Chapter 33 BEFORE THE BROKEN OATH
She turned away, unable to bear the sincerity in his voice.
Athalia couldn’t explain the faint restlessness at night. The heaviness in her limbs when she rose in the morning. And the certain dryness around her eyes that powder could not fully conceal.
“Athalia darling.” Adrain called out.
Athalia turned in shock.
“I’m fine. I just need rest.”
Adrain nodded and kissed her forehead.
But the nightmares were impossible to ignore.
It all started the first year after Adrain’s coronation passed in a flourish of victories, banquets, and newfound prosperity. The second year followed with even greater hope. But amid all the celebration, one whispered expectation lingered like a shadow behind every feast, every parade and every festival.
The kingdom wanted an heir.
And they waited.
When the queen walked through the palace halls, heads bowed in respect, but eyes lingered curiously, expectantly, and quietly wondering whether her figure might someday grow with the promise of a royal child.
Athalia ignored the whispers. She carried herself with grace, elegant and confident, her voice calm in councils and her presence steady beside Adrain. But after their second anniversary as ruling monarchs, even she felt the growing tension.
One afternoon, after a long council meeting, Adrain escorted her to the balcony that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun painted the sky in muted gold.
King Adrain was not a man who easily voiced disappointment. He carried himself with dignity, measured in action and temper.
“Athalia,” he began gently as he reached out for her hands, “you must know what they’re saying.”
She rested her hands on the balcony railing. “I know.”
“They want a child.”
She didn’t look at him. “Do you?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “I do.”
The breeze rustled her hair. She turned only slightly.
“And if the child takes longer than they hope?”
Adrain sighed. “Then we wait. However, an heir stabilizes a kingdom. Without one, advisors may begin to imagine… alternatives.”
Athalia closed her eyes briefly, suppressing the knot of dread tightening inside her.
“You are king,” she said softly. “No advisor will dare replace you. Not under my watch.”
“You know it’s not that simple.”
She did know. And yet she offered him a small smile.
“We will find a way,” she murmured. “I promise.”
But in her heart, she whispered another truth entirely:
I cannot risk breaking the pact.
That night, as Athalia lay beside Adrain in their great bed of carved sandalwood, her mind drifted unwillingly back to the memory she buried deep beneath the crown’s weight.
The night she had traded the right to conceive for beauty, charm, and influence. They were tools she believed she needed to survive in a palace filled with doubtful eyes.
The bargain had been clear.
“You may rise,” the sorceress had whispered, “but you will bear no child. For charm and new life cannot coexist. Choose wisely.”
And she had chosen desperately and recklessly.
A choice that now stood between her and the king she had grown to care for more than she expected.
She opened her eyes in the dark.
Adrain slept peacefully beside her, unaware.
Unaware of the pact. Unaware of the price.
Unaware that she swallowed herbal infusions every night not to cure, not to ease discomfort, but to prevent conception entirely.
She turned her face away so he would not sense her guilt.
Inside her private chambers, hidden behind tapestries embroidered with Seatopia’s crest, Athalia kept a small chest. It was made of dark wood, carved with symbols she pretended not to understand.
Only Lira knew it existed.
One morning, after the queen finished dressing for a diplomatic visit, she spoke quietly to her maid.
“Bring the chest.”
Lira hesitated only a moment before retrieving it. The queen opened the lid, revealing small sachets of dried leaves, powders, and roots carefully wrapped in soft cloth.
Lira whispered, “Your Majesty… how long must you take them?”
“As long as necessary.”
Lira’s hands twisted together. “The king is troubled by the wait.”
Athalia’s voice hardened with an edge of fear she tried to hide. “I know, but he cannot know about this.”
Lira lowered her eyes. “I understand.”
Athalia selected the day’s packet and dropped it into her tea.
The bitter scent rose to her nose.
She drank.
Then she said quietly, “Prepare the carriage.”
But before Lira could step away, Athalia added, “And Lira… not a word to anyone.”
Her maid bowed. “Never, Your Majesty.”
Athalia watched her leave, heart sinking.
She hated the herbs.
She hated the secrecy.
She hated the fear that crawled under her skin every time she imagined the sorceress’s cold smile.
So, she drank them because she had made a promise, especially a forbidden one.
By the third year of their reign, the longing for a child no longer hid behind political necessity, it had become personal.
The palace physician visited frequently to inspect Adrain’s health after long war campaigns.
One afternoon, after another victorious return, the physician remarked casually:
“Your Majesty appears in excellent condition. A fine state to father heirs.”
Adrain had smiled politely, but his eyes moved to Athalia, who froze, then recovered her composure.
Over the months, Athalia continued her internal struggle caught between fear and desire, between a secret she could not confess and a future she could not know.
She watched Adrain grow more distant, though he never stopped trying to reach her.
Later that night, he entered her chamber not in frustration, but with quiet vulnerability.
“Athalia,” he said softly, “have you been unwell?”
She blinked in surprise. “Unwell? No.”
“You have seemed… distant. Perhaps even fearful.”
Her breath caught. “Fearful?”
“Yes,” he said. “I cannot explain it, but you often look at me as though it pains you to speak the truth.”
She lowered her gaze.
“Athalia, don’t you want a child?”
Her throat tightened.
“I want what is best for the kingdom.”
“That is not an answer.”
She folded her hands, fingers trembling slightly.
“What if the kingdom is not ready?”
Adrain shook his head. “It is ready. And so am I.”
His eyes softened.
“I want a family with you.”
The sincerity in his voice pierced her like a blade.
She forced a steady voice. “It will happen, Adrain. When the gods will it.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, studying her as though trying to pierce the walls she built around herself. But finally, he nodded.
“Very well.” He said calmly grabbing her by the waist. “I hope I can sleep with my wife tonight?”
Athalia smiled. “Ofcourse. My lord”.
The next morning, as he left the room, Athalia buried her face in her hands.
She had lied again.