The Queen They Tried to Forget

Chapter 4: The Boy Behind the Throne

The old throne corridor was colder than Elara remembered.

Her silver gown gave off enough light to paint the stone walls in pale reflections, but the corridor seemed to swallow most of it. Portraits of dead kings watched her pass, their painted eyes stern, hollow, and useless. As a child, she had feared them. As a servant, she had dusted them. Now, as a princess returned from the dead, she felt nothing for them at all.

Mara insisted on coming with her, as did General Daven and two palace guards who had changed sides in the ballroom. Elara allowed it, though she knew the Regent would have prepared for company. Men like Marcellus did not retreat unless the next room favored them.

At the throne chamber doors, they found no guards.

That was worse.

The doors opened on their own.

Inside, the chamber blazed with candlelight. Hundreds of candles lined the steps, the walls, the windowsills, the arms of the throne itself. At the center of the room sat the royal throne of Veyr, carved from dark oak and silver-boned stone. The Regent stood beside it, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, as though he had only borrowed it and expected to be thanked.

"Welcome back," he said.

Elara stepped inside.

The others followed, but the doors slammed shut behind them with a force that shook dust from the ceiling.

Mara cursed under her breath.

The Regent smiled. "The old palace knows blood. But it also knows keys. I have held more keys than you for twelve years."

Elara did not look at the doors. "Where is he?"

"Impatient. That, too, is your mother."

"Where is my brother?"

The Regent walked slowly around the throne. "You say that with such certainty for a girl who learned of him five minutes ago."

"You do not invent a secret unless you can wound someone with it."

"True."

He gestured toward the far curtain behind the throne.

A guard pulled it aside.

For a moment, Elara did not understand what she was seeing.

Then the shape moved.

A young man sat in a chair behind the curtain, wrists bound, head lowered. He was thin but not frail, dressed in plain white linen, his dark hair falling over his face. When he lifted his head, Elara's breath caught.

Not because he looked like her.

Because he looked like their mother.

The same eyes. The same line of the mouth. The same stillness that could be mistaken for weakness by those too foolish to look twice.

"His name is Lucien," the Regent said. "Born three years after you. Hidden for reasons your mother never had the courtesy to explain to me."

Elara took one step forward.

Lucien looked at her, and in his face she saw no surprise.

Only exhaustion.

"You knew?" she whispered.

His voice was rough from disuse, but clear. "I knew you lived."

The words nearly broke her.

The Regent clapped softly. "A touching reunion. Unfortunately, brief."

Elara turned on him. "Why keep him alive?"

"Because a spare heir is useful. A dead princess made me regent. A hidden prince made me secure."

General Daven looked sick. "You imprisoned a child."

"I preserved royal blood," Marcellus said. "The kingdom remained stable."

"The kingdom starved," Elara snapped. "Villages burned while you hosted winter hunts. Children were sold into debt while you built a private army."

"All kingdoms consume someone."

"Not this one. Not anymore."

The Regent's smile faded.

"Still so sentimental."

Lucien spoke from behind the throne. "He cannot wear the crown."

Elara looked at him.

Lucien's eyes shifted to the throne. "That is why he kept me. He tried for years, but the crown never answered him. Only blood can wake it. He needed one of us alive."

Elara understood then.

The bell.

The gown.

The crown in her hair.

The magic had not merely revealed her. It had begun succession.

The Regent needed to stop it before the palace completed the recognition.

"How long?" she asked.

Lucien swallowed. "Until dawn."

Marcellus's expression hardened. "Enough."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small blade, dark with old markings.

Mara stiffened. "Ironshade."

Elara had heard the stories. A metal forbidden since the first queens, forged to cut through royal magic. Rare. Poisonous. Nearly impossible to survive.

The Regent stepped toward Lucien.

Elara moved instantly, but the invisible barrier that protected her in the ballroom did not rise fast enough. The Regent pressed the blade against Lucien's throat.

"Choose," he said. "Your crown, or your brother."

The room froze.

Elara could feel the palace magic around her, waiting, building, reaching toward dawn. If she surrendered now, the Regent might rule forever. If she refused, he would kill the brother she had just found.

Lucien met her eyes.

And smiled faintly.

"Do not choose me," he said.

The Regent's blade pressed deeper.

A thin line of blood appeared at Lucien's throat.

Elara lifted her hands slowly.

The crown in her hair began to dim.

Mara whispered, horrified, "No."

Elara looked at the Regent.

"You win," she said.

His smile returned.

And behind him, Lucien's bound hands began to glow.