Chapter 6 - The Bloodline’s Secret
The tension in the Great Hall reached a boiling point, the air thick with the smell of ozone from the temple pikes and the collective sweat of armed men ready to slaughter one another.
Before the first blow could be struck, a loud, echoing chime rang out from the high bell tower above the citadel.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
It wasn’t the bell of alarm. It was the ancient coronation chime—a sound that had not been heard in Richmond for over a century.
High Inquisitor Malakor paused, his hand hovering over the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. He looked toward the stained-glass windows as the sunlight shifted, casting a deep, crimson hue across the floor.
“You think you can defy the Council, Alaric?” Malakor hissed, though his voice lacked its previous absolute certainty. “The Council holds the ancient charter. Without our seal, your bloodline has no legal mandate to rule the eastern territories.”
King Alaric sneered, his grip tight on his broadsword. “My bloodline was forged in blood and steel long before your council of paper-pushers ever existed. And my daughter just walked across this marble floor unaided for the first time since her childhood. Do you really think the people outside these walls care about your charter anymore?”
As if on cue, a muffled roar rose from the courtyard outside the palace gates. Thousands of voices—commoners, merchants, farmers, and soldiers—were chanting a single name.
“Rowan! Rowan! The healer of the royal house!”
Malakor’s face drained of color. He realized the political trap had closed around him. If the Inquisition attacked the royal family now, while the entire city watched a miracle unfold, the resulting rebellion would sweep the Council from power within a week.
“This is not over,” Malakor spat, lowering his hand. He signaled his guards to lower their pikes. “The Council will remember this defiance. And as for the boy… his very existence violates the ancient bloodline pact of the First King.”
Rowan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What bloodline pact?”
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Malakor gave a cold, mocking smile. “Ask your king, boy. Ask him why he kept the princess locked in the West Wing for twelve years. Ask him whose blood really runs in those veins—and why your touch is the only one in the world that can wake her.”
With that ominous parting shot, the Inquisitor turned on his heel, his black robes billowing behind him as he and his guards marched out of the hall, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
