These Wicked Myths

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

A crash sounded as I threw a porcelain green bowl against the wall, narrowly missing the head of the squire that stood before me.

I ground my teeth, running a hand through my hair. The squire backed into the corner of the room and quivered, but attempted to remain standing formal and true.

"Let me understand this." I spat. "These rumours swirl, and you've only just been made aware? Have you no idea the threat this brings to me and my family? Or the way in which my authority is undermined? My subjects now talk. They speak of revolutions, led by this so-called secret heir to the throne. There is no heir, and there never shall be one. There is only me, your High King. I rule this land! Not you, not anyone else. Shut these rumours down at once!"

My voice boomed across my chambers, causing the squire to flinch. "What are you called, squire?" I seethed.

"Coriander," he answered. I grimaced, pulling up my teeth in a snarl. This insolent messenger had come at the worst time, and the worst moment. The thought of execution sprung into my mind.

"Please, King Rhylaien." the squire squeaked, almost as if they read my mind. "I just deliver the messages. I beg for your mercy heartily, King Rhylaien, and I truly believe you should turn your ear. I do not think these are mere rumours."

I exhaled a gust of hot breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Speak, and leave not a thing out."

The squire nodded, inhaling as he stuttered out his tale. "A historian of the palace was placing documents of the crown, finding out their historical lineage and dates." I raised an eyebrow at that. "For the children, your majesty, in the academy. To study." he continued as I looked on with a tilted head and growing doubt. "The historian discovered a family tree, lost to the ages. It had you, King Rhylaien, and the rest of the Bristlethick line. It was created two years before, well..."

The squire trailed off into silence. I rolled my eyes, knowing what the sire refused to reference while in my presence.

"Continue." I said, crossing my arms.

"Well, before your sister, Princess Räenee, had a child: a girl halfling."

Anger bubbled up within my chest, threatening to rise. "I know of that, squire. I also know that the halfling scum was killed in the war."

The squire nodded, but that soon morphed into shaking his head. "With the family tree, a letter was found. Princess Räenee had arranged for her child to flee, to be smuggled into the world of the mortal man and stay with her father. Based on the response from the smuggler, the plan was successful."

Fury uncoiled itself from my mind as I grasped the meaning of the squire's words. "Successful?" I repeated, fists and teeth clenched. "How successful?"

"The child lives, your grace."

I yelled out, grasping a wooden bestpost and ripping it. I threw it across the room, watching it shatter into pieces, my fury inextinguishable. The collected nature I keep for my subjects evaporated and blinding anger took the reins. I couldn't let this child—this thing—rob me of my title. This was my throne, my kingdom. My crown.

"Your majesty?" The squire—whose name had left my mind the moment he uttered it—squeaked. "Are you quite alright?"

I whipped around, hands bleeding and filled with wood shards. My eyes landed on the squire, who looked close to fainting.

"Get me a Coldbrooke. Now."