The king has a knack for deceit.
This isn’t something one would typically brag about, but rulers are nothing if not cunning. Spinning such a lie about the death of Queen Iris is not the first Edric has spewed to his kingdom. More than a decade has passed since nearly every Healer in Ilya was generously compensated to spread the lie that Ordinaries bear a disease that dwindles Elite powers. Though, the people needed little convincing to throw out their weak neighbors and friends. Most Elites were eager to support the Purging. Power is a sickness that corrupts all those who get a taste.
Edric spends the eve of his wife’s death in silence. He does not speak, or cry, or mourn in the ways a soul should. Instead, his heart only hardens without the softness of Iris’s countenance.
He awakens to something like a stone inside his chest, and a knock at the door. Three figures stand in the hall beyond, all varying in size. The first is a trusted adviser, Oliver Rowe, who stands beside a young woman of bold beauty. The third sways at their knees, green eyes like the king’s and bright smile like the mother Kitt no longer has.
The prince bursts into the room, all giggles and childlike wonder. Edric shows him little affection, finding it difficult to look at the boy who is half the dead wife he loved. Instead, the king sets a colorful map before the child—it is never too early to begin studying his future kingdom—and turns all attention to his adviser.
“Your Majesty,” Oliver begins, “I am terribly sorry for your loss—”
“Iris died two years ago, giving birth to my heir.” Edric gestures vaguely to the boy. “There is no reason to console me now.”
The adviser bows his head in understanding. “Of course, Your Majesty. That is what I wished to discuss with you.”
“Make it worth my time, Oliver. You interrupted me in my private quarters.”
Urging the woman forward, her black hair battling in beauty with her gray eyes, the adviser murmurs, “Apologies, my King, but you will find this to be a delicate matter.”
Edric steps aside, allowing the guests to enter his quarters before shutting the door. “Will I?”
Oliver clasps his hands together. “As one of your advisers, it is clear that before we inform the kingdom of the queen’s death, we must ensure that every detail is accounted for. Such as the two years since Iris’s death.” He gives the king a look, as if the two of them share a similar thread of thought. “This is why I am presenting my daughter to you. For marriage.”
Edric doesn’t so much as blink. “Explain.”
Oliver’s play for power is as unsurprising as it is futile, but greed alone would not have the adviser disturbing him. No, the king silently determines that this awaiting offer must be worth his while. Or else it will cost a good man his head.
“You see,” Oliver continues while his daughter huffs out an irritated breath, “the kingdom has not heard of Iris for some time now, so it won’t be difficult to convince them of a death that occurred two years ago. But the people will want a reason as to why they were not informed sooner. That is where Myla comes in.”
Miss Rowe looks anything but pleased to be a part of this plan, but she says nothing as her father continues. “You, Your Majesty, would tell the kingdom that you had mourned their late queen for a few months after her passing. Once the appropriate grieving period had ended, you took a wife in order to continue securing your line. As there are no Elite royals for you to marry, a private union to the daughter of a trusted adviser was the obvious choice.”
The king listens, intrigued by this proposal. He admires a cunning plan.
Oliver, after taking a deep breath, adds, “You did not tell the kingdom of this marriage sooner because your new wife, Myla, was already with child. In order to ensure her safety, your union remained a secret until long after the birth of your spare.”
Edric slides his skeptical gaze to the stiffening woman. “You already have a child?”
“She does,” the adviser answers on her behalf. “He is still a babe—barely a year old and could easily be passed off as your own.”
The king considers this for a long, suffocating moment. “This is a bold suggestion, Oliver.”
“As your adviser, it is my duty to aid you.” He places a stern hand on his daughter’s arm. “And this is the best solution to your predicament.”
Edric turns to Myla, his voice dull. “Who is the father?”
“No one of any concern,” she answers curtly.
There is a long pause.
The king would laugh if he hadn’t forgotten how to. “And what makes you think I want your bastard?”
Oliver swallows, his breath shallow. Myla narrows those gray eyes.
The king swings open the door with a stipulation sliding from his tongue. “If I am to call another child mine, he can be nothing less than powerful.”
“He is,” Myla blurts, ever the protective mother. “No one in Ilya is like him.”
This equally intrigues and amuses the king. “We will see about that.”
Myla hands her son to the Silencer, hating how empty her arms feel without him in them.
The baby doesn’t fuss or fidget, rather, he simply accepts the fate forced upon him. Black hair clings to his small skull, curling around his ears to copy that of his mother. He looks up at the foreign man holding him, and those gray eyes don’t stray from the Silencer.
“Well?” Edric’s impatience echoes through the room.
Damion’s gaze lifts to his king, looking less solemn than usual and more impressed than ever. “The boy is extremely powerful. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
The king grins. Marrying Myla Rowe will earn him power. Earn him a son he can mold into a weapon.
This is all it takes for the king to claim the child as his own. All the power. All the glory.
“I accept your proposal,” Edric says to his adviser, eyes still pinned on the strength squirming in his Silencer’s arms. “He will be mine.”
