Legacy Reborn
The dawn after the confrontation broke cold and brittle over Caledonia's ancient spires. Word had spread through the palace like wildfire, igniting every hall and courtyard with whispers that refused to die: *The Anti-Healer* had shown his face. The son of Cecilia lived.
Arthur awoke before sunrise, breath misting in the chill of the small guest chamber he'd been assigned—though "assigned" felt too generous a word. More like "quarantined." Fenrix lay curled at the foot of the narrow bed, ribs rising and falling slow and heavy, wounded pride as raw as the bite in the air. Outside, the city waited: nobles, scholars, merchants—all starved for scandal and sharpened by fear.
Arthur washed in silence, the basin water biting cold against his skin. He traced his reflection in the ripples: pale hair falling wild around tired eyes, the faint scar across his collarbone from the duel in the yard, and the memory of his mother in every stubborn angle of his face. For the first time, he didn't flinch from that resemblance.
They knew now. There could be no going back.
---
At midmorning, the bell of the palace tolled: one low, heavy note that shook dust from the rafters. Summons. Arthur walked the long corridor toward the Great Hall, Fenrix padding beside him, limping only slightly.
Servants scurried past, heads bowed, but Arthur felt the weight of their gaze once they thought him gone. Fear. Awe. Curiosity.
"Arthur," a voice called softly.
He turned to see Lilith waiting at an archway, her usually composed expression shadowed by sleeplessness. The morning light cut through the window behind her, painting her hair in threads of silver and gold.
"They're gathering everyone," she said. "The court. The academicians. Even envoys from Etria."
"All to see the monster," Arthur replied, voice rough.
She stepped closer. "They'll see more than that, if you let them."
Arthur looked away. "I don't know what they'll see, Lilith. Or what I want them to."
She reached out, gloved hand brushing his arm. "Then let them see the truth."
For a breath, the halls seemed to quiet. And for that breath, Arthur almost believed it could be that simple.
---
The Great Hall had been prepared as if for a festival, yet the mood was more execution than celebration. Nobles in embroidered robes lined the polished floor; high-ranking mages and scholars stood in silent clusters; guards in crimson livery flanked every pillar. The King sat on the throne, the weight of crown and years pressing into his shoulders. The Second Prince stood near him, mouth a thin, hard line. And by the dais, Draven: armor repaired but bloodstain still faint on the steel—a reminder of what had transpired.
Arthur walked the length of the hall, every eye following him. Murmurs rippled: *Cecilia's son… Anti-Healer… traitor's blood…*
Fenrix limped at his side, ears low but gaze defiant.
At the foot of the dais, Arthur stopped. The cold of the marble seeped through his boots, but the fire in his chest burned hotter still.
The King's gaze met his, tired yet piercing. "State your name," he commanded, voice carrying through the hall.
"Arthur," he answered, steady as steel. "Son of Cecilia. Of the fallen line."
A noblewoman near the steps gasped. Somewhere, someone else cursed under their breath.
"And do you claim your blood?" the King pressed, voice a mix of accusation and sorrow.
"I do," Arthur replied. "Though it was never my choice to be born of it, it *is* my blood. And I will not deny her name."
The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation.
---
The Second Prince stepped forward, robe sweeping the marble. "Then let all hear it: This boy is the spawn of treachery. Born of a woman who betrayed crown and kin, wielding magic that violates every sacred oath of our realm."
"And yet," Lilith spoke, voice slicing through the tension, "this 'spawn' has saved royal blood more than once, including mine."
Eyes turned to her, whispers crackling like dry leaves. She stood tall despite it, chin raised, fire unhidden.
The King turned to Draven. "Speak, son."
Draven's gaze was cold, controlled. "He is dangerous, Grandfather. His magic burns life away instead of healing. Yesterday, he used it against me."
"And you would have cut him down, had he not," Lilith interjected.
Draven's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.
---
Arthur stepped forward, breath loud in his ears. "Yes, I used it," he admitted, voice low but clear. "Because you would see me killed for the crime of existing. Because you spit on my mother's name and called her love treason."
The murmurs grew louder, scandal and fascination mixing in the air.
"And what do you want, Arthur, son of Cecilia?" the King asked, voice weary.
Arthur drew a slow breath. The answer had haunted his nights, echoing in every choice since the forest, every wound and every vow.
"Truth," he said finally. "And the right to walk this realm without chains of shame for blood I did not spill."
---
An old mage stepped from the scholars' ranks, beard as white as frost. "Your magic is forbidden," he said, voice trembling yet unyielding. "Anti-Heal twists life. It unravels the balance the gods gave us."
"And yet," Arthur countered, "the Grimoire I carry bears the royal crest. Passed from my mother. Is it so wrong to want to know why?"
The mage hesitated, then lowered his gaze.
The King closed his eyes, a breath shaking through him. "The sins of the past weigh heavy, boy. Cecilia's choices… my failures…"
He opened them again, gaze locked with Arthur's. "But the realm must know where it stands. And so I ask: will you swear fealty to this crown?"
---
Arthur swallowed. Images flashed: Cecilia's laugh, her blood on his hands, Fenrix dying in the forest, the heat of forbidden magic coursing through his veins.
"I will not kneel to a crown that hunted my mother," he said quietly. "But I will not raise sword or curse against it without cause. That is all I can offer."
The words fell like iron into the hall.
Some nobles recoiled, scandalized. Others watched, thoughtful, seeing not just a cursed heir but something different: a boy scarred by loss yet unbroken by it.
---
After a moment that felt like a lifetime, the King spoke, voice rough. "Then so it shall stand: Arthur, son of Cecilia, acknowledged by blood but without claim to the throne."
The declaration echoed from stone to stone. The Second Prince's shoulders sagged, half in relief, half in renewed resentment.
"And what of his magic?" Draven pressed, eyes narrowed.
The King looked at Arthur, gaze softer now. "He will remain under watch. But the realm must see what becomes of truth laid bare."
---
As the assembly slowly broke apart, nobles dispersing in murmurs and sidelong glances, Lilith stepped to Arthur's side.
"You did not kneel," she said softly.
"And I won't," he replied. "For her sake. And mine."
She nodded, though shadows lingered in her eyes. "The court is afraid. But some… saw something else."
Arthur watched as servants rolled away a tapestry bearing the old royal crest. "Let them watch, then. Let them see what truth becomes."
Fenrix pressed against his leg, warm and steady despite the limp. Beyond the hall's doors, Arthur glimpsed sunlight breaking through high windows—light falling not on a prince or outcast, but on a boy who refused to be either.
The legacy of blood had been exposed. The masks had fallen.
And in their place stood Arthur—not the Anti-Healer, not the traitor's son—but himself.
A new chapter had begun.
**To be continued...**