Heir to the throne: Broken Blood

senna.

Several fortnights had waned since the solemn memorial for Prince Eldris, yet the pall of grief still clung like a suffocating shroud to the royal family. However, a shocking revelation inadvertently breathed new life into the castle's hollow corridors.

"With child?" Plato repeated, dumbstruck, as he regarded his wife and aunt Senna. "You're...you're certain?"

She nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at one corner of her lush mouth. "The midwives have confirmed it just this morning. An heir taking root to cement our legacies."

A kaleidoscope of emotions played across the king's striking features - elation, disbelief, and an underlying current of fresh grief all warring for dominance. Reaching out, he splayed one broad palm over the still-flat plane of Senna's abdomen in a reverent caress.

"A son, I'll wager," he proclaimed, the words both a hopeful prophecy and a vow. "One we shall name Eldris in honor of my fallen brother's noble sacrifice."

The sound of Credessa's derisive snort preceded the princess herself as she materialized in the archway. "How terribly presumptuous of you, dear brother. Whatever makes you so confident the blessed babe won't be a daughter this time?"

Plato's jaw tensed mulishly. "Then she shall be called Elda and carry on the family valor in a new age."

The scathing retort Credessa intended was interrupted by a flurry of booted footsteps. A trio of the king's most trusted soldierly advisors skidded into the chamber, wearing matching expressions of grim perturbation.

"Your Majesties, urgent reports from the eastern front!" the captain gasped out between ragged breaths. "The Arcroans have mounted a strategic offensive-"

Plato held up one hand, effectively silencing the man as he straightened into his full, intimidating height. "Say no more. Gather the war council - we make for the audience chamber immediately." 

With a curt nod, the soldiers pivoted and hurried off to execute their orders. Plato spared one last look for Senna, brushing a tender finger along the delicate flourish of her cheekbone.

"We shall have to put aside discussions of joyous tidings for now, my love. Duty calls with increasingly dire urgency."

As the king and his retinue departed, Roman stepped from the shadows he'd been lurking in, ever the silent observer of the Wessex family's admittedly melodramatic affairs. Senna turned to face him, arms instinctively cradling her midsection as if to shield her unborn child from any hint of darkness.

"I cannot help but wonder...where is our own discarded offspring now?" he murmured, inching closer until his boots scuffed against the glossy marble at Senna's feet. "If my calculations are correct, she would be nearly six years, yes?"

A heavy, mournful silence stretched between the two as memories of that nightmarish trauma resurfaced with vivid clarity. Senna gave a jerky nod of affirmation, recalling in visceral detail the anguish of being forced into a horrifically premature birth by her own monstrous mother's hand. Of watching, delirious and powerless, as leorona spirited their newborn girl away into the unforgiving unknown without so much as a name or chance to commit those cherubic features to memory.

Before she could dredge up the words to reply, Clover came whirling into view in a dazzling sweep of lemon chiffon. "What's all this dreary solemnity about?" she chimed, shattering the palpable tension as she sidled up to her twin. "Surely you two aren't trading maudlin tales without me! Why, we ought to be celebrating the impending arrival of a little princess to spoil absolutely rotten!"

Clover's beautiful eyes danced as they raked over Roman's towering form in evident appreciation. "My, my...my nephew has truly blossomed into one of the finest male specimens the Wessex clan has produced in ages, wouldn't you agree, dear sister?"