Chapter 14:

Royalty

The Barrister From Beyond


My footsteps echoed against the stone, each one dragging heavier than the last. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, as if the polished tiles might hold answers the archives had not. The weight of the morning’s conversation settled on me like a shroud woven from dark secrets and cold ambition.

He was a madman. Fredreich was utterly mad. The thought clung to me like a shadow, and yet after all I had read, it should not have come as a surprise. His brothers had vanished one by one: sickness, abductions, quiet accusations turned into decrees. Aldric’s sons had died not by chance but by design. There was no room for coincidence in the palace archives; the timeline was too neat, the outcomes too convenient. Each demise created a wider, clearer path for the overlooked son of the foreign consort.

I pictured Prince Paul, rotting in some dungeon, branded a heretic to his father’s creed simply for having the ill fortune of being born before Fredreich. The others fared worse, their names lost to forgotten margins of the histories I had hastily flipped through. Fredreich alone had endured, rising higher with each disappearance. He had not inherited power. He had carved it out, stone by stone, brother by brother. Even as a child, if there was no path forward, he forced one. If a stone stood in his way, he shattered it. His goal was not merely a crown, but the fulfillment of a life fueled by maternal yearning and the raw, dangerous realization of his own half-Urian identity. The war he planned was personal, a campaign of revenge masked by regal ambition.

My footsteps came to an abrupt stop when I realized I was standing outside of mine and Amber’s room. I let out a deep, shaking sigh and opened the door. I found Amber standing in front of a window, the late morning light glistening against her hair as she turned back to look at me. Her posture was tense, waiting.

“We need to talk,” I said as I closed the door behind me, the heavy wood latching with a dull, echoing thud that sealed us into our luxurious prison.

After explaining to her what I had uncovered through my rushed research in the archive as well as my chilling conversation with Fredreich, her expression remained hard to decipher; she was deep in thought, yet a profound sadness overwhelmed her entire being. Her fingers twisted the silk sash of her gown.

“What about her now? Where is she?” she asked, her arms clasped tightly in front of her chest, her eyes wide with a fragile hope that was about to be broken.

“She passed away nearly ten years ago,” I confessed gently.

She gulped and looked down at the floor, her eyes closed, trying to take in everything I had told her. The image of the painted woman—her mother—must have been vivid in her mind, a ghost brought back by the King's theater. The weight of her lost childhood, of being ripped from one mother and never knowing the other, seemed to crush her shoulders.

“It’s nice; she never forgot about me,” she said, her lips curled into a faint, heartbreaking smile, as a single tear flowed down her cheek and tracked a silver path against her skin.

As I reached for her face to wipe her tears, a firm knock on the door caught both of our attention, jarring us from the moment of raw confession.

“Mr. Aizawa,” Faelar’s familiar voice called out, measured and polite. “Please join me in the courtyard whenever you’re free.”

Before I had a chance to respond, Amber quickly held onto my hand and pulled me closer, until our faces were merely inches apart, and my heart felt like it was about to rip open my ribcage. The scent of lavender and something uniquely hers—earth and wildness—filled my senses.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” I responded, my voice thicker than I intended, as I placed my hand against Amber’s cheek, my thumb gently tracing her jawline.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, her gaze locking onto mine, a plea far beyond the immediate moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I assured her, my voice low and earnest.

She leaned into my touch, her eyes looking up into mine. For a brief, suspended moment, all thoughts about royal politics, an impending war, the dark secrets of patricide, and historical ties left my mind. All I could think at that moment was how beautifully fragile she looked to me, and how desperately lonely she must have been all these years, carrying the burden of her origins without knowing the reason for her mother’s absence. We were two souls adrift, unexpectedly anchored to each other in a world that sought to tear us apart.

Her breath brushed against my lips before the kiss came, soft and searching, a silent language of fear, comfort, and relief. My chest tightened as the world narrowed to her touch, her lips, the simple, profound reality of her presence. She pressed forward, and I found myself sinking back onto the bed, our movements clumsy yet certain, drawn together by a gravitational pull neither of us could resist nor wished to fight. The secrets we shared had forged a terrifying intimacy, and this was its unavoidable culmination.

Her fingers lingered at my collar as she leaned in again, the kiss deeper this time, unspoken promises of refuge woven into the silence. I felt the world slipping further away as we lost ourselves in each other, seeking shelter from the political storm that raged just beyond these walls. The plush silk of the bedding felt like a nest, a temporary haven.

Time blurred. The weight of kingdoms, wars, and secrets was replaced by the simple, undeniable truth of two people clinging to one another. Her touch was desperate yet tender, and mine just as unsteady, as if we were both afraid the moment might break if we held it too tightly. Every embrace was a silent acknowledgment of the danger surrounding us, a fierce declaration of connection against inevitable separation. We moved with an understanding born from shared trauma and a sudden, electric intimacy. This wasn't merely passion; it was a desperate, mutual clinging to sanity, a moment of unadulterated us before the world reclaimed us.

The late morning turned into the afternoon, the hours marked only by the shifting light across the tiled floor. But for us, there was only closeness, warmth, and the immense comfort of not being alone anymore. When at last we lay side by side, the stillness of the room no longer felt heavy with grief or dread, but softened by something fragile and new, a quiet resolve to face what came next, together.

Her hand slipped into mine, her eyes half-closed. She whispered to me in the faintest of voices, “Stay for a bit longer.”

I did as I was told, holding onto her hand, studying the details of the room: the ornate sculptures, the silk canopy, the polished tiles—all the trapping of the very power that sought to manipulate us. I watched the sunlight outside start to turn into a soft orange glow, the shadows lengthening, signaling the inevitable return to reality.

A second knock rumbled through the door, firmer this time, an authority that could not be ignored. Amber flinched, holding onto my hand tighter, her body momentarily stiffening.

“Mr. Aizawa,” Faelar’s voice called out, sharper and more insistent. “Please join myself and the rest of the nobles for dinner in the dining room.” The use of the word 'nobles' was a deliberate, pointed reminder of our temporary status here, a cloak of privilege draped over the sword of Damocles.

Amber’s eyes opened slowly, glassy in the amber light of dusk. She searched my face for an answer I did not yet have. I brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek and kissed her hand before finally slipping from the bed. The chill of the air against my skin was a stark contrast to the warmth of the sheets.

We hurried to dress in silence, the lingering weight of our shared time making the task feel clumsy and rushed. She watched me with that same fragile smile, though there was something else behind it now: a weight, a quiet resolve I could not name—perhaps the strength she inherited from both her Urian and Mittengradian mothers.

When I opened the door, Faelar was waiting, and his expression shifted from his usual steely composure to the faintest curl of amusement at my disheveled state and hurried attempt to smooth my suit.

“The King will be entertaining an audience with the rest of the diplomats over dinner where he shall listen to their concerns,” he said, his voice completely level, betraying nothing but duty. “Please ready the both of yourselves accordingly.”

I nodded and closed the door as Faelar walked away, his mission accomplished. I dragged my feet back to the bed, where Amber sat waiting for me, now fully dressed and composed. I dropped my head in her lap, feeling utterly defeated by the speed of events. Her fingers immediately began caressing my hair.

“What are we doing here?” my muffled voice cried out, the question an indictment of our situation.

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” she whispered, her fingers running through my hair, her voice soft yet reassuring, a promise stronger than any decree issued by the King of Mittengrad. We were in this together now.

Mika
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