Chapter 102 IMPORTANT MESSAGE
The city beyond the palace had changed.
New shops lined the main street. The faces around her bore the subtle wear of people who had learned to keep their opinions quiet.
Athalia moved through them unnoticed.
That, too, was new.
But then a young man brushed past her.
"Sorry."
But before she could turn, he had already walked ahead.
Athalia could only see the cloak over the back of his head
Soon, she found the inn near the market square. The place she had. stayed. The innkeeper barely looked at her as always, too busy arguing with a merchant over stale bread.
In her narrow room upstairs, Athalia sat on the edge of the bed and let the silence close in.
Lira.
She closed her eyes and remembered.
Lira laughing softly as she stole extra honey cakes from the kitchens to give her. Lira standing rigid behind the throne during council meetings, eyes sharp, missing nothing.
Athalia’s throat tightened.
“She wouldn’t leave,” Athalia murmured.
Unless she had been forced to.
Unless someone had made her disappear.
A knock came at the door.
Athalia stiffened. “Yes?”
A pause.
“Message for you,” a woman’s voice said.
“For me?”
The door creaked open just enough for a scrap of parchment to slide through.
By the time Athalia reached it, the hallway was empty.
Her pulse quickened as she unfolded the paper.
Three words, written in a familiar, hurried hand.
Still alive?. Don’t go to the gates again.
Athalia’s breath hitched.
There was no name.
"Who was it?"
Her fingers trembled as she traced the ink.
Still alive. Were they expecting her dead already or are they planning to.
Relief surged through her—followed immediately by fear.
If whoever sent this was an enemy, alive and hiding, then the danger had not passed.
It had only changed shape.
Athalia looked at the door, then at the window.
Outside, the palace towers stood silent against the darkening sky.
Inside those walls, someone had decided she was better off dead.
And someone else—someone loyal enough to risk everything—was still watching.
Athalia folded the note carefully and tucked it into her sleeve.
She had been turned away like a madwoman.
But she was not mad.
She was not dead.
And whatever or whoever had rewritten her story had underestimated one thing:
She had survived once already.
This time, she would not return asking to be recognized.
She would return demanding answers.
And far above the city, a single window in the palace glowed with candlelight.
King Adrian stood there, watching the roads beyond the gates—as if waiting for someone who was never meant to return.
The next morning, Athalia decided to find Lira, the source of the message or to try going back to the palace she is warned never to return.
"But what do I do first?" She thought.
Athalia did not go far from the inn.
The city hummed around her—vendors calling out prices, horses snorting in irritation, laughter spilling from wine houses—but none of it truly reached her. Her thoughts circled one thing only: the palace gates, closed to her face, guarded by men who no longer remembered her name.
She walked slowly, hood drawn low, letting the crowd carry her as she turned over possibilities in her mind.
Disguise would not be enough. Bribery might open doors, but not the right ones. Violence would only confirm the lie they already believed—that Queen Athalia had died a mad, cursed woman.
No. She needed truth to surface on its own terms.
She needed someone inside.
Someone who could not be dismissed.
Lost in thought, she turned a corner too sharply—and collided with someone solid.
“Oof...” the man grunted as their shoulders struck.
“I’m sorry,” Athalia said automatically, stepping back.
The man steadied himself, one hand tightening around the edge of his cloak. His hood was drawn low, shadowing his face, but Athalia caught a glimpse of his eyes before he looked away.
Her breath caught.
They were dark—almost black—but not empty. They held a stillness that did not belong to youth, a weight shaped by long solitude.
“I wasn’t looking, and I've been bumping on others since yesterday.” Athalia said, studying him more closely now. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he replied. His voice was calm. Measured. Too calm.
He inclined his head slightly and stepped aside, clearly intending to move on.
Something twisted in Athalia’s chest.
“Wait,” she said, without knowing why.
The man paused.
“Yes?”
Up close, she noticed more. His height. His posture—too straight for someone raised on the streets. The way his hands rested loosely at his sides, ready but restrained. And beneath the layers of cloth, a quiet power hummed, barely contained.
“Are you heading toward the palace,” she said.
“Yes.”
“They won’t let you in.”
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
“I know.”
Athalia hesitated. “Then why go?”
The man looked at her then—really looked at her—and for a fleeting instant, something flickered across his face. Recognition, perhaps. Or curiosity.
“Because it’s my home,” he said simply.
The world tilted.
Before she could respond, he pulled his hood lower and moved past her, disappearing into the flow of people.
She stood there, heart racing.
"His home. Or did i hear wrong?"
She turned slowly, watching the direction he had gone.
"No," she told herself. "Do not reach for ghosts. Not again. Maybe he's exaggerating."
Yet her feet carried her forward.
...
The palace gates loomed ahead, unchanged and unmoved.
The guards were the same ones as before. Athalia recognized their voices before she saw their faces.
She slowed, keeping her distance, blending into the small cluster of onlookers that had gathered—merchants, beggars, curious passersby who had learned that the palace gates had become a place of unexpected spectacle.
The young man she had collided with stood alone before the iron bars.
His hood was still up.
“I am here to see the king,” he said evenly. " I have a message for him."
The younger guard barked a laugh.
“Oh, is that so? Join the line.”
“There is no line,” the man replied.
“That’s because you’re all mad,” the guard said. “Every fool in this city seems to think today’s the day to rise from the dead.”
The older guard crossed his arms. “Let me guess. You’re the lost heir.”
The man did not flinch.
“Yes.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Wonderful,” the younger guard said. “And I’m the crowned hawk himself.”
The man’s gaze remained steady.
“I was born...” he said but was cut.
“Three winters ago. The night the bells rang twice.” The younger guard teased.
"Yes."
Athalia’s breath stilled.
The bells.
Only one night in her reign had the bells rung twice—once for joy, once for terror.
The older guard’s smile faltered, just a fraction.
“That information’s in the records, and everyone claims it ” he said gruffly. “You think you’re clever?”
“I was taken from my mother,” the man continued, ignoring him. “Carried beyond the kingdom before dawn. I was named...”
“And what name was that?” the younger guard cut in, mockery sharp.
The man lifted his chin.
“They called me prince...”