Chapter 106 ADOPTED SON
Adrian stiffened. “Adopted.”
“Or,” Maeron added, “a distant relative. A nephew from an obscure branch. Someone close enough to honor—but far enough that no one expects him to inherit the throne.”
Adrian turned away again. “To hide him.”
“To protect him,” Maeron corrected quietly.
Silence stretched.
“The people will see a king who takes responsibility,” Maeron continued. “A king who offers shelter rather than ambition. It will strengthen your image, not weaken it.”
“And my son?” Adrian asked softly. “What of him?”
Maeron hesitated. “He will live. He will learn. And when the time comes—when the truth can no longer be denied—you may choose differently.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
“I waited years for an heir,” he said. “And now that he stands before me, I must pretend he is not mine.”
Maeron’s voice softened. “For now.”
Adrian opened his eyes again, resolve hardening over sorrow. “Very well.”
He turned back toward the room. “He will remain in the palace. Under my protection.”
Maeron bowed slightly. “Wise, Your Majesty.”
“And Maeron,” Adrian added.
“Yes, my king?”
“If anyone so much as hints that my blood carries corruption—”
“They will answer to me first,” Maeron said calmly.
Adrian nodded.
Outside the chamber, unseen and unheard, Kaelion stood in the shadowed corridor, having arrived just in time to hear his fate.
He did not move.
He did not react.
Only his eyes darkened slightly, reflecting torchlight like still water hiding something deep beneath.
And something within him seemed to smile.
The court was abuzz the following day.
News of King Adrian’s decision spread swiftly, carried by whispers that slithered through the marble halls, brushing past the tapestries and the high columns, settling over the gathered nobles like a fog.
No one had expected the announcement, least of all the court. But now that the king had claimed the boy as his heir—Kaelion as an adopted son—the ripple of uncertainty began to spread outward, seeping into every corner of the palace and beyond.
It began with the nobles.
The highborn gathered in their chambers, their voices low, their eyes sharp. Lord Casvian,the Duke, leaned over his desk, his fingers drumming on the parchment. He had never trusted Adrian, not fully.
There was always something about the king’s calm, that distant look in his eyes when he spoke of power. But this… this was different.
“A son,” Casvian muttered to no one in particular, though his aides listened with careful ears. “An adopted son, no less. Do we trust him, then?”
His most trusted advisor, a thin man named Sern, adjusted his spectacles. “He claims the boy as adopted, but there’s no record, no formal declaration. Does the king truly believe the people will believe this?”
“I care not what the people believe,” Casvian said, leaning back. “I care what the other lords think. He cannot simply hand the throne to a child—especially one who is not truly his own.”
Across the courtyard, the whispers reached the ears of Lady Elara, another noblewoman. She stood at her window, gazing out at the distant silhouette of the palace. Her lips curled into a wry smile as she turned to her husband.
“Adopted, he says. He has no heir, and now he’s created one. A boy who will take the throne while Adrian grows old in his solitude.”
Lord Veld, a grizzled man with more years on his shoulders than he cared to admit, said nothing. His eyes, however, betrayed his thoughts. He was calculating, sizing up the implications of this decision, wondering if this boy—this Kaelion—might one day become more than a mere adopted son.
In the city, too, the air had changed.
The streets buzzed with gossip. The merchants, always quick to sense shifts in power, were already whispering about the consequences of the king’s move. Some said it was a masterstroke—a way to strengthen the crown’s position. Others thought it a dangerous gamble, one that could tip the kingdom into chaos.
But it was in the taverns and the dark corners of the city where the rumors began to take on a different shape.
“It’s magic, I tell you,” a man in the White Hart Tavern spoke with more certainty than was wise. His rough fingers traced the rim of his mug, eyes darting toward the doorway as if afraid someone might overhear.
“That boy ain't human. He’s probably some cursed thing. They say he’s been hidden away for years, waiting to be brought back.”
His companion, a tall woman with a scar across her cheek, raised an eyebrow.
“Cursed? You’re mad. He’s the prince, plain and simple.”
The man snorted. “The prince? You think the prince born three years ago, can grow up to look like a man overnight? There’s sorcery at work here, I’m telling you.”
The woman leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Then why hasn’t the king killed him yet?”
“Probably because he needs him,” the man whispered. “And soon enough, we’ll all be asking ourselves whether the king can control what’s been unleashed. God knows what he's done to him.”
Back in the palace, Maeron watched the court unravel. He could feel the tension growing with each passing hour. Each passing moment. From the nobles to the city, from the gentry to the commoners, the question on everyone’s lips was the same: What will happen now?
A banquet was called for the evening—a show of solidarity, a gathering of the kingdom’s finest to ease the growing discomfort. The nobles arrived in their finery, whispers dancing across their lips like smoke. It was not just the king who was under scrutiny now. It was the boy, Kaelion, who had entered their midst under the guise of adopted son, who had not been born into the lineage, but claimed it nonetheless.
Adrian sat at the head of the table, a tight smile on his face. The crown rested heavier on his brow tonight than it ever had before.
Across from him, Lady Elara's gaze lingered on the empty chair beside him—the seat that should have been filled by his son. There was something deliberate in the king’s actions, something that made her wonder if he was testing them, testing the kingdom’s response.
The chamber fell silent as Adrian raised his glass.
“To the future,” he said, his voice steady, though it betrayed none of the tension within him. “To the strength of our kingdom and the strength of those who will lead it.”
His words hung in the air, and for a long moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, they raised their glasses, though the weight of the toast was not lost on anyone.
The young boy—Kaelion—had become the kingdom’s greatest uncertainty, a seed of both hope and fear. But no one knew what the seed would grow into. Not yet.
And somewhere, in the shadows of the banquet hall, Maeron felt the unease pulse beneath his skin, like a storm gathering on the horizon. The political ripple had begun.