Chapter 96 ATHALIAS GHOST REKINDLED
Parents cried.
Priests prayed
Guards searched every road, every home, every forest path.
Nothing was ever found.
And slowly, the whispers darkened.
Soon after, King Adrian summoned the council.
“We must stop this,” he said, his voice hollow. “This is no trick.”
The High Chancellor leaned forward. “We believe it is the Queen.”
“That is impossible,” General Marrick snapped. “She is dead.”
“No grave proves that,” the Chancellor replied. “And no other spirit would act with such care.”
“You believe rumors too easily,” Marrick said. “Ghost stories.”
“Have you forgotten the deaths in the palace?” the Chancellor asked sharply.
“Enough,” the Chief Adviser cut in. “We need a solution, not bickering.”
King Adrian closed his eyes.
“Athalia would never harm children,” he said quietly. “Even if she were alive.”
“Whoever is doing this is not harming them,” the Chancellor agreed. “But we do not know what they are doing either.”
“If Athalia were alive,” Adrian said, “she would come home.”
“Yes,” the Chief Adviser said. “The Queen loved her duty. She would not abandon the kingdom.”
The Chancellor said nothing.
“Keep searching,” Adrian ordered.
But the rumors kept rising.
“She has not forgiven the kingdom,” some whispered.
While the kingdom trembled, King Adrian suffered a quieter pain. He had lost his wife without farewell. He had lost his child before ever hearing its cry. And as the years passed, he lost something else.
Hope.
The kingdom expected him to take another queen, as kings always did when consorts vanished or died. The council reminded him. The nobles whispered during feasts. The people watched him closely, waiting for weakness.
“You must think of Arrandelle,” the Chief Adviser said during one council meeting. “A king without an heir invites chaos.”
Adrian sat on the throne, hands resting on the carved lions and vines. His hair had grayed too early. His eyes carried a weariness sleep could not cure.
“I had a queen,” he said.
“She is gone,” the Adviser replied gently, “and so are the consorts.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “There will only be one queen. You did not see her crown returned to me without dust or blood. You did not hear her voice in the halls and towers at night."
Uneasy glances passed around the chamber.
“Your Majesty,” General Marrick said carefully, “rumors of her ghost already trouble the people.”
Adrian gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Let them,” he said. “At least they remember her.”
But remembering was not understanding. Fear spread like cracks in stone. Mothers held their sons closer at night. Boys were kept indoors after sunset. Candles burned longer in windows. Bread and flowers were left at old shrines, offerings to a restless Queen.
Athalia noticed. She watched from the edges of the kingdom, unseen, listening to prayers spoken in fear and hope. Each whisper weighed on her, but none stopped her.
She continued.
One boy after another.
Year after year.
None were her son.
Sometimes, when she returned a child, she stayed just long enough to see the parents rush in. Mothers collapsed in relief. Fathers clutched their sons and whispered thanks to powers they could not name.
Athalia always turned away.
She no longer belonged among the living.
As King Adrian’s childlessness continued, the rumors grew crueler. Some said the Queen’s spirit guarded the throne, refusing to allow another woman beside him. Others claimed she would never leave Arrandelle until her son was found—even if he had never existed.
One night, the council met without ceremony. The fire burned low. The room was heavy with silence.
“This cannot continue,” the Chancellor said. “The kingdom lives in fear of a Queen who is not alive.”
“Maybe,” Adrian said quietly, “she is alive.”
Silence followed.
“Your Majesty,” the Chancellor said carefully, “whether she walks in flesh or spirit, the people believe she is a ghost.”
Adrian closed his eyes. He saw Athalia in the garden, hands resting on her stomach, her face full of fragile hope.
“She is not a monster,” he said. “Not to do all this.”
“No,” the Chancellor agreed. “But fear does not care about truth.”
General Marrick stepped forward. “We propose a solution. One that honors her and protects the kingdom.”
Adrian opened his eyes. “Speak.”
“There will be no queen,” Marrick said. “Not now.”
The words echoed.
“No marriage,” the Chancellor added. “No coronation. The throne beside yours will remain empty.”
Adrian remained silent.
“It sends a message,” Marrick continued. “That the Queen is not replaced. That her place remains hers.”
“And the future?” Adrian asked.
“The council will govern succession at your side, if needed,” the Chancellor said.
Adrian rose to his feet.
“There will be no queen,” he said. “Not ever. As promised.”
The council bowed. The decision was final.
When the news spread, something shifted in Arrandelle. The whispers softened. Fear loosened its grip. The empty throne became a symbol—not of loss, but of respect. People spoke Athalia’s name with sadness instead of terror.
Athalia felt it.
For the first time, she hesitated.
Her search slowed. Nights stretched longer between her visits. She took fewer boys. She tested them more carefully, lingering longer, as if stopping meant accepting the truth she had avoided.
One boy, older than the others, looked at her steadily.
“You’re tired,” he said.
Athalia froze.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he added.
She swallowed.
“I wish you were,” she whispered.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because fear would make this easier.”
When she returned him, she stood at the edge of the forest until dawn.
After that night, Athalia stopped.
No more boys vanished. No more children returned with empty memories. The kingdom waited—tense at first—then slowly breathed again as weeks turned into months.
King Adrian stood on the eastern balcony one evening, the empty throne behind him, the stars above.
“If you are still here,” he said softly, “you are forgiven.”
The wind moved through the banners. Somewhere far away, a woman who had once been Queen of Arrandelle closed her eyes.
She had tested every boy.
None were her son.
And at last, she let go. Or so they thought.