Chapter 18 THE MASKED
Though the council believed they were moving closer to the truth, they were actually following trails Athalia had allowed to remain visible.
The Queen’s man vanished from the palace the night the king was stabbed after visiting the queen.
The guard on the tower was killed by a network of shadow guards Athalia had built outside the palace walls.
The fragrance, the knife and the evidence all pointed in circles that led nowhere.
And Emelia, who was innocent, remained the perfect target for this final stage of the plan.
Guards stepped forward, guiding ministers, witnesses, and nobles out of the great hall. As the crowd thinned, the torchlight dimmed slightly, making shadows stretch further across the stone floor.
The chief adviser sighed. “We have a new mystery now: the masked man.”
The ministers looked uneasy, while the Queen looked frightened.
The Queen remained seated until the room was nearly empty. When she finally rose, she moved with a grace that drew no attention like a quiet departure mastered over years of political experience.
She left without speaking a word, not because she had nothing to say but because saying anything at all would unravel everything she had built.
It had been a long day of investigation and everyone left with different thoughts of what could be the real truth.
"If he didn't hurt the king or was stopped by someone, who stabbed the king then? And who is the masked man?." Everyone thought.
And in the far corner of the hall, Athalia’s faint smile returned in a quick and subtle way, vanishing before anyone could truly see it.
Princess Emelia remained under the watch of guards near in the secluded chamber near the side entrance. She had been brought to bear witness earlier, though she barely understood why suspicion had latched onto her especially from a guard she didn't know.
Her hands clenched the folds of her gown. She thought about Eric, then the council and then back to Eric with eyes filled with confusion and quiet fear.
She had not been raised within these walls. But she knew loyalty, respect, and duty. She had never imagined she would be named in the investigation of the King’s attack.
But the whispers had already started:
“She was with Eric earlier that day.”
“She had access to the royal quarters.”
“The princess always walks the west wing.”
“She might know more than she admits.”
Whispers were dangerous and they grew into judgments long before evidence was found. Every whisper tightened the noose around her future.
Athalia had observed Emelia from across the hall with careful calculation. She said nothing, but her eyes revealed the satisfaction of someone watching a carefully seeded idea take root.
Eric, who was weakened and confused, saw Emelia’s expression and felt a dull ache in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but the guards at his sides tightened their hold.
Only athalia who was watching closely would have noticed.
Her hands remained neatly folded at her waist, her posture upright and her expression composed. She played the role expected of her: the dutiful princess, the supportive cousin and the calm presence amid chaos.
But behind her eyes, triumph glowed as everything she had anticipated was unfolding.
With Eric confined and Emelia implicated, the two brightest obstacles to Adrian’s ascension were fading from the court’s view.
The removal of Eric from court meant Adrian’s path to the throne widened. Emelia’s growing suspicion meant she would no longer stand near Adrian with the same influence or closeness.
The people’s attention which was already shifting, would turn fully toward the calmer and steadier prince, the one Athalia intended to elevate.
Every piece was falling into place.
No one saw her smile except the Queen in one moment. And even then, the Queen did not react.
She merely observed not because she understood Athalia’s plan fully, but because she recognized ambition when she saw it. And she felt an undeniable chill at how controlled and precise Athalia’s movements appeared.
It was a reminder that she was not the only mother willing to secure a future for her bloodline.
Emelia remained near the side of the room where she was confined, her hands clenched tightly and her face pale. She remembered as she watched Eric while she was being taken away with a helplessness she could not hide.
She had not spoken more than a few sentences that day, but every glance she cast across the hall had exposed her fear.
“Emelia,” Adrian whispered, stepping toward her as he took her off her thoughts.
“Adrain, What are you doing here?” She asked, wiping tears off her face. She didn't here the door open.
“Emelia,” Adrain repeated. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
She lifted her eyes. “They think I used sorcery to help Eric gain the throne,” she said softly. “How could they think I played a part in it.”
“If you didn’t,” Adrian replied. “The court will see that.”
“Will they?” Her voice trembled, but she kept her posture straight. “Or do they simply see what they want to see?”
Adrian hesitated. He could not answer. Not honestly.
Because he knew the truth that the court, when frightened, often chose the simplest narrative and clung to it tightly.
“Stay close to me, I'll protect you,” he said instead. “I won’t allow them to condemn you unfairly.”
She nodded, though the uncertainty in her eyes remained.
From a little distance behind the secluded chamber, Athalia watched them not with warmth, not with sympathy, but with quiet, calculating thought. She clenched her fists.
Emelia’s distress threatened stability for her. But Adrian’s protectiveness and closeness will threaten his neutrality and emotional ties which made rulers vulnerable. The hunger to make her dissapear from Adrian's sight and loose the last emblem of love he had for her came quickly.
Lysander who was with Prince Adrain turned to Adrain. “Until my investigation concludes, I advise restraint,” he said.
“No statements should be made without full clarity.”
Adrain nodded.
“How did the trial go?” Emelia asked.
“The trial is adjourned.” He said.
“And Eric?.”
“He will be fine, hopefully.” Adrian said.
The wind that swept across the northern watchtower was always sharp, always restless, but on that night it carried more than cold air but suspicion.
Inside a small, dimly lit room in a house outside the palace walls, Rylan, a quiet but skilled old guard in his 50’s, sat hunched over a folded letter. The wax seal was broken and shattered but he kept running his thumb over the fragment of the royal insignia as if hoping the message would change.
It didn’t.
He read it again anyway, the queen’s elegant script slicing through the silence.