Chapter 84 ATHALIAS GHOST
Adrian stared at the body, something breaking loose in his chest.
“She was pregnant?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
That night, another noblewoman came to him.
Lady Elowen, pale and shaking, knelt at the foot of his bed. “I did not lie,” she said desperately. “I swear it. I felt it. The child was there.”
Adrian rubbed his temples. “Rise. You are not on trial.”
Even as he spoke, the candles dimmed.
Elowen froze. “Did you feel that?”
The temperature dropped sharply. Adrian stood, his hand instinctively going to the dagger at his belt.
“Guards,” he called.
The shadows along the walls thickened, stretching until they touched the floor—too tall, too narrow, moving independently of the light.
Elowen screamed as one detached, sliding across the stone like ink spilled in water. It wrapped around her ankles, climbing fast.
Adrian lunged forward, grabbing her arm.
The shadow recoiled violently, hissing like steam on hot metal. The candles flared back to life.
Elowen collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
“It’s here,” she whispered. “Whatever it is—it’s angry.”
She did not survive the night.
By dawn, both women who had claimed pregnancy were dead.
No wounds. No poison. No explanation.
\---
The council convened in chaos.
“This cannot continue,” Lord Garen said, his voice shaking. “The palace is cursed.”
“Or infiltrated,” another argued. “This reeks of sorcery.”
All eyes turned—slowly, inevitably—toward the empty chair once occupied by Athalia. Toward Selene.
Adrian felt the weight press against his ribs. Selene, who had vanished with Athalia. Selene, who had lied. Selene, who had been trusted.
And then—Celine.
She sat quietly at the end of the table, hands folded, gaze lowered.
“You look pleased,” Adrian said suddenly.
The room went silent.
Celine lifted her eyes. “I am not pleased. I mourn the loss of any woman,” she replied calmly. “Even those who mocked me.”
Adrian searched her face for cracks. He found none.
That night, he did not sleep.
He walked the corridors alone, listening to the palace breathe.
“Tell me,” he said to the darkness. “What did I miss?”
\---
Far below, in a chamber hidden not by walls but by folded space, Athalia opened her eyes.
The child she had lost screamed in her dreams—a sound that never reached waking ears. Around her, runes glowed faintly along the tower walls, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She felt terribly weak, as though death lingered just beyond her breath. Her thoughts drifted to her newborn, the weight of that loss pressing down until it was hard to breathe. She shut her eyes, expecting death to take her at last.
Death came close.
And somewhere far away, Selene slipped a silver ring from her finger. Its runes were dark now, cracked clean through the center.
It was as though she sensed the message.
She vanished before a word could be spoken—sorcery folding her presence out of the world.
\---
Meanwhile, Adrian lay awake in his chambers, staring at the ceiling, wondering whether this was truly someone’s doing—or Athalia’s ghost.
“Athalia’s ghost?” he muttered to himself. “They must be joking. There’s no such thing. She can’t be dead… can she?”
But soon, rumors began to spread.
At first, the words traveled as laughter—brittle and forced, carried on servants’ tongues, the kind meant to disguise fear. Then the laughter thinned into whispers that threaded through corridors like drafts through cracked stone. By the time the sun dipped behind the western hills, no one spoke Athalia’s name aloud.
And then something unexpected happened.
This time, it was Lady Rowena.
She had been the newest consort—chosen carefully, guarded closely, meant to prevent what had happened to the others. No sharp edges, the council had insisted. No ambition that could be sensed across a room. She was gentle, pious, obedient. A woman meant to warm the king’s bed and keep her eyes lowered.
She lasted sixteen days.
King Adrian stood at the high window of the council chamber, watching the courtyard below fill with torches. The flames bobbed as guards moved in hurried patterns, armor clinking softly. Beneath the noise—beneath the orders and questions—ran a current of dread sharp enough to make his teeth ache.
“Tell me again,” he said, without turning.
Lord Rowan cleared his throat. “She was last seen at dusk, Your Majesty. She dismissed her attendants and said she wished to walk.”
“Where?”
“The eastern gardens.”
Adrian’s fingers tightened on the stone sill. “And you allowed this?”
“She has walked there before,” Rowan said carefully. “Without incident.”
“No incident,” Adrian repeated, tasting the words like ash.
The eastern gardens were quiet and beautiful at that hour—hedges trimmed into careful lines, fountains murmuring softly. It was a place Athalia had loved.
The thought struck him without warning, sharp enough to steal his breath.
He pushed it aside.
“You claimed it was Athalia’s ghost,” Adrian said.
“Yes,” Rowan replied. “So did the maid who found her shoe.”
“Found it where?”
“At the edge of the old path.”
The room went very still.
“What path?” Adrian asked.
Rowan hesitated—just a fraction too long.
“The path behind the gardens,” he said at last.
“Search it,” Adrian ordered. “Search everywhere.”
\---
Hours later, the guards returned.
“Your Majesty,” one said. “We found the second shoe.”
“Where?”
“On the path leading to the tower.”
Something cold slid down Adrian’s spine.
The chief adviser glanced at the others, then back at him. “Didn’t you say the tower is… gone, Your Majesty?”
“Gone is an overstatement,” Adrian said slowly. “What we saw was an illusion—one permitted only by sorcery.”
“Has it been searched?”
“Yes. It was searched, mapped, and struck by spells. There is nothing there.”
Adrian did not answer. He was already moving, cloak snapping behind him as he strode from the chamber. The guards scrambled to follow.
\---
The eastern gardens smelled of damp earth and crushed flowers. Torches cast uneven light across marble paths and low stone benches. Servants stood in clusters, whispering behind raised hands. When Adrian approached, they fell silent and bowed hastily.
“Show me,” he said.
A young maid stepped forward, trembling. “This way, Your Majesty.”
She led him past the fountains, past the yew hedges, to where the garden thinned and the trees grew wild. The path there was older, less used, its stones worn smooth by time.
Adrian recognized it instantly.
He had walked it once, long ago, when Athalia had taken his hand and laughed at his hesitation.
At its end once stood the tower.
Now, the path ended in open ground.
Grass waved gently in the evening breeze. Wildflowers grew in careless clusters. Fireflies hovered, their glow soft and aimless.
“There,” the maid whispered, pointing.
A single slipper lay on the ground—silk torn, sole damp with dew.
Adrian knelt and picked it up. The fabric was cold.
“What did she say?” he asked quietly.
The maid swallowed. “She screamed. She said… the queen was standing ahead of her. Calling her name.”
Adrian rose slowly, eyes fixed on the empty field.
“And then?” he asked.
“She ran,” the maid whispered. “Toward… her. Or toward ...”