“By the authority vested in me, Queen Marguen of Vasier, I bestow upon you, Sir Bradfrey, the title of Duke De La Castell—Uniter of Faiths, Protector of the North, and Conqueror of the Wicked.”
The queen concluded her speech with a playful, half-cocked backhand to Bradfrey’s face. A reminder of his perpetual duty to the crown—but undone by her dainty fingers grazing his upper cheek, leaving her a few rings shorter. The young monarch’s embarrassment quickly dissolved into shared laughter between her and the duke. “Now rise, before I’m forced to use my stronger hand.”
Thousands filled the city square, their cheers rising as ribbons and rose petals fluttered in the air. Noble houses displayed their banners with pride, their colors vibrant against the emotional swell of the crowd. Yet beneath the triumph lingered sorrow—tear-streaked mothers applauded beside empty, wreath-draped seats, silent monuments to sons who had sacrificed everything for the crown.
Upon the elevated podium, behind the queen and her duke, sat the newly reinstated royal council, with one notable addition: the portly Weddle, who had replaced the disgraced Davos.
Now serving as religious adviser, Weddle brought a moral clarity that strengthened the court’s unity. Pagans, gypsies, and cross-worshipers stood side by side, their actions and allegiance to the crown binding them together.
Yet for all the ceremony’s grandeur, a shadow lingered over Bradfrey’s joy. Beneath the cheers and titles lay an emptiness that dulled his triumph, a void that made his honors feel like a mirage. Castell’s banner flying beside the royal insignia could not fill it, nor could the applause of thousands. Only one name felt worthy of such praise.
“Where is she?” Queen Marguen whispered.
“On a spiritual journey... Home,” Bradfrey replied. His gaze drifted westward, his mind far from the square.
Beyond the celebrations, past the desolate Pragian hills where herds grazed among ruins tangled in brambles, Anneliese wandered. She ascended the rugged ridgeline, searching for a secluded creek bed that echoed with memories of childhood—the drizzling entrance to the rainy cave.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
With Maneesh’s carry sack slung over her shoulder, she stepped carefully through the knee-high water. Above her left breast, tucked beneath her drenched tunic, hung Father Bellamy’s tarnished cross—an heirloom of reassurance. Her feet traced the jagged rocks to the pebble footings, each step rekindling the youthful nimbleness that once hopscotched through the unstable terrain.
The water stirred, sending a flurry of eels darting through the stalagmites, their iridescent scales shimmering in a riot of colors. Like shooting stars, they streaked beneath the rippling surface, their glow refracting across the cavern walls.
Above her, the cave’s ceiling mirrored a starlit sky, blurring the boundaries between earth, water, and sky—an illusion of infinite wonder.
As she ventured deeper, the humidity thickened. Hot steam curled through porous rock, while the flooded floor drained into sediment that nourished the inverted ceiling above. Water cascaded down the walls in endless cycles, its rhythm soothing and eternal.
Towards the waterfall’s embrace, Anneliese discovered a sizable enclave where fissured walls fed veins of flowing water and glowing eels. Their light illuminated mounds of white sand—Coble’s long-forgotten stockpile—beside an old wooden table overrun with rusted instruments and mossy overgrowth.
From Maneesh’s sack, Anneliese drew a red leather journal. As she placed Coble’s legacy on the table, a magical reaction rippled outward, sterilizing the overgrowth and restoring the forgotten workspace to its former glory. Tools glinted like new as moss receded and the table’s surface shone clean.
As she flipped through the red leather journal, the pages of her childhood appeared blank or coded with scattered, interspersed letters. Page after page remained indecipherable—until she came across half-detailed entries filled with mixed scribbles. Random ingredients, some crossed out, others underlined or circled, stood out in erratic clusters.
Then it struck her. Flicking back to the first, barely legible page, the once-coded letters began to shift. Words emerged, haltingly at first, then forming sentences with careful focus. Before her eyes, the fragmented scrawl transformed into complete scripture—a phenomenon confined to this one section of free thought and experimentation.
“Mithridatium,” Anneliese read aloud, as the title emerged: The Cure for Everything, in Partnership with Charles Bellamy.
The words radiated a quiet warmth, as if Coble’s spirit lingered within them. From the waterfall’s entrance, a gentle puff of steam rose and dissipated—a final exhale, the last breath of existence before Coble’s spirit ascended into eternity.
“Thank you for believing in me,” Anneliese whispered, her voice trembling as a lone star in the mirrored night sky seemed to shimmer a little brighter.
The weight of her painful childhood eased. The gnawing ache faded, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Coble’s faithful decisions, once a heavy legacy, lifted with his passing spirit, leaving her with both the daunting task of rediscovery and the hopeful wonder of what lay ahead.