The Lost Heirs Vendetta

Chapter 6: A Turn of Events - remastered

The rest of the night blurred, a strange mix of forced smiles with my people and the sweet distraction of chocolates. Yet, no matter how I tried, Darian's striking blue eyes and dark hair lingered in my thoughts. Our brief encounter replayed in my mind; his unexpected kindness was unsettling. I had braced myself for his animosity, mirroring my own, but instead, he was composed, far more so than I.

Later, the grand hall thinned, the remaining guests dissolving into drunken laughter, clearly incapable of a safe journey home.

Across the room, I spotted Brock. His gaze met mine, and he began to navigate the dwindling crowd. A knot of resentment tightened within me, a leftover from our earlier conflict. Still, a part of me yearned to speak with him.

"Is everything alright, Aleah?" he asked as he reached me. "I saw you talking with Prince Darian earlier. Tristan and I got held up."

Darian's name sent my eyes scanning the room. Brock followed my gaze. "He's been speaking with Mother for the past hour. Don't worry, I've been keeping an eye on him."

My attention snapped to the thrones. Indeed, Darian and Mother were deep in conversation, both laughing at something he had said.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" I asked, a sharp edge to my voice. How could he have charmed her so quickly? My gaze shifted to Father beside her. His expression was anything but friendly; a dark glare was fixed on Darian, punctuated by a deliberate sip of his wine.

Good, I thought. At least Father remained on my side.

"No idea," Brock sighed. Our last real conversation had been my frustrated questioning about his and Mother's recent tension, a conversation I had cut short earlier that day. He had admitted to an argument but refused to disclose the subject. There was no attempt at a lie, just a firm refusal. The renewed heat of my anger must have been visible. At least he was honest, I conceded.

"Aleah," he began hesitantly, "I know you're angry about me not telling you what's been happening. But I've been thinking, and I want to tell you now."

I turned to him, a sudden eagerness eclipsing my frustration. The heat prickling my neck faded into the background. I studied his face, expectant. He took my hands, leading me into the deserted hallway just outside the ballroom. He glanced around before speaking, his voice low.

"I don't really know how to say this, Aleah. And I don't know how you'll react," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that mirrored my own growing unease. I wouldn't stop him now.

"Brock," I said firmly, "I can handle it. I promise."

He took a shallow breath and nodded. "Aleah," another breath, deeper this time, "you have powers."

No. Impossible. I would have known. Felt something. Eight years of nothing? It couldn't be.

"No, Brock. That's not possible."

"Except it is," he insisted.

"Is that what you and Mother were arguing about?"

"Yes," he said quickly, "and Aleah, I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner—"

"No. If I truly have powers, why didn't Mother tell me when I was ten? She would have spared me years of Amora's cruelty and the judgment of not just Mom and Dad, but our people too."

"That's what the argument was about. I know how hard it's been for you. I know you feel different, looked down upon. I was so angry at Mother that... I almost used my powers on her myself."

I gasped. Brock had considered using his powers against our parents? For me? That was treason in Atalar, punishable by death. Brock had defended me with his life.