The holy ruler

The Return to Shadows

The carriage rattled along the winding roads, its wheels creaking with every bump and turn. Anastasia stared out the window, her eyes tracing the jagged outline of Castle Black looming on the horizon. The oppressive fortress was a stark contrast to the lush beauty of France, where she had spent the last seven years. France had been a sanctuary, far from the shadow of her father’s overbearing rule and her brother’s insufferable antics.

Now, she was returning to a home that had never truly been hers.

The carriage jostled violently, pulling her from her thoughts. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Why must I be the one to return? she thought bitterly. Her father had summoned her back, no doubt to parade her around as some political pawn. She could already hear the insipid remarks from her brother, Charles, whose arrogance was matched only by his stupidity.

Her thoughts turned to Kara, her beloved handmaiden, who had been left behind in France. “Farewell, Kara,” Anastasia whispered under her breath, her voice trembling with emotion. “You were more family to me than they ever were.”

---

When the carriage finally arrived at the gates of Castle Black, Anastasia was greeted by the sight of guards lined up in precise formation. Their dark armor gleamed dully under the overcast sky, their expressions stoic. One of them approached to open the door, and as Anastasia stepped out, her gaze locked onto his piercing violet eyes. His long white hair and chiseled features made him stand out among the rest.

For a moment, she felt a jolt of something unfamiliar—a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. But she quickly dismissed it, brushing past him without a word.

---

Inside, the cold stone walls of the castle seemed to close in on her. The air was heavy with the scent of dampness and decay, a far cry from the fragrant gardens of France. As she was escorted to the throne room, her jaw tightened. She wasn’t sure what awaited her, but she knew better than to expect warmth.

The throne room doors creaked open, revealing a scene that was all too familiar. King Charles sat on his gilded throne, his robes an ostentatious display of wealth. His laughter boomed through the hall, loud and grating, as he joked with Prince Charles.

Her brother lounged in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand. His smirk widened when he saw her.

“Well, well,” Charles drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “The little French exile returns. Did they teach you how to curtsy properly, or are you still as unrefined as ever?”

Anastasia fixed him with a cold stare. “I see you’ve been practicing your wit, brother. Pity it’s as dull as ever.”

Charles’ grin faltered, his cheeks flushing with anger. “Careful, Anastasia. You’re not in France anymore. Here, you’re expected to show respect.”

“Respect?” she shot back, her voice sharp. “Respect is earned, not demanded by spoiled boys who’ve never known hardship.”

“Enough,” King Charles interjected, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. He rose from his throne, his imposing figure commanding attention. As he descended the steps, Anastasia felt his gaze linger on her in a way that made her skin crawl.

“My dear daughter,” he said, his voice oily with false warmth. “You’ve grown into a vision of your mother’s beauty.”

She stiffened as he embraced her, his hands lingering just a moment too long. Forcing herself to maintain composure, she stepped back and curtsied. “Father,” she said coolly.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Come, sit beside me. We have much to discuss.”

---

The conversation over dinner was no less unbearable. Charles prattled on about his supposed triumphs in hunting and jousting, each tale more exaggerated than the last. Anastasia picked at her food, her appetite gone.

“And you,” Charles said suddenly, turning his attention to her. “What grand accomplishments have you achieved in France? Let me guess—perfecting the art of embroidery?”

Anastasia set down her fork with deliberate precision. “Actually, Charles, I spent my time studying diplomacy and literature. But I suppose such pursuits would be beyond your comprehension.”

His face reddened. “At least I didn’t waste my time pretending to be something I’m not.”

“Oh, I assure you,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’ve never pretended to be anything more than a self-absorbed fool.”

The room fell silent. King Charles’ laughter broke the tension, though his amusement was short-lived.

“Anastasia,” he said, his tone turning sharp. “You would do well to mind your tongue.”

She met his gaze, her eyes unflinching. “Of course, Father. Forgive me for speaking the truth.”

---

Later that evening, Anastasia returned to her chambers, only to find Mistress Vivian waiting for her. The woman’s dark eyes sparkled with a sly intelligence, her smile a calculated mixture of charm and menace.

“Your Highness,” Vivian said, curtsying low. “I trust you’re settling in well.”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” Anastasia said bluntly. “What do you want?”

Vivian’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m here to assist you, as appointed by the king.”

“How fortunate for me,” Anastasia said, her tone icy. “But let’s be clear—you’re here to serve his interests, not mine.”

Vivian tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Why, Your Highness, I only wish to help you navigate court life.”

Anastasia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t trust you. And if you ever try to undermine me, you’ll regret it.”

Vivian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning. “As you say, Your Highness.”

---

That night, as Anastasia lay in bed, the weight of the day pressed down on her. The walls of Castle Black felt like a cage, but she refused to let them break her. She was not a pawn to be used at her father’s whim or a sister to be belittled by an unworthy brother.

Let them think I’m weak, she thought. They’ll soon learn how wrong they are.