BLOODLINE

Chapter 2 - The Betrothal

SIX MONTHS SINCE THE TRAGEDY 

The ascent of King Byron sent ripples of ambition through the great houses of the realm, each noble lady vying not only for his favor but for the crown that came with him. 

In the dim-lit halls of court, whispers slithered like serpents, weaving tales of alliances and betrayals, each lord and lady angling to carve a path to the king's heart.

Mothers paraded their daughters before him, their painted smiles as false as the honeyed words upon their tongues, eager to entwine their blood with his, to see their lineage bound to the throne he now bore. 

Yet Byron, hardened by grief, tempered in the forge of loss, was unmoved by their courtly pageantry.

The weight of the crown pressed heavy upon him, a ceaseless reminder of the slaughter of his kin and the shadows that still clung to their deaths. 

Once, his heart had been open to beauty, to laughter, to love. Now, it beat only for vengeance and justice—fires that no woman's touch could quell.

Over morning tea, his cousin Theodore broached the subject once more.

"What of Lady Jounette of House Ashbore?" he ventured, eyes alight with hope. "She is comely, of noble blood, her lineage beyond reproach. A match worth considering."

Byron sipped his tea, the warmth offering no comfort. "I care no more for her today than I did yesterday, cousin."

Theodore exhaled, frustration threading through his voice. "You were once easily beguiled by a fair face. Now you scorn even the thought of a queen at your side. Is there no woman in this realm who stirs you?"

Byron set his cup down with measured grace. "That was when I was a prince. A king has no time for distractions."

"You are a man, Byron," Theodore countered, patience fraying. "And a kingdom without heirs is a kingdom in peril. This is not about love—it is duty, and you know it."

Byron rose, intent on ending the conversation, but Theodore seized his arm, his grip firm.

"You will meet her," he said, voice edged with resolve. "At least once. You owe the realm that much."

With a resigned sigh, Byron inclined his head. "One meeting. No more."

And so, the next afternoon, Lady Jounette was presented before him. She was a vision of courtly grace—azure eyes bright as a summer sky, golden hair cascading in soft waves, every movement deliberate, practiced. She looked as though sculpted for a throne.

Theodore, ever the eager matchmaker, gave Byron a knowing nudge as she curtsied.

"Your Grace." she murmured, voice delicate as spun silk.

Byron offered a distant smile. "Shall we walk?"

They strolled through the castle gardens, the air thick with the perfume of roses and expectation. 

She reached, ever so subtly, for his arm, but Byron withdrew, the motion instinctive, his thoughts lost elsewhere. 

In the past. In the memory of Ratih, whose absence haunted him like a specter that would not be exorcised.

Seeing his restraint, Lady Jounette quickly stepped back. "Forgive me, Your Grace, if I have overstepped."

"You have done no wrong." Byron said, though his voice was far away, as though speaking to someone who was not truly there.