Chapter 106: A City Holds Its Breath
Chapter 105: A City Holds Its Breath
The words did not remain within the walls of the Grand Hall.
They could not.
For even as the man’s voice rang out beneath vaulted ceilings and watchful chandeliers, it was carried far beyond polished marble and gilded banners—spilling into the capital through the great scrying veils that had been erected for the public spectacle of the selection process.
And so, the city heard.
—
At first, it had been nothing more than a rumour.
A passing murmur.
Something exchanged between merchants over weighed fruit and half-counted coins.
"They say there’ll be something big tonight."
"A reveal, they said."
"Bah. Folk always say that. Nothing ever comes of it."
Most had dismissed it.
The capital thrived on whispers. It fed on them. And just as often, it discarded them.
But now—the whisper had taken shape.
Now it had a voice.
And the voice had spoken treason.
—
A crowd had gathered in the market square long before the announcement.
They had only gathered for entertainment, though.
The selection process was, after all, a spectacle. Nobles parading like peacocks. Suitors dancing for favour. A princess choosing who would stay and who would be sent back with wounded pride and empty hands.
The scrying veil shimmered above the square, its surface alive with moving images from the Grand Hall.
And until moments ago, the mood had been... amused.
"Did ye see that?" a butcher barked, slapping his thigh. "The big one—the earl, I think—he looked like he wanted to drop dead halfway through that dance!"
"Aye," a woman beside him cackled, balancing a basket of apples on her hip. "And that red-haired duke—barely stayed long enough to bow proper!"
"They ain’t even tryin’," another man scoffed. "If I were in there, I’d—"
He stopped mid-sentence because the hall on the veil had fallen silent.
Because a voice—loud, sharp, and entirely out of place—cut through the air.
"They have deceived you!"
The laughter died.
Just like that.
As though someone had snuffed it out with cold fingers.
—
Elsewhere in the city, the reaction was the same.
In taverns thick with smoke and spilled ale, men who had been mid-drink lowered their mugs slowly, eyes lifting toward the glowing veil mounted above the bar.
"Turn it up," someone muttered, though there was no volume to adjust.
Outside, those lingering in doorways stepped into the streets.
Cards fell forgotten upon tables.
Dice rolled untouched across wooden boards.
Even the musicians—fiddlers and drummers alike—fell silent as the sound of the man’s voice carried across the city.
—
In narrower streets, where lanterns flickered weakly against stone walls, children stopped their games.
A chalk circle remained half-drawn.
A stick fell from small fingers.
"What’s he sayin’?" one whispered.
No one answered.
Because no one quite understood yet.
—
On the outskirts, where the scent of damp earth lingered, figures who had been mid-run stilled.
A wolf halted.
Then shifted.
Bones realigned. Fur receded.
A man stood where the creature had been, chest rising and falling as his gaze lifted toward the distant glow of the veil.
"...What in the goddess’ name..."
—
Back in the square, the murmuring began.
Low at first.
Then growing.
"It cannae be true..."
"The King? Lyin’?"
"He’s gone mad, that one."
"He’ll be dead before the night’s through—just you wait."
But even as they spoke, doubt crept in.
Because the man did not sound mad.
He did not stumble over his words.
He did not tremble.
He stood firm in his belief.
And that—that unsettled them more than anything.
—
"Another daughter?" someone said, voice cracking with disbelief.
"That’s nonsense," another snapped quickly. "We’d have heard—"
"Would we?" came a quieter voice.
That silenced them.
Because no one could answer it.
—
"If there is another," a woman whispered slowly, "then where is she?"
"Aye..." the butcher muttered. "Where’s she been hid all this time?"
"And why?" someone else added.
The questions began to stack.
One atop the other.
"And who is he?" a young man demanded, squinting at the veil. "Who does he think he is, walkin’ into the court and spoutin’ that?"
"Someone with a death wish," came the dry reply.
A few nervous laughs followed.
But they did not last.
Because even with the doubt, no one looked away. Curiosity had taken root.
And it spread fast.
---
Back in the Grand Hall, the air had turned sharp.
The King, who had been quiet, rose from where he sat.
His presence alone commanded silence, though the echoes of shock still lingered in the room like the aftermath of thunder.
His gaze fixed upon the man with cold, unmasked disdain.
"Who do you think you are," he demanded, his voice low yet carrying effortlessly across the hall, "to utter such nonsense before the esteemed court?"
The words were measured.
But beneath them lay something far less restrained.
Rage.
"You dare stand before your betters," the King continued, "and speak as though your tongue holds any measure of truth?"
He paused.
"Or are you merely another fool," he went on, "who believes that vile words alone are enough to bring down the Crown?"
The court held its breath.
Eyes darted between ruler and intruder, watching and waiting.
The man laughed sharply.
The sound almost pitying as he stared at the King.
"Vile words?" he echoed.
He tilted his head slightly, as though considering the notion.
"Is that what you would call it, Your Majesty?" he asked. "I would say it is the truth rather than vile words."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
The King’s expression darkened.
The man did not falter.
"Tell me, Your Majesty," he continued, his voice rising just enough to carry further, "am I lying?"
The King did not answer; there was silence in the hall.
"The King has another daughter," the man said, each word deliberate. "One he keeps hidden. One he treats with contempt."
Gasps broke free this time.
"Enough."
The King’s voice sounded.
"Desist from this madness at once," he commanded. "You have spoken more than enough."
His gaze flicked, sharp and decisive.
"Guards."
Armoured figures moved immediately.
Boots struck against marble as they advanced, forming a tightening circle around the man.
"Take him," the King ordered.
But the man did not move.
Not even as they approached.
Not even as hands reached for him.
Instead, he raised his arm and pointed at the shadows.
"You make her stand there," he said, his voice ringing louder now, stronger, cutting through the hall and beyond it, "as though she is nothing."
The world seemed to still.
Every gaze followed the line of his hand.
Every breath caught.
"Even now," he continued, "as I speak—she is there."
In the shadows, Lyria’s heart slammed violently against her ribs.
Her breath hitched.
No.
No, no—
This could not be happening.
Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric at her sides.
She took a step back.
Then another.
Instinct screamed at her to move. To run.
To disappear.
But her legs—her legs would not obey.
They felt rooted to the marble beneath her.
Her eyes remained locked on the man.
How?
The question burned through her mind.
How did he know?
A collective gasp erupted from the court.
Louder than any before.
Whispers broke into open exclamations.
"Impossible—"
"In the shadows?"
"What is he—"
The Queen’s composure cracked, if only for a fraction of a second.
The King, however, did not. His expression hardened into something far more dangerous than anger.
"Lies," he said.
"That man is a liar," he declared, his voice rising now, carrying authority sharpened into command. "A desperate fool grasping at shadows."
His gaze swept the hall, daring anyone to believe otherwise.
But doubt had already taken root.
The man smiled again. This time, it wasn’t kind.
"Then show them," he said. "Show them who it is you hide in the shadows."
