How can one kingdom contain so many bastards? Then again, Khazaria was never a "normal" place.
Named after the ancient Khazar people, our kingdom was a land defined by three pillars: the Mages, the Magicians, and the Priestesses. Mages were common enough—nearly one in ten people possessed the gift, including Maria—and they spent their lives fortifying the Mage Tower and the Royal Palace.
Then there were the Magicians, the true wielders of raw, destructive Magic. Lord Dion and the First Prince were the only ones who possessed power so absolute that even the King feared them. What that psycho Prince intended to do with such power was a mystery I wasn't sure I wanted to solve.
Lastly, there were the Priestesses.
Historically, only House Ellington produced them, but following a dark "incident" years ago, the line had gone dormant. A prophecy claimed that after hundreds of years, the Priestess would be reborn. It warned that if the people of Khazaria repeated their past mistakes, she would be the last. I had always doubted the stories; no records remained of what the previous Priestesses even looked like.
I was so lost in these thoughts that I walked straight into a wall of muscle.
I looked up. Lord Agriche.
My heart skipped. I had completely forgotten about the bite mark on my neck! I fought to keep my expression neutral, expecting a sharp comment or a look of disgust. Instead, Dion did something entirely unexpected.
He reached into his uniform, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and handed it to me.
He didn't say a word. His eyes traveled slowly over my face, pausing with a heavy, unreadable intensity on the red mark. I took the cloth and immediately pressed it against my skin, shielding the Prince's claim from view.
Dion turned away, his shoulders so tense they looked like they might snap. I didn't taunt him this time. I couldn't. Was he... upset? I brushed the thought aside; I had enough on my plate without worrying about the inner turmoil of the Captain of the Guard.
I made my way toward the carriage, but stopped when I saw a figure in the royal gardens.
The Former Empress.
She stood among the flowers, staring at them with a haunting stillness. She had been my mother's best friend, the woman who had cared for me after my mother died giving me life. But when the King brought in the new Empress, she had isolated herself from the world. Her son was the First Prince—the "psycho"—while the current Empress had birthed the Crown Prince
I watched her for a moment, the icy mask I wore for my father and brother beginning to crack. Before I could stop myself, a single word escaped my lips, barely a whisper.
"Mother..."
Her head turned sharply. Her eyes widened, searching my face. Did she remember me? Did she recognize the little girl she used to hold? We hadn't spoken in years, lost in the shadows of palace intrigue.
"My child," she said, her voice trembling. "How have you been?"
At the sound of those words—the kindness in them—my resolve shattered.
My legs moved on their own, first at a walk, then breaking into a desperate run. I threw my arms around her, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear of the Prince, the anger at my father, and the pure, raw joy of seeing her flooded out all at once.
I broke down completely, my tears soaking into her robes as I finally let myself be small in her arms.