The Queen Declared Her Son an Imposter After He Uncovered His Twin's Dark Secret – Now He Fights for Truth and Love in Eldoria
The journey back towards Eldoria’s capital felt like walking into the maw of a beast. Aethelwood’s destruction had hardened Kaelen’s resolve, but a gnawing fear for Lyra and himself settled deep in his bones.
They moved only under the cloak of night, Lyra’s memories of forgotten palace passages and old cartographer’s notes proving invaluable. The capital’s outskirts were now patrolled with an unsettling frequency, Brennus’s men everywhere.
A crude wooden gallows stood erected in the village square of Blackfen, a hamlet just a day’s ride from the city walls. A freshly nailed parchment, bearing the royal seal, fluttered in the breeze.
“Another public warning,” Lyra murmured, her eyes grimly fixed on the display.
Kaelen could just make out the grotesque drawing of a man with contorted features, branded “imposter.” Below it, the text promised swift and brutal punishment for any who harbored or sympathized with the “sorcerer prince.” It felt like a personal insult, his face twisted into a caricature of evil.
They narrowly avoided a patrol near the old river gate, pressing themselves against a moss-covered wall as Sergeant Brennus himself rode past, his hawk-like gaze sweeping the shadows. His face was a mask of cold determination, a loyal hound unleashed by the Queen.
Sorin’s dwelling, a small, unassuming house tucked away behind the Royal Library, was difficult to find even with Lyra’s directions. It was an island of quiet obscurity amidst the capital’s oppressive silence.
Lyra knocked softly on the heavy oak door, three precise taps that almost sounded like a code.
The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of candlelight and an old man with eyes that seemed too bright for his frail frame. Elder Sorin.
His gaze swept over them, settling on Kaelen’s travel-worn face. A flicker of something—disapproval, perhaps pity—crossed his features.
“You are foolish to be here,” Sorin said, his voice raspy but firm. “The Queen’s decrees are absolute. Do you not value your life?”
Kaelen felt a familiar sting of dismissal. He was no longer a prince, but a pariah.
“We seek the truth,” Kaelen replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “About the ‘black blood’.”
Sorin let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“The Queen’s truth, or your own deluded fantasies?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “Prince Kaelen is a sorcerer, an imposter. That is the truth. It has been proclaimed across the kingdom.”
He gestured dismissively with a gnarled hand, ready to close the door. Kaelen saw a small, hand-painted ceramic bird on a shelf just inside the doorway. Its wing was chipped, as if it had been carelessly knocked.
“My brother, Liam,” Kaelen began, desperation coloring his voice. “He had the black blood.”
Sorin paused, his hand hovering over the doorframe. The name, Liam, seemed to catch his attention. He looked at Lyra then, his gaze softening slightly as he saw her earnest expression.
“You bring an earnest soul with you, at least,” Sorin conceded, his eyes returning to Kaelen, now with a flicker of curiosity. “But words alone are not enough to counter the Queen’s narrative.”
He did not invite them in, merely holding the door ajar, challenging them to prove their worth. The cold, unyielding wall of court propaganda had clearly influenced even this reclusive scholar.
Kaelen knew he had to break through. He had to convince Sorin that the truth was worth risking everything for, just as they were.
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