Unwanted Heir
Dawn in Caledonia arrived heavy with rumor and threat alike. By the time Arthur stepped beyond the guest chamber, the palace had already turned into a hive of whispered debates and hurried footsteps. Servants carried trays past nobles huddled in tense circles; messages sped from hall to hall, sealing fates before breakfast was even served.
Arthur felt every glance prickling across his skin, each a question sharper than a blade: *Is that truly him? Cecilia's son? The Anti-Healer?* The air itself felt thinner, and though Fenrix limped beside him, head high despite the pain, Arthur sensed the fear even his companion inspired.
They walked through long corridors of marble and old banners, past portraits of kings whose names Arthur barely knew. Sunlight filtered through high windows, casting shifting bars of gold across ancient stone. In that light, he almost saw echoes: his mother walking these halls, laughter like silver bells; the King in younger days, less burdened by regret; even the Second Prince, before suspicion hardened his gaze.
Yet those days were gone, replaced by tension so thick it seemed to choke every breath.
---
The council chamber was already alive with argument.
"He is a threat!" Lord Rennic roared, his voice rough as gravel. "A bastard spawn of betrayal. His magic is blasphemy given flesh!"
"And yet," Lady Isera countered, eyes gleaming like polished steel beneath her silver hair, "that same magic could save thousands if turned against our enemies. The Etrian threat grows daily, and the cultists of the Ashen Path have yet to be crushed."
At the far end, the Second Prince sat hunched over a goblet, face carved from anger and pride. Draven stood behind him, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, the fresh cut hidden beneath his new breastplate. His gaze was cold, a promise yet unspoken.
Arthur stepped forward, letting silence stretch just long enough for his presence to command attention.
"I did not ask for your crowns," he said evenly, voice carrying in the high-ceilinged chamber. "Nor do I crave them."
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, disbelief mixed with something like relief—and, in a few faces, the faintest flicker of disappointment.
"Then why stand here at all?" Lord Rennic spat, his hand slamming against the table. "If not to claim what your mother failed to steal?"
"Because," Arthur answered, "I will not vanish into your dungeons, nor be made a blade in someone else's hand. If you fear my magic, you should. But know this: I fear what men do with crowns far more than you should fear what I can do."
The words fell heavy as iron, and for a heartbeat, no one dared speak.
---
Lilith's chair scraped against the marble as she rose. In the morning light, her profile was all resolve and quiet defiance.
"We cannot unwrite his blood," she said, voice like a bell tolling across stone. "Nor should we. The realm stands at the brink: rebellion smolders in the east, the cult's shadows stretch across the south, and Etria watches for weakness. Arthur is not the enemy here."
"And yet," Draven cut in, voice low and measured, "you would have him stand beside you? What happens when the people see him? Will they kneel… or flee?"
Arthur met his cousin's gaze without blinking. "Let them see me first, and decide with their own eyes—not yours."
Another hush fell, deeper this time, as though even the wind outside dared not intrude.
---
Outside the council walls, the castle whispered with rumor:
In candlelit halls: *He carries the curse that killed the prince-consort!*
In servant passages: *They say he saved Princess Lilith, twice!*
In crowded taverns: *A rightful heir, hidden by betrayal!*
And in darker corners, where shadows clung like old wounds: *His magic can rot armies where they stand...*
Hope and fear tangled together, as dangerous as any blade.
---
By midday, Arthur sought quiet in the inner garden—a place of weathered statues and rose bushes stripped by winter winds. Frost silvered every branch. Fenrix padded beside him, nose low, ears flicking at every distant sound.
Lilith's approach was silent, save for the soft crunch of frost underfoot.
"They see you now," she said, words misting in the cold air. "Some want you dead. Others would crown you if you asked."
Arthur traced a thorned branch with gloved fingers, its sharpness a welcome clarity. "I didn't ask for either."
"I know." Her breath shivered between them, pale and brief. "But you cannot remain no one—not anymore."
He studied the spires beyond the garden wall, sharp against the pale sky. "A cursed heir… or an unwanted one. Either way, I was never meant to belong here."
"And yet you do," she whispered, voice softer than falling snow. "Whether they admit it or not."
---
As dusk bled across the sky, Arthur found himself on a balcony overlooking Caledonia. The city spread below in winding streets and flickering hearth-lights, each window a story, each rooftop a silent witness.
Fenrix pressed against his leg, silent, steady. Arthur's hand rested on the dire wolf's fur, feeling life beneath scars.
His gaze lifted to the towers, to stone carved by ancestors whose names he had never spoken aloud. In his chamber waited the Grimoire—its pages blackened with forbidden ink, secrets he barely understood. Yet in his veins, the curse coiled, awake and watchful.
"I do not want their crown," Arthur murmured to the cold wind. "But I will not be their scapegoat, either."
Below, torches lit narrow alleys, where words would breed sharper than steel: plots born over spilled wine, knives promised in shadows, oaths whispered for power or protection.
Arthur knew his name had become both shield and sword.
---
In the palace's higher halls, nobles gathered in secret. Some spoke of assassination: a swift end before the boy's legend could take root. Others, more ambitious, whispered of enthroning him: a puppet king forged from scandal and blood.
Draven stalked those same halls, armored footsteps echoing like a sentence. His eyes, always watching, carried a vow: *This ends with your blood on my blade.*
And yet not all eyes were hostile. Among scholars and younger knights, some saw promise in Arthur's refusal to kneel; they whispered of change, of breaking chains older than memory.
---
Night settled heavy and cold, pressing against stone walls that had seen centuries of intrigue. Arthur sat by candlelight, Fenrix's head resting on his boots, the flicker painting shadows across the Grimoire's ancient script.
He traced the family crest pressed into its leather, thinking of Cecilia—her love, her exile, her death—and the choices that had led him here.
In the silence, Arthur understood: wanting nothing did not mean nothing would be asked of him. And standing aside was itself a choice—a choice the realm might not allow.
Yet still, he breathed, unbowed. The unwanted heir. Feared. Hunted. Needed.
And as candle flame danced in dark ink, a vow formed in his chest: *If I must wear a crown, let it be forged of truth—not lies.*
---
Beyond those walls, dawn waited, carrying new rumors on colder winds. But Arthur stood ready, shadows and light entwined around a name that would no longer be denied.
**To be continued...**