Legacy of Fire and Sand

Chapter 66: Shadows of the Crown

The castle was alive with preparations for the wedding of Prince Quentyn and Princess Nymeria. Every hallway buzzed with the excitement of the impending celebration, yet Ashara felt none of the joy. Instead, she stood alone in her chamber, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her once flawless skin was marred by the dark bruise on her cheek, a reminder of the King's cruel hand. The imprint of his ring was clear, a brutal mark against her otherwise delicate features.

Ashara touched the bruise lightly, wincing at the pain that flared under her fingertips. The swelling had worsened, and the darkness around the edges was a stark contrast to the vibrant color of her usual complexion. She couldn't bear to look at it for long. The reflection seemed almost foreign, as though the woman staring back was someone she didn't recognize—a shadow of who she once was.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. It was Elara, who entered with her usual grace but with a noticeable tension in her eyes. As soon as she saw Ashara's face, her expression tightened with concern.

"Elara," Ashara began, her voice trembling slightly, but she was cut off as Elara gently cupped her chin, turning her face to better see the bruise.

"This is getting worse," Elara whispered, her fingers grazing the bruised skin tenderly. There was a simmering anger in her eyes, but she kept it controlled, her voice soft. "He will not stop until he has completely broken you."

Ashara swallowed hard, her throat dry. She wanted to tell Elara everything—to spill the horrors she had endured at the King's hands—but the words caught in her throat. How could she explain the dread she felt every time he summoned her? How could she express the constant fear gnawing at her insides?

Instead, Ashara's eyes dropped to where Elara's hand had moved, almost absentmindedly, to rest on her stomach. The gesture had become a silent ritual, something that Elara seemed to do without thinking, but it never failed to send a jolt of fear through Ashara.

Elara noticed her gaze and looked up, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You're changing, Ashara. You might not see it yet, but I do."

Ashara's breath hitched. "What do you mean?"

Elara's eyes softened, her hand still resting on Ashara's abdomen. "You're more sensitive now... I've seen how you flinch at his touch, how you're always so tired." She hesitated, then added, "And your breasts... they've become fuller."

Ashara's heart skipped a beat. She had noticed the changes herself—her breasts had been tender, heavier than usual, and the nausea had been persistent. But she had pushed the thoughts aside, too afraid to confront what it might mean. The idea that she might be carrying a child—a child that could be the King's, or Valen's, or even Kellen's—terrified her.

"Elara..." Ashara began, her voice shaking. "What if... what if it's his?"

Elara's gaze hardened. "It doesn't matter whose it is," she said firmly. "If it is Valen's, then we will raise the child as ours. But if it is the King's... we will still love it, but we will never let him have it."

Ashara's eyes filled with tears, a mixture of fear, confusion, and a desperate need for reassurance. "And if it's Kellen's?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Elara's hand tightened on Ashara's stomach. "Then we will deal with it when the time comes. But right now, you need to stay strong. For yourself, and for the child."

Before Ashara could respond, the door opened, and Valen entered, his presence filling the room with a commanding energy. His eyes swept over Ashara, narrowing as they landed on the bruise marring her face. He crossed the room in swift, determined strides, his expression darkening with each step.

"What happened?" His voice was low and dangerous, the calm before the storm.

Ashara looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "The King," she murmured, her voice small.

Valen's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he fought to control his anger. He reached out, gently lifting her chin to inspect the bruise more closely. His touch was careful, but the fury simmering beneath the surface was palpable.

"He will pay for this," Valen growled, his voice a promise of retribution.

Elara stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Valen's arm. "We must be cautious," she reminded him, her voice steady and composed. "We cannot afford to be reckless."

Valen nodded, though his eyes never left Ashara's. "You're not alone in this," he said softly. "We're here for you, no matter what."

Ashara tried to smile, but the uncertainty gnawed at her. She felt trapped, ensnared in a web of power and deceit. The wedding was approaching, a grand celebration that would bring joy to the realm, but for her, it only served as a reminder of how isolated she truly was. The King had made sure of that.

As they prepared for the ceremony, Ashara noticed how Elara's hand kept returning to her stomach, as if she could feel the life growing inside. The thought made Ashara's heart race. What would happen if the child was Valen's? Would Elara be angry, jealous even, that Ashara had succeeded where she had not? The Queen herself had not yet borne Valen a child—how would she react if Ashara gave birth to his heir?

These questions haunted Ashara as she dressed for the wedding, the fine fabrics feeling like chains against her skin. She could see the tension in Valen's shoulders, the way he clenched his fists when he thought she wasn't looking. And Elara... her calm demeanor was unshakable, but Ashara could see the worry behind her eyes, the way she avoided discussing what might come after the child was born.

The wedding bells began to ring, echoing through the castle walls. The time had come for them to join the rest of the court in the grand hall, to witness the union of the Prince and Princess. But as Ashara made her way toward the ceremony, she couldn't shake the dread that gripped her heart. She was carrying a secret that could destroy them all, and the weight of it threatened to crush her.

And somewhere, deep within, a plan began to form—a way to ensure that no matter what happened, the King would never have what he wanted.