Chapter CXXV: Fury

The Dragon King strode down to the dungeons, his steps echoing against the cold stone walls. He had been informed that a man had been arrested outside the castle, claiming he had just returned from Rosehall. The mere mention of the place had stirred something dark inside him, and he’d come to see if there was anything worth hearing.

The prisoner kneeled the moment Alaric entered the dimly lit cell. But the king had no patience for theatrics. "Speak," he ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
The man, trembling, said, "Your Majesty, my partner and I… we tried to return the Allendorian whore—"

Before he could finish, Alaric’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar. In one swift motion, he smashed the man's head against the iron bars of the cell. The man gasped in pain, but Alaric’s voice was icy as he hissed, "Mind your words. Try again."

The man, blood dripping from his forehead, nodded quickly, correcting himself. "Lady Isabella… Your concubine. We tried to bring her back to you. We infiltrated Rosehall for weeks, nearly succeeded—"

Alaric’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t see her red hair anywhere, so you both didn’t do shit." He released the man, stepping back, disgust and anger simmering beneath his calm facade. "Where’s your partner?"

"Caught," the man admitted, wiping blood from his brow. "Only I managed to escape."

Alaric rolled his eyes, exasperation lacing his every movement. "Call me when someone competent shows up."

But then the man, desperate, blurted out, "If you send me back, with help, resources, we can finish the job. We can bring you the false queen… And the prince."

The mention of Ikkar made Alaric pause. His eyes darkened as he slowly turned to face the man again. "Did you really managed to infiltrate the palace?" His tone was dangerously quiet now.

"We did. We almost succeeded," the man said quickly, sensing an opening. "I almost had the little prince, but the queen’s babies are even more guarded than she is."

Alaric’s heart seemed to stop. "Babies? What do you mean babies?" His voice was low, disbelieving.

"Yes," the man nodded. "The false queen has two other children now, a little boy and a girl, twins maybe… smaller than the Dragon Prince."

Alaric’s blood turned to ice. He didn’t say another word. Without a glance back, he stormed out of the dungeons, his thoughts in chaos.

The moment he returned to the privacy of his chambers, the full weight of the revelation hit him like a sledgehammer. Isabella had another children—with her new husband. His mind swirled in disbelief and rage.

A red haze of fury clouded his vision as his emotions overwhelmed him. He punched the heavy wooden table, the crack of his fist echoing in the room. A vase shattered against the wall as he threw it in blind rage. He screamed, a primal, guttural sound filled with all the pain, betrayal, and heartache he had kept buried for so long.

Hot tears, searing with fury, streaked down his face. His chest heaved as his thoughts spun out of control. He had lost her—truly lost her. She had another man's children. She had forgotten him.

He wanted to burn Rosehall to the ground. He wanted to storm her castle and tear down everything. He wanted to make her pay, to make them all pay. He could crush the skull of her new husband, whoever he was, with his bare hands.

But beneath the fury, buried deep beneath the surface, was something worse than his anger. It was the sting of his own broken heart, the unshakable truth that the woman he loved, the only woman he truly loved in his life, belonged to someone else now.

***

Isabella lay still, her head resting on Pallor’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. His arms were wrapped protectively around her, his warmth enveloping her, yet it didn’t reach the coldness deep inside her heart. Her body felt satisfied, the lingering touch of his hands still soft against her skin, but her soul felt… Empty.

Pallor was her husband, her lawful husband in the eyes of the gods and all who swore fealty to her. Her loyal consort. He was everything a woman could ask for—loyal, gentle, and devoted. He had fought for her, bled for her, and tonight, he had shown her tenderness that most women would dream of experiencing. Yet, Isabella's mind wandered to forbidden places.

Why did it feel so wrong?

She kept her eyes closed, trying to force herself to find solace in the man beside her. She knew Pallor deserved better. He deserved her full heart, her full loyalty. But no matter how hard she tried, every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—Alaric, the Dragon King.

Her heart skipped a beat just thinking about him. The way his hands used to feel against her skin, his heat, his passion. There was a fire in him that consumed her in ways no one else could. Her body, even now, yearned for his touch, for the intensity that only he could bring. She had once belonged to him, heart and soul. Even after all this time, after everything that had passed between them, her heart still bled for him.

She sighed softly, careful not to wake Pallor. Her thoughts, as always, drifted to that fateful morning—the day of her eighteenth birthday, the day that changed everything. The day she had given herself to the Dragon King. She had loved him then, more than she ever thought possible. And now… now she was torn. Torn between the man she had married and the man who still haunted her every waking thought.

*Why do I still feel this way? *she wondered bitterly. Why can't I forget him?

Pallor shifted slightly, murmuring her name in his sleep. Isabella opened her eyes and looked up at him, his face peaceful and content. He was a good man, a strong man. She should have felt secure, comforted in her decision to finally give herself to him. But all she felt was guilt.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how far she ran, Alaric would always be there, like a shadow lurking in her heart.

Pallor stirred beside Isabella, blinking his eyes open to see her lying next to him. He smiled warmly, reaching up to gently caress her face. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice still thick with sleep.

Isabella nodded, offering him a gentle smile. "I am," she whispered.

Pallor’s thumb traced the curve of her cheek, his gaze filled with admiration. "You're so beautiful," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I’ve known you since you were a child, I’ve watched you grow up… But I’ve never seen you as beautiful as you are right now."

His words warmed her, and for a brief moment, Isabella allowed herself to feel the comfort of them. "I remember playing with Lady Clara around the halls," she said, her voice light with nostalgia. "I used to see you in your yellow cloak, laughing with my father."

Pallor chuckled. "If I was already an old man back then, imagine now."

Isabella laughed softly, shaking her head. "You weren’t old then, and you’re not old now." She looked at him more closely, taking in the lines on his face, the silver streaks in his hair, and the wear of battle on his body. Pallor was a man who had spent over five decades in war, duty, and service to the crown. Yet, she could see the remnants of the handsome young man he once was—there was still something undeniably charming about him.

"You’re still a very good lover," she teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Especially for a man who has been widowed for nearly two decades."

Pallor laughed, shaking his head. "I was a widower, not a monk."

Isabella laughed with him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Gods, I didn’t know the king had been making the girls of the Stone Keep so happy all this time."

Pallor chuckled and shook his head. "Not since we were married, my queen." His tone softened, and there was a quiet seriousness behind his words.

Isabella’s laughter faltered, her heart tightening with a pang of guilt. He was so loyal, so devoted. He had never broken their vows, while she… She pressed her lips together, feeling the weight of her betrayal. But Pallor, either unaware or unwilling to confront the truth, simply looked at her with unwavering affection.

Their moment was interrupted by the creak of the door as a servant entered, carrying a tray with breakfast. As the door closed behind her, she bowed respectfully. "Good morning, my king,". She froze when she saw the queen in the bed beside the king, both naked under the sheets, her eyes widening in surprise before she quickly bowed, clearly startled.

"M-My queen," the servant stammered awkwardly.

Pallor cleared his throat and gestured to the table. "Leave the tray and summon the queen’s handmaidens to help her dress," he instructed, his voice calm and composed.

The servant quickly nodded. "Yes, my king," she said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Pallor let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Well," he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "now we have one less problem."

Isabella frowned slightly, turning to him. "What do you mean?"

Pallor glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. "Now no one can affirm that your child isn’t mine."