Chapter 80 THE KINGS DILEMMA
Adrian had always dismissed the small details—the things that didn’t quite add up—as insignificant quirks, part of a bigger, more important picture. But now, as the events of the night unfolded in his mind like a disturbing tapestry, those details screamed at him.
He remembered how Selene never flinched at the sight of blood, her gaze unwavering even in the darkest moments. There was a coldness to her, a chilling composure that he had once found unsettling, but never questioned.
He remembered how the candles bent toward her when she passed, their flames flickering as though drawn to her presence, as if paying silent homage. He had brushed it off as coincidence.
And then, there was the silence that followed her. Rooms seemed quieter when she entered, as though the world itself hushed, listening, waiting.
At the time, Adrian had chalked it up to her commanding presence, the natural poise of Lady Selene, a woman of power. But now he understood. Those small, seemingly inconsequential details had been warning signs—warnings he had ignored, until it was far too late.
What he had seen tonight? It had been a mask. A perfect, carefully crafted mask, concealing a truth he wasn’t prepared for.
And behind that mask? Something far more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.
At the crack of dawn, Adrian summoned the council and the captains of the guard to the war room. His steps were purposeful, his mind clouded with a cold fury that burned beneath the surface.
The council chamber, once a place of deliberation and strategy, now thrummed with tension. They waited for him to speak. Adrian stood before them, posture rigid, face unreadable.
“She is no longer to be addressed as Lady Selene,” he declared, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “She is a traitor to the crown. Find her. Find the queen and spare no resource.”
The words hung in the air like a heavy stone. The silence that followed was deafening. No one dared speak.
Finally, one of the councilors ventured cautiously, “And the tower, Your Majesty? If it is hidden...”
Adrian’s eyes hardened, his gaze a steel edge. “Then it exists,” he said, his words clipped with authority. “Magic leaves echoes. Tear the land apart if you must. We will find it.”
Orders went out immediately.
The mages, skilled in divination, were summoned from distant provinces. Scouts rode out with urgency, following paths that led away from the palace until their horses dropped from exhaustion. The diviners traced ley lines, feeling for the faintest stirrings of magic. No corner of the kingdom was left unexplored.
But they found nothing.
What they didn’t know was that the tower had been right beneath their noses all along.
It rose from a low hill, its silhouette hidden beneath a shimmering veil of illusion. The tower was no more than a shadow against the rising sun, its true form distorted by magic, bending the very air around it like heat rising from stone. It should have been visible, unmistakable, but the magic cloaked it, rendering it invisible to all who approached.
An invisible veil lay across the land, a subtle distortion that caused paths to warp without notice. Travelers grew disoriented, walking longer than they should, unaware of why they couldn’t reach their destination on time.
And at the heart of it all, there was the vial.
Suspended in midair, no larger than a finger, it pulsed with an eerie light. Inside, a pale, golden liquid swirled endlessly, alive. Selene had sealed it with a blood-mark—a spell only she could open, binding the tower to the earth itself.
Anyone who came near the tower felt nothing. They saw nothing. They simply walked away, unaware that they had been redirected by forces beyond their comprehension.
Inside the tower, Athalia awoke on a narrow stone bed that, surprisingly, did not feel cold against her skin. It was as though the magic surrounding her had wrapped itself around her, a warm cocoon that blurred the lines between illusion and reality.
Her breath came in shallow gasps as she pushed herself upright, the room around her hazy and distorted. The once-bright runes on the walls had dimmed to faint glows, their light barely illuminating the space. The air felt thinner, lighter, and the magic in the air shifted, like a presence that had changed.
“Selene?” she called, her voice faint, unsure.
There was no answer.
She moved toward the window slit, her steps slow but steady. The world outside shimmered strangely, as though viewed through distorted glass. The landscape twisted in impossible ways, dizzying her.
She pressed her palm to the stone, but it didn’t burn her skin. The magic had shifted. For the first time, it felt... softer.
Hope stirred cautiously within her.
So she waited with her cloak on to escape.
Somewhere far below, a ripple passed through the magic, like an echo of something breaking. It was faint, but unmistakable. The walls trembled, and for a moment, Athalia felt the tower shift, signaling the beginning of something new.
“Whoever did this is close than they should be,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
The path ahead was already changing, correcting itself, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough.
But Selene who had felt it turned, her cloak snapping in the wind as she vanished into the trees. The towers magic was still in place, but it needed more power. She needed to make it stronger. She would hide it till it was time and she did just that.
As Athalia touched the veil, her hand burned and she snapped back into the tower.
"No.no.no.no please. Someone help." she cried falling to her knees.
Back in the palace, Adrian stood by the window, staring out at the gathering storm. The clouds swirled above, dark and ominous, mirroring the turmoil inside him. The weight of the last few days pressed down on him, and with it came a painful realization—everything was slipping through his fingers.
Days passed, and still no sign of Queen Athalia. The palace became a hollow shell, her absence haunting every corner.
Adrian’s heart grew heavier with each passing hour. The council chambers, once a place of strategy, now felt like a battleground. And the only thing they could agree on was what to do next.
Adrian stood at the head of the long table in the council chamber, tracing the map before him. The ink was still fresh, the lines scrawled by scouts and mages who had searched every inch of the kingdom. Yet still, no sign of Athalia.
“Your Majesty,” Lord Rowan said, his voice low, “we must consider the future of the throne.”
Adrian’s gaze snapped up. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Lord Rowan spoke next, his voice steady but urgent. “The kingdom’s stability is at stake. We have no queen, no heir. If the queen is lost—or dead—we must secure the throne. I propose a new queen.”
The words hit like a blow.