Chapter 7 - Truth in the Archives
The heavy doors of the hall slammed shut, sealing out the echoes of the Inquisitor’s departure.
King Alaric dropped his sword to the floor with a heavy clatter. All the fierce authority he had worn like armor moments before seemed to melt away, leaving behind the exhausted, haunted face of a father who had kept a terrible secret for too long.
Evelyne swayed slightly, her legs finally trembling too hard to support her weight. Rowan caught her smoothly around the waist, lifting her with effortless strength and carrying her gently back to her wheeled chair. As soon as his hands left her skin, her limbs went limp once more, but her eyes remained fierce and clear.
“Father,” Evelyne demanded, her voice shaking slightly with residual adrenaline. “What was Malakor talking about? What bloodline pact?”
Alaric didn’t answer immediately. He walked slowly toward the high stained-glass window, staring out at the cheering crowds gathered beyond the gates. He looked old, small, and profoundly tired.
“Twelve years ago,” Alaric began, his voice barely above a whisper, “when you were seven years old, you didn't fall ill to a natural fever, Evelyne. Not really.”
Rowan stood beside the chair, resting one hand lightly on the armrest so Evelyne could retain her strength. “She was cursed,” Rowan said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
Alaric turned around, his eyes wide with shock as he looked at the stranger. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I can feel the anchor,” Rowan replied, looking down at his own palm. “When I touched her for the first time, it didn’t just feel like a broken circuit. It felt like a knot—a knot tied with royal blood and ancient magic. Someone tried to sever her connection to this world, to lock her soul away in a vault so she could never claim her birthright.”
“The pact of the First King,” Alaric whispered, walking slowly over to a heavy iron-bound chest sitting in the corner of the room. He unlocked it with a brass key hanging from his neck, pulling out a yellowed, crumbling scroll sealed with thick red wax.
He unrolled it across the table. The parchment was covered in faded archaic script and an intricate family tree.
“Our family line didn't just rule Richmond by right of conquest,” Alaric explained, his finger tracing a line at the very bottom of the chart. “Centuries ago, the founders made a pact with the guardians of the wild lands—a blood pact to ensure the stability of the realm. But the pact required a balance. Every generation, one member of the royal bloodline must carry the weight of the wild, while the other carries the crown.”
Evelyne stared at the parchment, her breath catching in her throat. “I was the balance.”
“Yes,” Alaric said, his voice breaking. “When you turned seven, the wild magic within you began to awaken too violently. The court physicians panicked. They feared it would destroy you—and the kingdom with it. So, with the help of a rogue faction of the Council, they placed a suppression seal on your soul. They locked your body away to protect the crown.”
“And Rowan?” Evelyne asked, turning her luminous eyes toward the young man standing beside her. “If I am the balance of the wild, what is he?”
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Rowan stared down at the ancient scroll. His eyes caught a faded symbol drawn at the very margin of the parchment—a symbol that matched a small, weathered iron pendant hanging from a leather cord around his own neck.
“He is the other half of the pact,” Alaric whispered, his voice trembling. “The warden of the wild who was supposed to protect you—not lock you away.”
