The moment Thalia's eyes fluttered open, she found herself cradled in the strong, unyielding arms of her father. The room spun, her breath shallow and uneven. A sharp pounding filled her ears—not from outside, but within her own chest. A haze still clung to the edges of her mind, remnants of the vision she had just witnessed.
William was there, kneeling beside her, his expression stripped of its usual mischievous charm. It was a look she had never seen before—raw, unfiltered worry.
She swallowed hard. Something about that expression unsettled her more than anything she had seen through the eyes of the pale warrior.
Then her father spoke, his voice thunderous with restrained fury.
"What have you done?!"
Thalia tried to answer, but her throat was dry, her mind still reeling.
When she failed to respond, the king's patience snapped. In a swift motion, he lifted her, slinging her over his shoulder as if she were weightless.
"Servants!" he bellowed. "Follow me! Now!"
Thalia barely registered the hurried footsteps of her personal attendants trailing behind as they moved through the castle halls. Her father's pace was relentless, his grip ironclad. The world outside blurred past—the torches lining the stone corridors, the grand tapestries swaying with the night breeze.
By the time they reached her chambers, she was placed onto her bed with the same forceful care one might use when handling a fragile object they did not understand.
"Call for the physicians," her father ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "No one disturbs this room until I say otherwise."
The castle healers arrived within minutes, their robes trailing behind them as they entered. They examined her, murmuring amongst themselves as they checked her pulse, her eyes, her temperature. She heard their voices but did not listen. Her mind was elsewhere—by the sea, in the wreckage, in the darkness.
And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it.
The book.
It rested on a wooden stand, its spine worn, its cover dark and ominous amidst the softer-colored volumes of poetry and history that filled her shelves. Her father noticed it too. Something in his stance changed as he crossed the room towards it, as though an invisible force weighed down on him with every step he took.
The title glowed in the dim candlelight: **Welch Lands.**
A flicker of something unfamiliar crossed his face—not just anger, not just concern. No, this was something else.
Fear.
He picked up the book, his fingers gripping it tightly. His jaw clenched. The air in the room grew thick, charged.
"Leave us," he commanded the physicians, his voice sharp as steel.
One of them hesitated, gathering the courage to speak. "Your Grace, we haven't yet determined the cause—"
The king turned, his gaze like a blade. "Must I repeat myself?"
The physician lowered his head at once, retreating with the others in hurried silence.
Now, there were only the two of them. Father and daughter. The weight of the moment pressed down on them both.
He turned back to her, holding up the book. "Where did you get this?"
Thalia hesitated.
"Where, Thalia?"
There was no mistaking the sharpness in his tone, the unspoken accusation beneath it. She had never feared her father before, but tonight, there was something different in him.
Her gaze dropped. "I found it in the library."
He took a step closer.
"I had read every book in that place," she continued, her voice quieter now. "One night, I was looking through the shelves and found a hidden space… somewhere I had never noticed before." She forced herself to look up at him. "It was just sitting there, waiting for me."
Silence stretched between them. His expression was unreadable. Then, he exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face.
With an almost careless motion, he tossed the book aside and sat beside her on the bed. For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the soft crackling of the fireplace.
Then, finally, he broke the silence.
"You are so much like her, aren't you?"
Thalia blinked.
She looked at him, searching his face. "You never really speak of her, Father… how could I know?"
A faint, almost melancholic smile played at his lips. "You have her hair. Her relentless drive. Her stubbornness." His gaze darkened slightly. "You have it all from her. The only thing I can give you is perhaps my throne."
The words landed between them like a stone sinking into deep waters.
Thalia let out a small, shaky exhale. "I never wanted that stupid throne." Her voice cracked. "I want to fight. I want more than this. I want to be who I am. Why must everyone around me be so—so—"
Her father studied her as she spoke, his expression unreadable. When she finally trailed off, sniffling, he exhaled and nodded.
"I can give you that."
Thalia's eyes widened slightly.
He stood. "What do you want, Thalia? Tell me now. I am here. I am listening."
She took a breath, steadying herself. "I want to be a knight."
He arched a brow. "In a time when war may be upon us? Have you truly no fear?"
She met his gaze without hesitation. "No, Father. I do not."
For a long moment, he simply regarded her. Then, he nodded once, decisive. "Very well."
She inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening.
"Get some rest." His voice softened just slightly. "Your official training begins on the morrow."
Thalia blinked up at him, disbelief washing over her. "Thank you," she murmured.
As he turned to leave, she called out once more. "Father…?"
He stopped at the doorway, looking back at her.
"Is there something wrong with me?" she asked quietly.
He held her gaze for a long moment before answering.
"No."
Then, with a final glance at the book on the floor, he added, "You are simply your mother's child."
And with that, he was gone.