THE ANTI-HEALERS ODESSY

Long before Arthur was born, long before her name was forgotten by the court and cursed in whispered gossip, Cecilia Caledonia was not a mother or a runaway commoner. She was a princess. The firstborn of King Alistair IV and Queen Isolde, heir to the throne of Caledonia, blessed with silver hair and an intellect far beyond her years. The kingdom looked upon her with reverence and fear, for she was known not only for her unmatched beauty but for her political acumen and magical aptitude—especially her ability to wield Light and Spirit magic.

Raised in the marble halls of Caledonia's palace, Cecilia lived a life bound by etiquette, expectation, and scrutiny. Every smile she gave in court was measured. Every dress, every lesson, every word she spoke was calculated to appease not just her father, but the court, the nobles, and the people who pinned their hopes and suspicions on her shoulders. She was not allowed to falter. Not allowed to feel.

Until she met him.

Sir Aldren Vael.

He was no noble. No prince. Just a knight. The youngest to earn the rank of Royal Guard in over a century, rising through the ranks by merit rather than birth. With hair like raven feathers, eyes like sunlit steel, and a sense of calm that disarmed even the most guarded of hearts, Aldren was assigned as Cecilia's personal protector when she was seventeen.

He was kind.

He was brave.

He listened.

At first, Cecilia resented his presence. She saw him as another pair of eyes, another mouth that would report her every breath to the King. But Aldren surprised her. He was professional, never overstepping his bounds, yet unafraid to challenge her opinions when they trained together or conversed in private. He treated her not like a porcelain doll or a political weapon—but like a person.

Their conversations grew longer.

Their laughter became real.

And late one night, beneath the cherry blossoms of the eastern courtyard, it happened.

Their first kiss.

It was tentative, stolen under moonlight, followed by frantic whispers and racing hearts. The moment their lips parted, both knew what they had done. It was the beginning of something beautiful—and something doomed.

Their love blossomed in secret. Stolen glances in the royal library. Midnight rendezvous beyond the palace walls. Notes hidden in the pages of spellbooks. And though they knew the risks—knew the impossibility of a union between a princess and a knight—they dreamed.

Cecilia dreamed of a world where status meant nothing. Where she could walk beside Aldren not as a royal, but as his equal.

Aldren dreamed of a future where they could raise a family away from the politics and power games of the court.

But dreams do not last in castles built on ambition.

The first to notice was Lord Hargrave, a cousin to the Queen and one of the King's most trusted advisors. He'd always suspected Cecilia's aloofness had a source. He followed. He spied. And when he saw them together—lips locked, hands entwined—he brought his findings to the King.

Fury could not describe Alistair's reaction. Betrayal. Shame. A scandal such as this would ruin years of political arrangements. Cecilia was promised to the son of the Duke of Alenvire—a marriage meant to secure trade routes and military alliances. A knight? A common-born soldier? It was an affront to the throne itself.

Aldren was arrested.

Cecilia was confined to her chambers under guard.

They were never allowed to speak again.

In the dead of night, Cecilia screamed at her father. Pleaded. Begged. She declared her love without shame, demanded Aldren be spared. But her tears fell on stone.

A trial was held in secret. No jury. No defense. Only a sentence.

Treason.

For corrupting the crown princess, Aldren Vael was to be executed.

The morning of his death, Cecilia watched from a high tower. Her body pressed against the cold glass window. Her voice was hoarse from screaming his name. Her fists bled from striking the stone walls. Her soul shattered as she saw him, bound in chains, dragged through the square like a criminal.

But Aldren did not struggle.

He did not cry.

He smiled.

He looked up—right at her tower—and smiled.

And in that smile, she knew he did not regret a single moment.

The blade fell.

And so did Cecilia.

Not in body—but in spirit. That day, the golden light within her dimmed. The obedient princess died. In her place remained a woman who would no longer bow, no longer smile for the court, no longer live a lie.

Days later, she discovered she was pregnant.

A spark of Aldren remained within her. A new life. A child.

When she told the King, he turned away. The Queen wept in secret. And the nobles? They laughed.

Whispers filled the palace like a plague. Some said she had been cursed. Others claimed the child was a bastard born of madness. The Duke of Alenvire annulled the engagement. The court shunned her.

She was locked away. Her magic sealed. Her name stricken from all royal decrees.

But she endured.

For months she endured.

And then, one night, as rain lashed the palace walls, Cecilia escaped. Cloaked in shadows, with nothing but a satchel of coin and a pendant once worn by Aldren, she vanished into the countryside. She traveled for weeks, through forests and villages, until she found a small town—nameless, quiet, and forgotten.

There, she gave birth.

To Arthur.

To the child born not from duty, but from love.

She held him for the first time in a straw-filled cottage as dawn broke beyond the hills. She named him after the hero of an old tale Aldren once told her. Arthur—the noble healer, the warrior who mended wounds rather than inflicting them.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered lullabies to him.

A new life.

A new beginning.

A legacy not of sorrow, but of defiance.

But the past never forgets.

And the shadows of Caledonia's court still linger beyond the hills...

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