protest, but the steely look in the Queen's eyes silenced her. She was no longer in control. She never had been.

As the Queen turned and walked toward the exit, Alaric paused beside Clara, his gaze lingering on her once more.

"I'll make you understand," he murmured, his voice low and unyielding. Then, without another word, he followed his mother out of the chamber, leaving Clara alone with her thoughts.

And with the crushing realization that she was no longer just a pawn in this game. She was a queen in her own right.

But it wasn't a title she wanted.

[To be continued...]