Chapter 3
The grand chamber gleamed with gold and polished marble. But beneath the beauty, tension lingered.
"Father!"
Raymar's laughter echoed as the boy raced across the room. Bright blue eyes, tousled brown hair, arms outstretched. King Tommen caught him easily, lifting him with surprising tenderness.
For a moment, he was just a father.
Queen Esmeralda glided in behind them, her emerald gown shimmering. "Careful, little wolf," she cooed. "You'll knock him over."
Raymar giggled. Tommen chuckled.
The perfect family—until the door opened.
Prince Hosea entered.
He stood tall, composed. Golden-haired, blue-eyed—his father's mirror, but colder. A shadow passed between them.
Tommen's smile thinned. "And how fared your journey?"
"It was well, Your Grace."
Esmeralda raised a brow. "Strange. Whispers say you vanished for seven days."
Hosea didn't blink. "Idle tongues wag freely, my lady."
She smiled sweetly. "Do they now?"
"Enough," Tommen snapped.
Esmeralda's tone softened, laced with mock concern. "I only worry for him, my king. He is as dear to me as our Raymar."
Hosea's jaw tightened. "May I take my leave, Your Grace?"
Tommen waved him off.
Hosea bowed, turned, and left. The moment the doors closed behind him, the warmth in the room vanished.
Esmeralda sighed dramatically. "He's grown distant, hasn't he?"
Tommen said nothing. Only reached for his goblet of wine.
Esmeralda poured it for him, brushing her fingers along his wrist. "He's been asking questions. About the past. About his mother. His sister."
The goblet shattered in Tommen's grip.
In a flash, his hand clamped around her throat.
Esmeralda choked, clawing at him. Her eyes widened with panic.
"You dare," Tommen growled, "send assassins after my heir?"
"I—I didn't—" she gasped.
His grip tightened.
Then—he let go.
She collapsed to the floor, coughing, hand at her bruised neck.
Tommen stood over her, voice like ice. "You are nothing to me, Esmeralda. Do not forget that."
He turned and left her there, gasping on the cold marble.
---
Flashback: The Forgotten
Laughter.
Children's laughter.
Sunlight bathed a green meadow. A little girl, curls bouncing, ran barefoot through the grass.
"Brother! Lift me!"
Hosea, barely ten, spun her around in his arms.
Their mother's voice echoed from the meadow's edge. "Hera! It's time for your medicine!"
She stepped into the light, radiant—long dark hair, white dress flowing like mist.
Celine.
But Hosea's smile faded.
Why am I crying?
Tiny fingers reached for his cheeks. Hera. "Why are you sad?"
Then—
The sun vanished.
Storms churned the sky.
"Run!" Celine screamed, grabbing Hera. "Hosea—hide!"
She shoved him into a hut. "Don't come out! No matter what!"
"Mother! No—stay!"
"There's no time!"
And then—wind, thunder, screams.
He never saw them again.
---
Present Day
Hosea jolted awake.
Sweat drenched his skin. His chest heaved. His fists clenched the sheets.
He curled into himself, trembling.
No scream escaped him.
But the pain never left.