The halls of Castle Drale were quiet as the king returned to his chambers, the faint flicker of torches casting long shadows on the stone walls.
Inside, a woman lay sprawled across his bed, the silk sheets barely covering her form. She smiled lazily as he entered, her dark eyes watching him as he moved toward the table of wine and ale.
King Derek Drale poured himself a cup, drinking deep until the vessel was empty. He exhaled, his eyes lifting to the high-beamed ceiling as he muttered,
"She will not be heir."
The woman stirred but did not sit up. "Mm?"
Derek placed his cup down with a measured clink. "Simply for the fact that this kingdom—and the lords that rule its lands—will not have it. A woman heir is no heir at all."
She rose then, the candlelight catching the golden hue of her skin as she slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his broad chest. "Are thou not the king of Yainna?" she whispered, her lips grazing the rough stubble of his jaw.
"It is more than that," he said, his voice heavy. "It is greater than I. Greater than my wants. It is the very legacy of the Drales."
His fists clenched at his sides.
"Every king before me hath sired a son first. But not I. My firstborn came forth a daughter. A daughter with the blood of a damned witch in her veins, with her mother's hellfire hair."
At that, his companion turned him fully, her fingers trailing up his chest, her nails grazing lightly against his skin.
"Then drive her away from the throne."
His gaze narrowed. "And how do you propose I do that?"
She smiled, tilting her head. "By granting her the very thing she seeks."
Derek scoffed, pulling away. "A woman knight?" The words were bitter on his tongue, absurd to even speak aloud.
But then, he paused.
The idea—ridiculous as it was—settled in his mind like a carefully placed stone in a wall.
Let her wield a blade. Let her train. Let her fight. She shall chase knighthood with all her might, and in doing so, she shall forget the crown.
He turned back to the woman, lifting her chin with rough fingers. "And in the meantime, I shall sire a son. A rightful heir. A boy of true Drale blood."
She smiled, pleased, before he pressed his lips to hers, his hands gripping her waist as they tumbled onto the bed.
And as their bodies tangled in the sheets, the fate of Yainna's future was decided.
The Library's Secret
While the king schemed and indulged, his daughter devoured knowledge.
Thalia Drale loved two things above all else: the way a sword felt in her grip, and the feeling of pages beneath her fingers.
That evening, she roamed the grand castle library, a place she had long since conquered. She had read every book, every parchment, every tale of heroics and tragedy that filled the shelves.
And she was bored.
Thalia shut the book in her hands with a sigh. She glanced toward the library's mute keeper, a young man with kind eyes who had watched her grow from a child sneaking books past curfew into a young woman who now demanded more than the mundane stories of Yainna's history.
She sighed dramatically. "Well, that does it. I have read every book in this cursed place. It is all so... dull. Redundant. There is naught left to learn here."
The librarian did not speak, of course. But he smiled knowingly.
Then, without a word, he turned his head toward a shadowed aisle, his gaze lingering.
Thalia frowned. "What is it?"
The boy merely walked forward, his fingers brushing along the dusty old tomes before he reached a bookshelf at the very end of the aisle.
Then—to her utter shock—he pulled it apart.
The bookshelf split in two, revealing a hidden chamber filled with books untouched by time.
Thalia's breath caught in her throat.
These were not like the books of the main library. Their covers were worn, aged, yet strangely preserved. There were bestiaries, ancient folklores, and grimoires filled with dark, forbidden knowledge.
Her fingers trailed over the spines, the weight of history beneath her touch.
Then—one book called to her.
A large, black tome, its cover rough as if made from **stretched leather—**no, not leather… but skin.
She hesitated, then pulled it free. The book was heavier than she expected, its pages thick and bound with a silver clasp.
She exhaled sharply, turning it over in her hands until her eyes landed on the author's name.
Her blood ran cold.
It was written by King Alaric Drale.
The title read:
"Venture of the Welch Lands."
A squeal escaped her lips before she could stop it. She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
This was forbidden knowledge.
This was her ancestor's words, sealed away in darkness.
Without another thought, she clutched the book to her chest and ran.
She burst through the doors, nearly tripping over herself in her excitement.
William Kluzxe, her closest friend and the son of the King's Councilman, sat hunched over his desk, a dead insect spread open before him. He had been dissecting it, carefully sketching its anatomy when—
CRACK.
The door flew open, and in came Thalia, breathless and wild-eyed.
William jerked, his knife slipping, tearing off an entire leg of the poor bug.
"Seven hells, Thalia!" he snapped, throwing his quill down. "Thou hast ruined my work!"
But she wasn't listening.
She was already thrusting the book toward him, her grin uncontrollable.
"Look!" she gasped.
William blinked at the tome in her hands. His frustration melted into curiosity as he reached for it.
"What is that?"
Thalia didn't answer.
Instead—she turned and ran again.
bolted through the castle, past the guards who barely had time to react.
Upon reaching her chambers, she threw the doors shut, locking them behind her.
Turning to her guards outside, she declared: "No soul enters without my leave."
Once inside, she drew the curtains, casting the room in deep shadows.
She lit a single candle, its flickering light illuminating the ancient book in her lap.
Slowly, carefully, she unfastened the silver clasp and turned the first page.
Her ancestor's words awaited her.
And she was ready to uncover every dark secret hidden within.