A Prince Tried to Expel His Half-Brother from a Royal Arts Competition, Not Knowing the Medallion Proved His True Bloodline
The discovery of the Protectorate Edict, buried within the Old King’s personal Chronicle, was a revelation of staggering proportions. It was a legal weapon, wielded from beyond the grave, designed to dismantle the very foundation of Alaric’s claim to the throne. The physical presence of the ancient book, supposedly destroyed, felt like a judgment against Queen Isolde and her son.
We re-secured the hidden chamber, leaving the Chronicle visible but untouched, a silent testament to its presence. We knew we couldn’t keep this truth contained much longer. The time had come to confront Queen Isolde.
The next morning, Sir Gideon arranged a private audience with the Queen Regent in her personal chambers. The atmosphere in the opulent room was stifling, heavy with the scent of lilies and unspoken tension. Queen Isolde sat on a gilded chair, her posture regal, her expression cool and composed. Beside her stood a trusted court advisor, looking stern.
I stood before her with Seraphina and Gideon. In my hand, I clutched the Vesper medallion, its weight a comforting anchor. Seraphina held a copy of the Declaration of Hidden Lineage and her notes from the Old King’s Chronicle. Gideon stood silently, his presence lending moral authority to our claim.
“Your Majesty,” Seraphina began, her voice respectful but firm, “we have uncovered matters of grave importance to the realm, and to the Vesper line.”
Queen Isolde merely inclined her head, her gaze sweeping over us, lingering briefly, almost dismissively, on my artisan’s tunic. That small, familiar act of disdain, even in the face of such a serious confrontation, felt like a deliberate, petty cruelty. It was her way of asserting her perceived superiority, even as her world began to crumble.
“We have discovered,” Seraphina continued, presenting the Declaration of Hidden Lineage, “that King Theron, the Old King, secretly married Elara Finch, and that Kaelen Finch, here present, is his legitimate son.”
Isolde’s composure wavered for a fraction of a second. Her hand, resting on the armrest, clenched imperceptibly. But then, she regained control, her expression hardening.
“This is outrageous,” Queen Isolde declared, her voice sharp, dismissive. “A commoner claiming royal blood? This ‘declaration’ is clearly a forgery, concocted by an ambitious woman trying to elevate her station.”
She dismissed my mother’s name with a cold wave of her hand. Her immediate dismissal of the declaration, calling it a “forgery” and my mother “ambitious,” was a painful echo of Percival’s earlier slander. It was a deep, personal wound to hear her disparage my mother’s honor so readily.
“It bears the Old King’s personal seal, Your Majesty,” Gideon interjected, his voice quiet but firm. “Authenticated by my own records.”
Isolde scoffed. “A senile king, in his final days, might write many things. Love-struck ramblings. Fabrications born of a mind losing its grip on reality. It holds no legal authority.”
Her attempt to discredit the Old King, portraying him as a doddering old man, was a calculated move. It was another specific cruelty, an attempt to undermine the very source of my legitimacy by attacking his mental state. It was a historical revisionism, aimed at maintaining her power.
“And this ‘medallion’?” Isolde sneered, her gaze fixed on the one I held. “A trinket. Many artisans create such things for noble patrons. It proves nothing.”
“Your Majesty,” I said, my voice steady, “King Theron explicitly detailed his secret marriage to my mother, Elara, in his personal Chronicle. He named me his son and instituted a Protectorate Edict to prevent the very suppression of truth you have enacted.”
I could see the shock register on her face at the mention of the Chronicle. The color drained from her cheeks, and her eyes widened in genuine alarm. The carefully constructed facade of indifference finally cracked. She knew exactly what “personal Chronicle” referred to—the supposedly “lost” section she herself had declared destroyed.
“The Chronicle?” she stammered, her voice thin. “That section was lost in the archives fire years ago! It was deemed irreparable!”
“It was not lost, Your Majesty,” Seraphina stated calmly, producing her notes from the recovered volume. “Nor was it irreparably damaged. It was meticulously preserved, sealed away by the Old King himself, accessed only by a specific mechanism involving his personal crest.”
Seraphina then presented a brief, chilling summary of the Protectorate Edict, explaining how it explicitly stated that any heir who suppressed or destroyed royal records for personal gain would forfeit all claims to the throne. The words hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to her reign and Alaric’s succession.
Queen Isolde pushed back from her chair, rising to her full height, her face a mask of fury mixed with fear. “This is a malicious conspiracy! A blatant attempt to destabilize the realm! To usurp the rightful heir, Prince Alaric, with a fabricated lineage!”
Her denial was absolute, her accusations wild and desperate. She lashed out, her words an attempt to deflect and intimidate. The realization that she was willing to cling to her lies, even when confronted with undeniable evidence, was a heartbreaking display of her ambition over truth. It was a deeply personal blow to see her so readily discard the truth for the sake of power.
“Your Majesty,” Gideon insisted, stepping forward, “the evidence is concrete. The Declaration, the Chronicle, the medallion—they are all authentic. They bear the Old King’s true hand.”
Isolde’s eyes flashed with anger. “You, Sir Gideon? You betray your Queen for these… these ambitious commoners? You, who I entrusted with the very integrity of the Registry?”
Her words were a direct threat, a personal attack on Gideon’s loyalty and position. It was a desperate attempt to isolate us, to divide our alliance. But Gideon merely met her gaze with unwavering resolve.
“My loyalty, Your Majesty, is to the truth,” he replied, his voice calm. “And to the laws established by King Theron, which protect all citizens, common-born and noble alike.”
I watched her, a profound sense of sadness settling over me. She was not just protecting her son; she was actively denying a fundamental truth, perpetuating a lie that had stolen my heritage and my mother’s honor. My stepmother, the Queen, had chosen power over integrity, ambition over family. The heartbreak was real, knowing she valued the perception of legitimacy more than its true source. Her refusal to acknowledge the truth, even in private, felt like a final, definitive rejection.
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