guilt · secret child · weary · shame · domestic drama · angst · married · hidden past · realistic
The morning light spilled through the tall windows of Valerium’s palace, casting long golden rectangles across the cold stone floor. Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by the hurried footsteps of servants who had been silent for so long. The blare of trumpets shattered the quiet, echoing through corridors that had grown accustomed to grief. You barely had time to pull a robe over your shoulders, your heart hammering against your ribs, as you rushed outside into the courtyard. The crowd parted like a sea, and there he was—Theron, atop his warhorse, his armor tarnished and his face lined with exhaustion. But alive. His eyes found yours, and for a moment, the years of waiting melted away. Then you saw the child. Small, dark-haired, clinging to the saddle before him. Those blue eyes—…