The Forest that Betrayed Him

The Chains Beneath The Crown
Maelis took a single step forward, her eyes locked on the man standing in the doorway. The fire in her expression was unmistakable. Her voice cracked through the tension like a whip.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she spat, each word sharp and full of venom.

Alex didn’t flinch. He stood calmly in the doorway, his hands relaxed at his sides, his crownless head held high. His face bore the faint shadow of a smile, but his eyes were unreadable.

Behind Maelis, Aurora jolted up from her chair, trying to reach her—but her legs gave out the moment she stood. Idris rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

"I've got you," he said softly.

"Thank you," Aurora whispered breathlessly, her cheeks pale and hands trembling.

"Don't push yourself," Idris murmured as he helped her back to her seat. "You’ve been unconscious for weeks.”

But Maelis didn’t look back. Her rage was laser-focused. Fury was etched into every step she took toward Alex.

"Can someone tell me why this traitor is here?!" Maelis barked, addressing the witches who filled the room. "You’re all just letting him walk around Bellaflor like he belongs here? Do the King and Queen even know that the Crown Prince of Edralis is in their home?!”"

Silence. A heavy, uncomfortable silence followed.

"They opened their gates to us! Gave us sanctuary! And you all go ahead and do this?" Her voice cracked slightly, but she masked it with steel. "How do you think they'd feel knowing that their enemy is within their walls, and we knew and said nothing?”

No one spoke.

She shoved past Alex, bumping into his shoulder without hesitation. "I'm going to alert the King and Queen."

"Maelis, stop!"

The command came gently but firmly from Aurora, and Maelis froze mid-step. She turned to face her, arms folded tightly against her chest.

"I was the one who asked them not to tell the royals about Alex," Aurora said.

Maelis blinked at Aurora, clearly stunned. Disbelief etched in every line of her face. "You what?"

"I begged them," Aurora said, voice soft but firm. "I made them promise me that they won't tell."

"Why?" Maelis demanded.

Aurora looked around the room, then at Alex. Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. "Because he was the one who woke me up."

A gasp rippled through the room. Maelis, Idris, Selene, and Morgan stared at her in stunned disbelief.

"What?" Idris said, his voice rising. "How?!

Selene leaned forward, her voice shaking. "We had to risk our lives in that cursed forest to retrieve the Varae Bloom.”

Maelis reached into her satchel and pulled out the bloom. Even now, it glowed faintly. She held it up, its petals shimmering in the candlelight. "We lost every single Bellaflorian soldier that accompanied us for this."

Morgan nodded grimly. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And we lost Nixie.”

Aurora's breath caught. Her vision blurred. "What?" she whispered, her lips trembled. "No… What do you mean?"

Maelis clenched her jaw and lowered the flower. Her voice cracked. "It was a creature. One of the horrors of the Silent Forest. It tore her apart before we could do anything.”

Gasps rang out. Aurora covered her mouth with her hand, tears spilling down her cheeks.

After a heavy moment, Selene’s voice broke the silence. She turned her gaze on Alex, her eyes suspicious. "How did you wake her without the bloom?"

Alex didn’t look at Selene. His gaze was still fixed on Aurora, and when he finally spoke, he gave a small, awkward smile.

"True Love’s Kiss."

"Is this a joke?" Maelis snapped. Her fists clenched at her sides. "Are you serious right now? Because if this is some sick—"

She lunged at him, fist raised, but Idris caught her again, pulling her back.

"Maelis, calm down!"

"Don’t you tell me to calm down!" she shouted.

"It’s true," Soraya said, her voice cutting through the argument like a knife. She stepped forward. "We all saw it. She woke up the moment he kissed her."

The group stared at her. Disbelief painted every face.

"That’s not possible," Morgan said flatly.

"How would you even know to try something so ridiculous?" Selene asked, her tone sharp.

Alex shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. "I don’t know. I just... felt it. I couldn’t let her go."

The room fell into another stunned silence.

That’s when Elara, who had remained quiet until now, stepped forward, eyes wild.

"Where is Darius?"

The question struck like a gong.

She looked around, frantic and anxious. "He hasn’t come back. Why hasn’t he come back?"

Her gaze dropped to Maelis’s belt—and the sword hanging there. Darius’s sword.

"Why do you have my son’s sword?"

Maelis opened her mouth, but no words came.

Elara staggered forward, her breaths turning into sobs. "Where is he? Where’s my son?!"

Morpheus, Daphne, Malakai, and Soraya tried to steady her, but she pushed them away.

"Where is he?! Tell me!" She cried out loud, tears falling from here eyes.

Her cries became wails and screams. Malakai held her as she trembled violently and beat his chest with her fist until the strength left her. And then, suddenly, she collapsed in his arms.

Daphne placed a hand over Elara's heart. The rose-colored gemstone in her forehead glowed softly. "She’s alright," Daphne whispered. "She’s still breathing."

Aurora, sobbing, turned to Maelis. "What happened to Darius?"

Maelis wiped her face, struggling to keep herself composed. "He went into the forest before us. Alone. We went after him. At the end of the road, we found only his sword. We hoped he made it out and returned to Bellaflor ahead of us.”

Idris exhaled heavily. "What if he didn't? What if... Darius never made it out alive?”

The words sucked the air out of the room.

Aurora’s hands trembled violently. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"No... no, he has to be okay," she whispered.

Her breath came in short bursts, and she doubled over in her chair, sobbing.

Then Alex was moving. He crossed the room in long strides and dropped to one knee before her.

"Aurora," he murmured, gathering her into his arms.

She didn’t resist.

She collapsed against him, crying into his chest while the room, once again, fell into silence.

The room that had once been filled with joy and warmth was now nothing but emotions of pain and sorrow.

—

Vermiore was cloaked in early twilight, the spires of the royal palace casting long shadows across the polished marble courtyards. The grand gates of Edralis stood open—but not in welcome. The clang of metal boots against stone echoed like a drumbeat of dread as a battalion of witch hunters marched up the broad path, their armor gleaming like the blade of a guillotine, the insignia of the Crown—black sun over silver flame—stamped over each breastplate.

Between them, dragged like a broken offering to the altar of power, was Darius.

His head lolled forward, dark hair matted with dried blood and dirt. His shirt hung in shredded tatters from his bruised frame, revealing deep wounds, gashes, scorched skin, and purple-black bruises littering his arms and torso. His face was a mask of agony—one eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot and hollow.

Chains clinked with every staggering step he took. Shackles bit into his wrists and his ankles leaving bruises.

The witch hunters flanking him had no mercy in their eyes. One shoved Darius forward when he faltered, forcing him to stumble and nearly fall to his knees. Another spat at him, the glob of spit landing on his cheek. The third raised a gloved hand and struck him across the face with the back of his gauntlet, splitting his already cracked lip further.

“Keep moving, you traitorous filth,” one snarled.

“Doesn’t look so high and mighty now, does he?”

“You should’ve died in that forest. Would’ve saved us the trouble.”

Darius didn’t speak. He Couldn’t. Blood filled his mouth. Pain filled his lungs. But worse than the wounds was the shame—this was how they would see him.

Maids paused at the edge of the corridor, hands trembling around laundry baskets. A pair of stable boys stopped their work mid-step, eyes wide. A serving girl nearly dropped her tray as the bloodied figure stumbled past. Whispers began, low and unsure.

“Is that…?”

“It can’t be. He used to be the Queen’s shadow…”

“Is that Darius?”

“No… gods, what happened to him?”

The whispers spread like wildfire.

Darius kept his head low.

The procession snaked through the polished inner corridors of the palace, and even there, the cruelty did not cease. Another hunter drove a boot into his side, slamming him into a marble pillar. The impact jarred his ribs—he tasted copper, fresh blood trickling down his chin.

The only mercy was that they did not drag him through the throne room. Not yet.

—

Queen Lysandra sat upon her velvet-upholstered stool, the scent of rose oil and jasmine heavy in the air of her private chamber. Golden light poured through the stained glass windows, bathing her in a golden glow.

Three handmaidens busied themselves around her—one brushing long, black strands of her hair with slow, reverent strokes; another arranging jeweled pins in an intricate lattice at the crown of her head. A third knelt beside her, carefully smoothing the silk skirts of her dark emerald gown.

Lysandra sat motionless, a wine goblet in hand, her expression vacant as her gaze lingered beyond the windows.

Then—KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound was sharp, clipped, and out of place in the otherwise tranquil chamber.

She didn’t turn her head.

“See who it is,” she said, her tone languid and bored.

The youngest handmaiden bowed and padded barefoot to the chamber doors. She cracked it open, speaking softly with someone beyond, then returned with a small, careful curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” she said, voice hushed. “It’s one of the royal guards. He says… the witch hunters have returned from the Silent Forest.”

Lysandra’s brows rose slightly. “And?”

“They’ve come back with someone,” the maid said, hesitating. “A prisoner.”

There was a pause.

A smile—slow, wicked, and knowing—curved across the Queen’s painted lips. The goblet in her hand tilted ever so slightly, casting a ripple through the crimson wine within.

“Oh,” she said, her voice like silk over steel. “Have they now?”

The handmaidens glanced at each other, uncertain whether to be pleased or frightened.

Lysandra’s gaze slid to the nearest mirror, where her reflection smiled back at her, cold and resplendent.

“Tell the guard,” she said softly, “that I shall receive them shortly.”