Chapter 139

Chapter 139: Chapter 139

The royal tailor’s workshop was a flurry of activity, with bolts of fabric in every color imaginable spread across long wooden tables. Servants and assistants bustled about, carrying pins and measuring tapes and swatches of silk and velvet. The festival was only three days away, and the royal family still needed their ceremonial attire finalized.

Soren stood on a raised platform in the center of the room, his arms outstretched as two tailors worked simultaneously—one adjusting the shoulders of a deep crimson coat, the other pinning the hem of a gold-embroidered tunic. His expression was one of patient endurance, though his golden eyes kept drifting toward the window.

"Hold still, Your Highness," the head tailor said, his mouth full of pins. "We’re almost finished."

Beside the platform, Selene was sorting through a rack of gowns, her silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. She had been there for hours, selecting fabric for her own festival attire while offering opinions on Soren’s wardrobe.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, holding up a gown of pale gold silk with delicate silver embroidery. "It would complement your crimson coat perfectly. We’d look like a matching pair."

"We’re not a matching pair," Soren said absently. "We’re betrothed."

"Exactly. Which means we should coordinate." She set the gown aside and picked up another this one in deep emerald green. "Or this? The green brings out my eyes."

"Whichever you prefer."

Selene’s smile faltered for just a moment. She had hoped for more enthusiasm or at least more attention. Soren had been distant all afternoon, his mind clearly elsewhere. She knew why, of course. The confrontation in the garden. The woman with the dyed hair and the familiar face.

Nyra, she thought bitterly. Even with his memories erased, she still haunts him.

She forced the smile back into place. "Darling, you’ve barely looked at any of the options. Don’t you care what we wear to the festival?"

Soren glanced at her. "I care. I’m just... tired. The festival preparations have been exhausting."

"Of course." She set down the gown and approached him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Once the festival is over, everything will settle down. We’ll have time to focus on us. On our future."

"Right. Our future."

Something flickered in his golden eyes—an uncertainty that Selene didn’t like. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a soft murmur.

"I know you’re still adjusting. The memories. The confusion. But I’m here, Soren. I’ll always be here. Whatever you need."

He nodded slowly. "I know. Thank you."

Selene smiled and turned back to the rack of gowns. She would not let Nyra Astrlyn ruin this. She had worked too hard, schemed too long, to lose Soren now.

The tailors finished with Soren’s measurements, and he stepped down from the platform. Selene immediately linked her arm through his.

"Come. Let’s look at the ceremonial cloaks. The King said you’ll be wearing the Thornridge crimson during the announcement."

"Fine."

They walked through the workshop together, Selene chattering about fabrics and colors and seating arrangements. Soren listened with half an ear, his mind elsewhere.

The woman from the garden. The one with the dyed hair and the silver eyes. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

She’s a murderer, he reminded himself. Selene said so. The evidence was presented to the King.

But somewhere deep inside him, something whispered that it wasn’t that simple.

The safe house was quiet, the only light coming from a single candle on the wooden table. The group had gathered around it—Nyra, Corvin, Ragnar, Roderic, Finn, Marek, Jasper, Maureen, and Darian. Their faces were grim, their voices low. The festival was in three days, and every passing hour brought new dangers.

"We need to move before the festival," Corvin said, his voice steady. "If we wait until the crowds arrive, it’ll be too late. The palace will be locked down. Security will be impenetrable."

"Then we go now," Ragnar said. "Tonight, if possible. We present our case to the King before Varek and Selene have time to spin their lies further."

"What case?" Finn asked. "We don’t have evidence. We don’t have witnesses. All we have is Nyra’s word against the maid’s testimony."

"Then we find evidence." Nyra’s voice was quiet but determined. "The maid’s testimony was fabricated. Varek planted her. If we can prove that—if we can show the King that the evidence was forged—then everything changes."

"And how do we prove it?" Jasper asked. "The letter with your handwriting. The vial of poison. The bloodstained tunic. All of it was presented to the King. All of it was examined by his advisors. If there was something wrong with the evidence, they would have found it."

"Unless the advisors were also bought," Darian said grimly. "Varek has deep pockets and no scruples. He could have bribed half the palace by now."

"Then we need to go around the advisors." Corvin leaned forward. "We need to present our case directly to the King, in front of witnesses. Elders. Pack leaders. Anyone whose presence would force him to listen."

"And what evidence would we present?" Marek asked. "We don’t have any."

Nyra was silent for a long moment. Then she looked up. "The letter."

"The letter?"

"The one Hellen presented as evidence. She claimed I wrote it—that it detailed my plan to poison Thorne. But I didn’t write it. I’ve never written a letter like that in my life." Her silver eyes were fierce. "The handwriting was forged. But there’s a way to prove it."

"How?" Corvin asked.

"The ink. The paper. The way the letter was sealed." Nyra’s voice grew stronger as she spoke. "I remember seeing it at the showcase, even through my fear. The parchment was too white. The ink was too dark. Royal letters are written on cream-colored paper with a specific ink mixture—one that fades slightly over time. The letter Hellen presented looked brand new. Fresh. As if it had been written the day before."

"That’s not proof," Roderic said quietly. "That’s an observation. The King’s advisors would dismiss it."

"Not if we have an expert to verify it." Corvin’s eyes gleamed with sudden understanding. "My father. Lord Eldritch. He’s the royal alchemist. He’s an expert on inks and papers and seals. If he examines the letter and finds that it’s a forgery—if he testifies before the King—then Varek’s entire case falls apart."

"Your father?" Ragnar’s brow furrowed. "Will he help us? He’s a loyalist to the Crown. He might not want to get involved in this."

"He’ll help us because it’s the right thing to do." Corvin paused. "Or because his son asks him to. Either way, we need to try."

"And the other evidence?" Finn asked. "The vial of poison? The bloodstained tunic?"

"The vial was never tested properly. I’d stake my reputation on it." Corvin’s voice was firm. "And the tunic—the blood on it was Thorne’s, but the manner of his death was never investigated. If we can have it examined by a neutral expert, we can prove that the poison used wasn’t one Nyra had access to. That she couldn’t have administered it."

"How does that prove anything?" Marek asked.

"Because the poison used to kill Thorne was rare. Exotic. Something that would have come from outside the Astrlyn pack." Nyra’s voice was hard. "My uncle has connections to the Shadowwood. To Morgath. If the poison can be traced back to him—"

"Then we have our proof," Corvin finished.

The group exchanged glances. It was a gamble. A long shot. But it was the best chance they had.

"Then let’s do it," Ragnar said. "We go to the palace. We request an audience with the King. We present our case."

"And if he refuses to see us?" Finn asked.

"Then we make sure he can’t refuse." Nyra rose to her feet. "We go with evidence. We go with witnesses. We go with the truth."

The palace corridors were crowded with nobles and servants, all preparing for the upcoming festival. The King had been in meetings all day, discussing security arrangements and ceremonial protocols. But when the group arrived at the palace gates Ragnar, Corvin, Roderic, Nyra, and the others, they were granted entry almost immediately.

Not because of Nyra. Because of the names.

Ragnar Blackfang. Son of one of the most powerful families in the realm.

Corvin Eldritch. Son of the royal alchemist, Lord Eldritch himself.

Roderic. The prodigal son returned, whose family’s influence still carried weight.

The guards recognized their names and let them through. But when they reached the throne room, the mood shifted.

The King sat on his throne, flanked by his advisors. The Queen was beside him, her expression unreadable. Freya stood near the back of the room, her eyes wide with curiosity and concern. And gathered in the audience chamber, seated on rows of benches, were the elders of the realm—representatives from every pack, noblemen and noblewomen of high standing, all of them present for the festival preparations.

Among them were the parents of Ragnar, Corvin, and Roderic.

Lord Blackfang’s scarred face went pale when he saw his son standing beside the wanted fugitive. Lady Eldritch’s eyes widened in shock. Lord and Lady Nightwood, Roderic’s parents exchanged looks of deep concern.

But none of them spoke. They waited.

The King’s eyes swept over the group and landed on Nyra. His expression hardened.

"You dare come here?" he said, his voice cold. "You, who are wanted for the murder of your own brother?"

Nyra stepped forward, her head held high despite the fear pounding in her chest. "Your Majesty, I came here to prove my innocence. I did not kill my brother. The evidence presented at the showcase was fabricated. And I can prove it."

A murmur rippled through the assembled elders. The King raised his hand for silence.

"Prove it," he said. "Show me your evidence."

Corvin stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the letter that was presented as proof of Nyra’s guilt—the one supposedly written in her hand—was a forgery. I ask that the original document be brought before this court and examined by an expert."

"And who would serve as this expert?"

"My father, Lord Eldritch. He is the royal alchemist. He has spent decades studying inks, papers, and seals. If the letter is a forgery, he will be able to tell."

The King turned to Lord Eldritch, who sat near the front of the audience chamber. "Lord Eldritch. Are you willing to examine the evidence?"

Lord Eldritch rose slowly, his stern face unreadable. He looked at his son—at the young man standing beside the accused princess—and something flickered in his eyes.

"I am willing, Your Majesty."

The letter was brought forth from the palace archives, sealed in a protective case. Lord Eldritch approached the throne and accepted it with both hands. The chamber fell silent as he examined it—turning it over, holding it to the light, studying the ink and the paper and the seal with the trained eye of a master alchemist.

Finally, he looked up.

"Your Majesty, this letter is indeed a forgery."

The chamber erupted. The King raised his hand for silence again, his expression sharp.

"Explain."

"The parchment is wrong. It’s too white, too fresh. Royal correspondence uses a special paper treated with moonflower extract—it ages in a specific way. This paper was made less than a month ago. The ink is also wrong. It’s a common iron-gall ink, not the royal ink mixture used in the Astrlyn palace. And the seal—" He pointed to the wax seal at the bottom of the letter. "The Astrlyn royal seal is made with a unique blend of wax and crushed moonstone. This seal contains no moonstone at all."

Lord Eldritch looked at Nyra, and for the first time, his stern expression softened.

"The letter is a forgery, Your Majesty. Whoever killed Prince Thorne went to great lengths to frame this young woman. And I believe she is telling the truth."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then Lord Varek stepped forward from the shadows of the audience chamber, his expression one of carefully controlled fury.

"With respect, Your Majesty, this proves nothing. The letter may be a forgery, but the maid’s testimony still stands. The princess may have forged the letter herself to create doubt."

"The maid’s testimony is also suspect," Corvin said, his voice ringing through the chamber. "She was bought by Lord Varek. She was threatened. She had every reason to lie."

"Ridiculous!" Varek’s voice rose. "You have no proof of these accusations!"

"I have proof of the forgery." Corvin’s eyes blazed. "And I have proof of the poison. The substance used to kill Prince Thorne was a rare toxin from the Shadowwood. A toxin that Lord Varek had access to. A toxin that Nyra had no way of obtaining."

"Lies! All lies!"

"Then let us test the evidence. Let us examine the poison residue. Let us trace its origin." Corvin turned to the King. "Your Majesty, I request a full investigation into Prince Thorne’s death. An investigation led by neutral parties. If Nyra is guilty, the evidence will prove it. But if she’s innocent—if she’s been framed by her own uncle–then the realm deserves to know the truth."

The King was silent for a long moment. His sharp eyes moved from Corvin to Nyra to Varek and back again. Then he spoke.

"Request granted." His voice was heavy. "A full investigation will be conducted. Until then, the princess will remain in the palace, under guard. She will not be harmed, and she will not be allowed to leave. If she is innocent, she will be exonerated. If she is guilty—" He paused. "Then she will face the consequences."

Nyra nodded slowly. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

The chamber erupted into whispers and murmurs. The elders exchanged glances. The parents of Ragnar, Corvin, and Roderic stared at their sons with expressions of shock and confusion.

And Soren, standing at the edge of the audience chamber with Selene at his side, watched it all with a frown on his face.

He didn’t know why the silver-haired woman’s presence bothered him so much. He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop looking at her. He only knew that something about this situation felt wrong. Something felt incomplete.

But he pushed the thought aside. The investigation would reveal the truth. And if the woman was guilty—if she had really killed her own brother—then she would face justice.

Selene’s hand found his, squeezing tightly. "Don’t worry, darling," she murmured. "The truth will come out."

Soren nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on Nyra. On the tears streaming down her face. On the way her hands trembled as she stood before the King.

Why does she look so familiar? he thought. Why does her face haunt me?

He didn’t have an answer. And that, more than anything, terrified him.