Cold Hearts In Love.

The declaration sent a ripple of shock through the room. Zayd slipped out quietly, ostensibly to fetch the royal physician.

"Someone, summon all the servants immediately!" Bathsheba commanded, her voice ringing with authority. 

Aurora's breathing grew shallow, just as the royal physician arrived. He examined her swiftly, then said, "Take her to a chamber where she may rest. I need better light and more space to tend to her."

Without hesitation, Stephen scooped her in his arms, before carrying her toward his own quarters, the physician following close behind.

The rest of the family remained in the dining hall, their faces etched with fear and anger and some with indifference.

"I cannot believe this has happened,"

Sapphire whispered, her voice trembling.

Bathsheb's eyes narrowed. "I shall deal with this myself. Whoever dared to endanger this young woman shall face justice."

She strode toward the kitchen, her steps deliberate and unyielding. Zayd, having returned, followed her closely as the household staff were assembled in the middle of the Kitchen, their heads bowed.

"Who delivered the trolley to you, Zayd?" Bathsheba demanded, her voice icy.

"Alice, my Queen," Zayd replied, gesturing toward a trembling maid with blonde hair.

Alice dropped to her knees. "It is indeed true I delivered the trolley to Lord Zayd, but I would not dare do such a thing," she explained calmly, her head bowed. 

Bathsheba studied her intently, her piercing gaze unwavering. After a tense moment, she spoke. "She did not do it."

Zayd turned toward the royal cook. "Did you see anyone tamper with the food?"

The cook, a tall, lean young man named Trent, faltered under the scrutiny.

"N-no, I did not," he stammered.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Trent." Bathsheba's tone was low, dangerous.

Trent fell to his knees, his face pale as death. "Your Highness, forgive me. He made me do it!" 

"Who compelled you to do it? Speak, Trent, and I shall see to it that your head remains upon your shoulders," Bathsheba demanded, her eyes sharp and unrelenting.

"H-he…" Trent stammered, his gaze darting nervously around the room before his trembling finger rose to point directly at Zayd.

All eyes turned to Zayd, whose composed demeanor showed no hint of alarm.

Bathsheba's brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze shifting between the two men. Zayd exhaled softly, a faint sigh escaping his lips before he fixed Trent with a cold, steady glare. "Did I not promise to protect you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, though clearly directed at Trent, who visibly flinched.

"I nearly lost my head because of you," Trent muttered, his voice shaking, his face pale with dread.

"And yet I would have seen to it that you did not," Zayd replied evenly, his tone measured but firm. "Did I not give you my word?"

Trent swallowed hard, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I am sorry," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, with a weak, fleeting smile, he added, "But this time, you'll have to face it alone."

 Bathsheba, watching the exchange, found her patience waning. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, fixed on Zayd. "What is this treachery I witness?" she demanded, her voice low but full of authority. 

"It is not what you imagine, Your Highness," Zayd said quickly, but her frown deepened. "Follow me," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. 

The assembled servants dared not make a sound, though their lowered heads and furtive glances betrayed their disbelief.

Zayd, the steadfast butler of the house, now walked alongside the Queen in a cloud of suspicion. 

Whispers began to ripple through the manor like the murmurs of wind through the tapestries. Some speculated that Zayd harbored a forbidden attachment to Aurora—the King's newfound interest.

They whispered that his obsession was dangerous, the sort of love that declared, If I cannot have her, no one shall. Indeed creative. 

Bathsheba halted in the dimly lit corridor, the candelabra casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, she turned to face Zayd. Her arms folded under her chest, her expression imperious. 

"Speak," she said sharply. "Who commanded you to commit this foul deed?" 

 "Do you trust me?" Zayd asked hesitantly, his voice low. Her frown deepened, and her voice turned colder still.

"Do not make me repeat myself." Zayd sighed, his calm veneer cracking. "And if I were to say I am bound by loyalty to my master, unable to name him?" 

Her eyes narrowed. "Then your loyalty shall cost you your head," she said, her words as final as the toll of a bell. He hesitated, then lowered his voice further.

"It was His Majesty." 

Bathsheba's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face. "What did you say?" 

"It was Stephen," Zayd repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"For what purpose?" she asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and anger. Zayd glanced at the ground as though searching for courage.

"I know not, Your Highness. I merely followed his orders. It was not true poison, in any case—merely Laudanom. It causes dizziness and unconsciousness for some hours, but no lasting harm." 

Bathsheba exhaled slowly, relief softening the tension in her brow. Yet confusion lingered in her eyes. "Why, pray, would the King wish her to believe she had been poisoned?" Zayd shrugged faintly. "Perhaps, you should ask him." 

She nodded, though weariness tinged her features. "Very well. I shall speak with him. Let this matter rest for now." She offered Zayd a faint smile before turning toward the chambers of her grandson. 

As she departed, Zayd lingered in the corridor, his thoughts turning inward. 

Could she truly be Aubree—the girl who had vanished years ago? He recalled the youthful fondness he had felt for her, a sentiment he had nearly confessed before she disappeared.

A small smile crept across his lips at the thought, though it was quickly swallowed by the weight of his task. 

Inside the King's chambers, the room was dim and serene. The flicker of a single candle cast soft shadows across the stone walls, and the faint aroma of lavender lingered from the herbal draught the physician had administered.

Stephen sat beside Aurora's bed, his gaze fixed on her face. Her breathing was steady, though her eyes remained closed. 

The physician had departed, assuring the King that Aurora's condition was not grave. The concoction would wear off before nightfall, and she would awaken as if from a deep sleep. 

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," Stephen said, his voice low. 

Bathsheba stepped into the chamber, her presence commanding.

Her sharp eyes swept over the scene, lingering on Aurora's still form before resting on her grandson. 

"Grandmother," Stephen greeted, though his tone held a note of wariness. 

"Stephen," she began, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning. "We must talk." 

"You have already discerned it, I presume?" Stephen said, his voice calm but weighted, his gaze fixed on the floor. 

Bathsheba sighed deeply, stepping to the ornate couch in the middle of the room. The chamber was adorned with rich tapestries depicting heroic battles, while the faint scent of beeswax candles lingered in the air. 

"I do not condone your methods, Stephen," she began, smoothing her skirts as she sat. "However, if this scheme concerns securing my great-grandchild, then you have my blessing." 

Stephen's head lifted, his dark eyes narrowing as they met hers. "Grandmother, this has nothing to do with such notions. I only seek to protect her. To ensure her safety, she must remain within these walls." 

Bathsheba raised a brow, her tone sly. "Protection often leads to other things. Thus, I stand in full support." 

"She is merely a friend," Stephen countered, his voice firm. "I aid her as any friend would." 

"Call it what you will," Bathsheba said, a knowing glint in her eyes. 

"Besides, she perceives me as her enemy," Stephen added, his frustration seeping through. 

 "Enemy? Why so?" "She believes that I—or my father—slew her family," he admitted, leaning back with a weary sigh. Bathsheba's gaze sharpened, a flicker of disdain crossing her features.

"That is absurd. Your father was imprisoned for the murder of the duke's wife at the time. As for you, you were but a boy—and a kind-hearted one at that. Did you make no effort to explain?" 

 "She will not listen. To her, my words are but hollow excuses." 

Bathsheba's expression softened, though her tone remained steady and pragmatic. "And did you think, pray tell, that after discovering you had poisoned her, she would desire to draw nearer to you?" 

Stephen sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I know, Grandmother. I know. But we must hope the fear will compel her to remain within the palace. She is not safe out there anymore.

By becoming entangled with me, she has unwittingly made herself a target. Sooner or later, they will discover she holds a place in my heart, and they will seek to use her against me. I cannot let that happen, even if it means she comes to despise me." 

His voice grew quieter, laced with resolve. "Now, I must uncover the truth—who destroyed her family, and to what end? Why was my father accused, and why am I now caught in this web of deceit? There is a greater scheme at play, Grandmother, one that seeks to turn her against me. But for now, her safety is all that matters." 

Bathsheba regarded him in silence for a moment, her eyes searching his face. At last, she rose with a grace befitting her years, her presence commanding yet tender. "I trust you will find the answers you seek, my grandson. Know that I shall always be here to stand by you." Her voice was soft, yet carried the weight of her unwavering faith. 

With that, she turned and departed, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Stephen alone with the heavy burden of his thoughts. 

Stephen exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair for what seemed like the hundredth time, as his gaze drifted to Aurora. She lay on the bed, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, her features serene. In slumber, she appeared almost otherworldly, her beauty quiet and unguarded. 

His thoughts turned back to the first time they had met.

His human age was sixteen, traveling with Kayden on a mission to win the favor of the common folk—a task he had no true desire to undertake, despite the crown awaiting him. 

He recalled the bustling market that day, its air heavy with the mingling scents of spices, fresh bread, and the faint tang of the nearby river. His attention had been drawn to a commotion—a young girl caught stealing, the cries of the owner of the shop yelling 'thief!' piercing the air. 

The villagers had descended upon the young girl, not caring she was just a little girl, they were ready to become violent. However, being raised not to ever ignore a chance at saving humanity, he had stopped them. 

"Wait!" he had called out, but the crowd, eager for punishment, paid him no heed.

"I shall pay for all of it!" he declared, his voice firm. "And more, with interest. She is a friend of mine." The villagers had begrudgingly released the girl, muttering amongst themselves.

Stephen had then offered to buy food for the lot of them, a gesture that swiftly turned scorn into gratitude. Later, he approached the girl, offering her a loaf of bread. Her wary eyes, sharp and mistrustful, had pierced him. 

"Who are you?" she had demanded. 

"Why did you help me?" 

"Because I want to," he had replied, intrigued by her defiance. Unlike most children he encountered, she was neither noisy nor cloying.

She carried herself with a quiet strength that belied her youth, which he had guessed to be no more than eight years. 

Over time, they had forged an unlikely bond. During his time among the common folk, he would seek her out, bringing food and offering companionship. 

It was during one of these visits that they encountered Zayd—a scrappy boy locked in a brawl with older children. Despite being overpowered, Zayd refused to yield, earning Stephen's admiration. 

From then on, the three of them had been inseparable, calling themselves the Three Musketeers, until they met the runaway boy; Trent. 

Their days were filled with simple joys: wandering the village park, sharing meals, and evading the watchful eyes of palace guards that followed Stephen around. 

A ruffled sheet sound brought him back to the present, his gaze snapped as Aurora stirred, her lashes fluttering open.