Chapter CLXIV: Nothing but virtue

Isabella lay beside Alaric, her body still warm and flushed from their shared passion. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Alaric's arm rested possessively around her waist, his breathing still deepening from their embrace.

She turned her head slightly, tracing the contours of his strong jaw with her eyes. “My love,” she said softly, breaking the silence.

He stirred, looking down at her with a contented smile. “What is it?” His voice was deep and slightly rough, carrying the remnants of their intimacy.

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered, the weight of her words tempered by the glow of this moment. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, his expression froze, eyes widening in surprise before they softened into an unmistakable joy. He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Isabella, this is... this is incredible…”

Her smile was tender but tentative. “I wanted to wait another month before telling you. It’s been so long since I carried a child to term. Kira is seven… I couldn’t bear raising your hopes too soon.”

Alaric’s eyes darkened with determination as he shifted, cradling her face in his strong hands. “Don’t worry, my love,” he promised. “These are great news. For us, for the kingdom…”

Isabella’s worry eased, the tension melting as she looked up at him. “I thought I’d never be able to give you such news again,” she admitted, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Some of our babies are already old enough to leave the nest...”

He chuckled, brushing the tear away with his thumb. “That’s why we need more of them, to fill these halls with noise again.”

Their laughter mingled as he pulled her close, their foreheads touching. He whispered against her lips, “I love you.”

“And I love you too,” she replied, resting her forehead against his, letting herself revel in the happiness they had created, if only for this moment.

***

Ikkar found himself lingering near the gardens far more often than his royal duties allowed. He made light excuses: weaving flower crowns for Kira or carrying boxes of sewing supplies that surely did not need a prince's attention. To most of the court, his behavior blended into the fabric of his reputation—charming, polite, endlessly considerate, regardless of rank. But the amount of time he spent around Talia, the quiet maid with gentle eyes and a nervous smile, was starting to be noticed, if only subtly.

Talia was always shy when he approached, keeping her eyes cast down and her responses clipped and cautious. Yet, Ikkar found peace in those stolen moments, even in the silence that sometimes stretched between them. He had grown to treasure the glimpses of her unguarded smiles, the ones she thought no one saw.

One afternoon, as the sounds of Kira’s laughter and Dayan and Mahir’s playful shouts filled the garden, Ikkar spotted Talia sitting on a stone bench. She was focused on an embroidery hoop, delicate fingers threading an intricate pattern with quiet concentration. For a moment, he stood back, watching the way the sun caught in her hair, how she bit her lip as she worked.

Gathering himself, he walked over and asked, “May I join you?”

Talia's eyes widened, a blush rising on her cheeks. “Of course, Your Highness,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Ikkar settled beside her, the space between them a chasm and yet not nearly enough. “I have something for you,” he said, a touch of hesitation in his tone.

She stiffened, the embroidery forgotten in her lap. “I can’t accept a gift,” she said, eyes darting to the side. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

He chuckled, soft and warm. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“Please, Your Highness,” she said, a note of desperation lacing her words. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

The smile faded from his face as he took a breath, understanding the tightrope she walked. He stood up, disappointed but unwilling to press her.

Just as he turned to leave, she spoke, her voice a rush of impulsive curiosity. “What was it?”

Ikkar’s expression softened as he sat back down, pulling a carefully folded piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to her without a word, watching as her eyes searched his face before she unfolded it. Her breath caught as she took in the drawing, a perfect likeness of herself captured with strokes of ink. He had sketched her as he often saw her: serene, focused, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Talia’s fingers trembled as she quickly folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt, her eyes misting with something he couldn’t quite name. “Do you not like it?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible. “I do,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But… there’s no way I could express how grateful I am.”

He leaned in slightly, trying to catch her gaze. “You could smile,” he said, his tone half teasing, half sincere.

A small, tentative smile curved her lips, and for a moment, the world around him fell away. The sunlight caught her face, illuminating the warmth in her eyes and the subtle pink of her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he felt the word echo through him, deeper than he expected. Ikkar knew then that he would do anything to see that smile again, to make her happiness a part of his everyday life.

Ikkar sat at his desk, the dim light of the lantern casting a warm glow across the half-finished portrait in front of him. The lines were precise, but he couldn’t quite capture the way Talia had smiled at him earlier. Frustration gnawed at him as he set down his charcoal, smudging the edge of the paper as he rubbed a hand over his face. Suddenly, a knock on the door jolted him from his reverie. He scrambled to gather the drawings and tucked them into a leather-bound folder, shoving it under a pile of books.

“Come in,” he called, trying to sound calm.

The door opened, and there stood his father, the Dragon King, with the weight of both a father’s concern and a ruler’s authority in his eyes. Ikkar stood immediately, instinctively straightening his spine.

“Is there something wrong, Father?” Ikkar asked, masking the unease clawing at him.

Alaric’s eyes were sharp, assessing. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

Ikkar’s chest tightened. “About what?”

“You’ve been distracted,” Alaric said, stepping further into the room. His gaze swept over the scattered papers, the charcoal smudges on Ikkar’s fingers. “Neglecting your duties, disappearing at odd hours of the day… And apparently your attention is displaced from your position… To be on one of your mother’s handmaidens.”

The blood drained from Ikkar’s face. His throat tightened, and he stuttered, “It’s not what you think—”

“I think,” Alaric interrupted, voice low and unwavering, “that you are infatuated with this servant girl. And it must stop.”

“Father—”

“Your mother is pregnant,” Alaric said, his voice harder now. “The last thing she needs is to hear that her eldest son, the crown prince, is spending his days fucking a servant.”

“It’s not like that,” Ikkar protested, his voice breaking. “I would never dishonor her like this!”

“Then what are you doing, Ikkar?” Alaric’s tone softened for just a moment, enough to make Ikkar feel the weight of his shame. Silence followed, tense and suffocating. Finally, Ikkar drew a shaky breath.

“I love her,” he admitted. The truth tumbled out, raw and vulnerable. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I love her.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—pain, regret, or perhaps recognition. “If you truly love her, then you will let her go before you ruin her,” he said, each word hitting like a blow.

Ikkar opened his mouth to respond, but Alaric raised a hand, cutting him off. “You can never marry her,” he said. “What are you going to do, Ikkar? Make her your mistress? Your concubine? Force her to bear your illegitimate children? Because you’re a prince, and she is a servant.”

Ikkar’s chest ached as he whispered, “Why can’t I marry her? She might be just a servant, but my mother was your enemy!”

Alaric’s expression hardened. “Your mother had a crown and an army. This girl has nothing except her virtue, and if you take that from her…” He paused, placing a heavy hand on Ikkar’s shoulder. His eyes softened with an emotion that was almost pleading. “I know it would break your mother’s heart to see I failed to prevent you from becoming what I once was.”

Ikkar’s heart clenched, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him like a stone. He lowered his gaze. “Her name is Talia,” he whispered.

Alaric’s face remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. He took a deep breath, squeezed Ikkar’s shoulder once, and said, “Good night, son.”

As the door closed behind him, Ikkar stood alone in the quiet, Talia’s name echoing in the hollow silence.

Ikkar lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the shadows of the night shifted across his room. Sleep evaded him, tangled with thoughts of Talia and the words his father had spoken earlier. The weight of them pressed heavily on his chest, leaving him restless and on edge.

Suddenly, a faint knock sounded from the internal door that connected his chambers to the smaller room next to it. He sat up, heart thudding. That door had always remained locked. Built long ago so the crown prince could house his favored concubine close by, it now served a different purpose. With the arrival of more children, the room had been repurposed as an extra nursery, a place where their mother kept his younger siblings close, in the safety of the royal quarters. His mother would never allow any notion of royal mistresses to tarnish her household, anyway.

He squinted through the darkness as a small, pale shape slipped beneath the door. Curious, he rose and crossed the room quietly, the cold stone floor chilling his bare feet. Kneeling, he picked up the item—a white handkerchief, soft and delicate in his hands. His breath caught when he saw the small, intricately embroidered dragon in the corner, familiar in its detail.

Talia’s handiwork. The same one she was working on earlier that day in the garden.