Chapter 4. The Monarch's Outlook

Witnessing the anguish etched in the depths of his eyes was a torment in itself. The king stood there, a portrait of suffering and animosity, the weight of recent loss heavy upon his shoulders. And before him stood the supposed perpetrator, me, adorned in finery and well-fed, untouched by any visible harm, despite his recent tragedy. I was but the prime suspect, the one to whom the soldiers had traced the path of discarded bloody garments in the woods. Yet, the mere presence of evidence does not a murderer make. While circumstances may align, not every accused is necessarily guilty.

But within this complex web of circumstance lay the root of the queen's flight. A pursuit was afoot, a relentless chase that had driven her from her place of power. There must have been a reason, a hidden truth veiled beneath the surface. If survival was to be mine, it was a puzzle I had to unravel. But how could I ever lay bare this convoluted tale? Especially in the presence of the council—a body whose tales of treachery, royal intrigues, and the ever-so-notorious "game of thrones" had been woven into my understanding. Such complexities were woven into the lives of the elite, far more intricate than my own.

The choice looming before me was stark: to accept culpability, or to persist in denial. And the alternative to acquiescence was death—a prospect that hung above me like a predator's snare. The trap had been set, and now the onus was on me to navigate my way out. They would use any means to extract a confession, should I maintain my stance of innocence. The mere thought of Poras and Cali being drawn into this sinister machination shattered my resolve. It was for their safety, their well-being, that I found myself ensnared within the confines of this corrupt kingdom. To shield them from peril and entanglement, it seemed a lesser ordeal to shoulder the burden of guilt for my actions. For if that were to come to pass, the narrative they were weaving would conclude—a tale twisted by circumstance and intent.

I cleared my throat and looked up at the king. The moment I spoke, I became an outright felon. I retorted, "I killed the queen, Your Grace."

The room was a sea of collective astonishment, painted across the faces of those gathered. Expressions ranged from haughty arrogance to wide-eyed naivety, a mosaic of responses to my words. The air was thick with a sense of reckoning, a moment that demanded pause and contemplation. But had they truly been caught off guard?

In the midst of this tableau, the king himself seemed to be grappling with an absence of words. His gaze was fixed upon me, a silent storm of emotions churning beneath his exterior. And there, seated beside him, was another figure, a woman whose lips curled into a sly smile. Was it a mask of relief, now that the weight of suspicion no longer hung over her? Or perhaps there was more to her demeanor than met the eye—subtle nuances that only a mastermind could perceive. It's said that those who navigate such games with unyielding poker faces often hold the threads of the narrative, pulling them taut to their advantage. In this intricate play, aptly titled "The Lying Game," each participant played a role, a role that could change the course of their fate. And in these calculated performances, the orchestrators often emerged victorious, leaving their mark on the grand stage of deception.

"I won't delve into the specifics of how I brought about her demise, Your Grace. My apologies, I misspoke," I admitted, effectively ending the charade. The web of intrigue woven around the queen's death could now be laid to rest, and her unseen assassins could retire from their game of shadows. They had succeeded, and I, willingly or not, played my part as the victim. It was the way of our kind—marionettes to the crowned and the titled, who often proved to be more maniacal than wise. If they had dared approach the soil or the sepulcher, we would have brushed our lips against both in a kiss before they made contact.

The woman whose voice rang out in vehement proclamation seemed to speak from a place of passionate indignation. If our ranks were equal, if I bore an emblem like hers, I would have seized her long ago—an understanding forged in the crucible of shared experiences.

Indeed, a few within the council shared that emblem, their status plain in the emblem's gleam. It stirred a commotion within the hall, like the roar of an arena where I was the unwitting gladiator, and the chant resounded, "Let her be executed!"

But then, unexpectedly, the lord of the house severed the cacophony with a simple decree: "Council members, you are dismissed!"

His choice hung in the air, a momentary suspension of expectation. The uncertainty of the aftermath lingered, and I was left standing there, at the intersection of fate and intrigue.

"What? But we still have work to do, Your Grace. Surely, this young lady is —"

"You are all dismissed, Lady Montay! Don't bother yourself with her while I'm here." This was what the monarch yelled at the lady. The council became silent as a result. They bolted down the hall. Again, he said, "Court guards, leave this hall as well!"

The higher-ranking guardsmen marched in lockstep as directed.

My ears picked up nothing but the sound of footfall on the tiled floor. The noise was so loud that it almost made me shake. I began to sweat heavily. When I heard the doors on either end of the hall close, my heart froze.

The king may decide to end my life all on his own. In theory, he could.

"Your Grace..." There was no trace of my words. I'm at a loss for words.

"There is no way you could have murdered the queen. You're an I**; thus, a powerful queen is beyond your reach. Now that everyone has left, Miss Rendin, please tell me if she made any last words to you."

For all the heavens' sake, this one was king. Would I withhold the details he needed? He was the head of the region. I cannot keep a secret from the royal family, and he was well aware that I was not responsible for the death of his wife. "Your Grace, I did not. That she was trying to get away from anything is all I heard from her."

Needless to say, it was a safe bet.

Even though he was shaky, he kept on questioning. "She passed away in your arms just as the wind took her, right?"

“She did what she was supposed to do, Your Grace.”

"She did, for sure. Now it's as though you have a heavy metal gauntlet in your hands." His tone implied he was looking for approval. Somehow, he had a clue.

I wasn't sure if I should admit it. That unseen barrier was always pressing down on me. "Yeah, Y —Your Grace, I always feel them."

He rubbed his forehead vigorously. I didn't think he was going to be happy with my explanation. He appeared troubled by the news I had conveyed and closed his eyes for a while before bowing. A new round of talking eyes accompanied his piercing gaze at me. Prince Killan Calore, my son, is going to propose to you.

His statement caused my jaw to drop to the floor. Shouldn't I have been killed already? Rather than advising me to wed the prince, please ignore me. In other words, what's the catch?

After walking through it, the massive door swung open. King George VI took in the newcomers. Then, a man's voice could be heard, saying, "Your Grace..."

"Killan," he recognized the prince’s presence.

The Crown Prince, a scion of the woman whose murder I'm unjustly accused of, trailed behind. His footfalls approached, a measured cadence that announced his presence. As he neared, I glimpsed his metallic boots, their rhythm a proclamation of authority and station. He drew closer, both physically and in essence, until I inhaled the aura of royalty—tropical fruits, lavender, and mint melding into a regal perfume.

I dared not turn back, even though he halted just a meter away. He offered a deferential nod to the king. "Your Grace, reporting back from an envoy mission in the upper regions."

His voice resonated with regality, his perfect visage conjuring images of finely sculpted features, pointed ears, and a neatly trimmed yet robust beard. A handsome creature, I'd say. I almost allowed my gaze to linger but caught myself, wary of inviting his wrathful gaze upon me.

"Killan," the king cleared his throat, his gaze shifting toward me. "This is Idrish Rendin."

I sensed his eyes upon me, and from the corner of my eye, his striking presence caught my attention. My mental image of him hadn't been amiss—a prince impeccably attired, a vision of elegance. I slightly altered my stance, offering a bow as a gesture of respect.

Raven eyes gazed at me from his sculpted face, eyebrows perfectly arched, lips a deep crimson that commanded attention. Every strand of his royal hair lay in place, a crown of authority adorning a figure standing tall at six feet. Exuding a masculine aura, he was flawless, except for the blaze of anger smoldering in his gaze, threatening to incinerate me.

I had encountered high-ranking warriors before, their beauty as intimidating as that of the royals themselves. Their appearances forced me to question the fairness of the stars, the impartiality of fate. Royals, warriors, and even their elite guards all made me ill at ease, yet the prince's presence eclipsed them all. In his presence, every breath grew difficult, as if his gaze alone could suffocate me.

I needed to tread carefully.

Avoiding direct eye contact with the prince, I shifted my focus back to the king. Though the prince stood to my side, he felt like a looming shadow, and I was acutely aware of his gaze upon me, its weight almost suffocating.

His animosity was palpable, beyond mere hatred—he despised me.

And then, in the midst of the tension, the prince's voice sliced through, each word coated with acidic disdain. "So, this is the girl." His words carried an acrid aftertaste, and even though his gaze was elsewhere, I sensed his mind churning with thoughts of my demise. I was the girl who had supposedly slain his mother, and she stood beside me, aware of my supposed crime. Adorned and nourished like a lady, untouched and untainted.

At his utterance of "the girl," a searing pang lanced through my gut. A surge of anger surged within me, and I clenched my fists. In their world, they would never deign to address us by name, only acknowledging us when necessary, and often, when displeased, not with titles or honorifics, but with casual contempt.

To them, we were tools to be wielded, commodities to be used and discarded. In their eyes, we were expendable, our lives expendable if they deemed us a nuisance.

"Yes," the king's response was measured. With a sweeping motion, he adjusted his beard, his gaze switching between his son and me. I felt the weight of his scrutiny, an examination not just of his offspring but of the girl who had been thrust into their royal theater. Everyone watched, his son legally bound to a stranger, the stranger who was branded a regicide. The king's sanity seemed questionable, an affliction plaguing Springgan's rulers. Insanity and authority were synonymous in this realm, as if the weight of their dominion unhinged their minds.

The king, however, appeared composed, unmarred by the madness that often came with power. Despite his aloofness toward lower-ranking elves like me, he had managed to establish the Seventh Region, a seat of authority near the ruling Tenth. He may yet succeed as the sovereign of Springgan.

A doubt flitted—was he truly rational? Why else would he permit someone of my ilk to join his son in matrimony? Shouldn't Prince Killan wed a princess from his own dominion, like Princess Latoya Gameida of the First Region? Yet the king reigned, and his decision bore weight. The rationale lay plain—it extended beyond matters of love. Perhaps duty and obligation played a part, binding his daughter and me through marriage.

The prince cleared his throat, the sound almost a whisper. "You've earned my respect from the moment I could form coherent thought and speech, Your Grace. You instilled in me the voice to speak my mind and the conviction to stand by my choices. Your Grace," he glanced at me, eyes akin to a mudslide under a rain-laden sky, "I won't be marrying a feral hunter, Your Grace. Lanuza, First Princess of the Second Region, and I are betrothed."

His voice rang with a firmness, gravelly yet resolute.

The king's posture shifted, his once-leaning form rising. Grey eyes widened, absorbing the revelation delivered by his son. Was it a fresh piece of information for him? His expression seemed to convey an air of surprise. "Sever ties with Princess Lanuza. As your king, I command it."