THE ANTI-HEALERS ODESSY

The golden corridors of Caledonia's palace—once filled with laughter and the rustling gowns of royalty—now echoed with the cold whispers of betrayal. The same corridors where Cecilia had once danced as a child, where she had first held Aldren's hand beneath moonlit columns, now served as the stage for the slow collapse of her world.

It began with silence. An oppressive, soul-choking quiet that followed her discovery of pregnancy. In the palace where songs once accompanied her footsteps, only judgment remained.

Her father, King Alistair IV, no longer spoke to her. Her mother, Queen Isolde, offered nothing but quiet sobs behind closed doors. The nobles, once eager to praise the crown princess, now passed her with veiled glances and haughty sneers. Her former ladies-in-waiting bowed their heads, avoided her eyes, and whispered when they thought she wasn't listening.

And in the center of it all, Cecilia stood with hands clenched and stomach swelling, her love executed, her name reduced to a cautionary tale.

Aldren was gone.

His blood had been spilled beneath the pristine marble of the royal execution square. They had paraded him like a criminal, branding him a traitor for daring to love her. For daring to dream. For daring to be hers.

The morning of his execution returned to her in vivid flashes.

The clinking of chains. The thick, humid silence of the crowd. The clamor of armored boots on stone. The ceremonial blade—polished to a mirror shine—raised high in judgment.

But most haunting of all—

His eyes.

Aldren had not begged.

He had not wept.

He had looked up to her tower window, bound in shackles, and smiled.

She had screamed his name until her voice broke, pounded the window until her knuckles bled, but it changed nothing. His death was swift. A clean slice. A merciless fall.

And her world shattered.

---

Cecilia was not imprisoned in a dungeon. No, her punishment was more insidious. She was locked in her own chambers—once the most luxurious in the palace, now her gilded cage. Her spellcasting was restricted by magical seals embedded in the walls. Her enchanted accessories had been confiscated. Her magical affinity—so powerful, once the envy of nobles—was now shackled by enchantments etched into the very air.

Days turned to weeks. Alone. With only her memories.

And Aldren's child growing inside her.

The court had moved on, of course. The Duke of Alenvire's son was hastily betrothed to her younger sister, Lilith. Political alliances could not wait. The scandal surrounding the crown princess was handled with eerie precision—erased from documents, wiped from speeches, and buried in whispers. Cecilia Caledonia, the first daughter of the king, was now a phantom.

And yet, despite the heartbreak, the humiliation, and the betrayal, Cecilia endured.

She endured for the flicker of life within her. For the part of Aldren that still lived.

And then came the final betrayal.

---

It happened one night.

A storm brewed beyond the palace walls. Rain hammered the stained-glass windows, and thunder roared like judgment itself. Cecilia had fallen into a restless sleep, her hand instinctively cradling her belly, when a faint click echoed through the room.

The door creaked open.

She sat up.

A shadow stepped inside—a robed figure, hunched and silent.

Lord Hargrave.

The man who had betrayed her. The one who had exposed her secret. The one who had sentenced Aldren to death without a trial.

"You," she hissed, the magical seal around her neck flaring as she tried to summon a spell and failed.

He did not flinch.

"You are with child," he said simply. "You know what must be done."

Her heart froze. "What are you saying?"

"You carry a bastard born of treason. The King may pretend to ignore your presence, but the court demands resolution."

He stepped forward, drawing a vial from his sleeve. Its contents shimmered darkly.

"Drink this, and spare yourself further shame."

Cecilia stared in horror.

"You want me to kill my child."

"Spare the kingdom another scandal. End it now, and perhaps you'll be allowed to live out your days in peace."

The vial trembled in his hand.

Cecilia rose, the seal around her flaring painfully as she shouted, "GET OUT!"

She hurled a chair toward him—not with magic, but with raw fury. It shattered at his feet. Hargrave did not flinch, but he did retreat.

"Think on it," he said coldly, stepping back into the hall. "There will be no second warning."

---

That night, Cecilia knew.

She could not stay.

If she remained in the palace, they would take her child. Poison it. Silence it. The blood of Aldren would not be allowed to take root.

So she made her plan.

The seals on her room were ancient—but not infallible. She had watched the royal enchanters repair them for weeks. She had memorized their hand movements, their incantations, their mistakes.

It took a week.

Each night, she used the faint traces of Spirit magic left to her to weaken the bindings. Each morning, she acted the perfect prisoner. Weak. Submissive. Broken.

Until the night of the winter solstice.

The palace held a grand celebration. All eyes were on the banquet halls. The guards were drunk. The court was distracted.

She moved.

Wearing nothing but servant's robes and a pendant—Aldren's pendant—hidden beneath her collar, she crept through the servant tunnels, her every step a prayer.

She passed the Hall of Ancients. The training yard. The statue of her grandfather.

Each stone was a memory.

Each step, a goodbye.

She reached the stables. Mounted a horse bred for silence and speed. And as the first fireworks of the solstice celebration lit the sky in colors of red and gold, Cecilia Caledonia vanished from the kingdom.

---

The journey was long.

Through mountain passes and dense forests, across frozen rivers and winding trails, she rode by night and hid by day. The pendant served as her compass. The memory of Aldren as her fire.

She gave birth in a cottage owned by a midwife who asked no questions. The pain was great. The labor long. But when she held Arthur in her arms for the first time, her sobs were not of grief—but joy.

He had her silver hair.

Aldren's eyes.

And the strongest mana aura the midwife had ever sensed.

He was not just a child.

He was their legacy.

And she would protect him with her life.

From royalty, she had fallen.

But in that fall, she had found her purpose.

She was no longer a princess.

She was a mother.

And she would ensure the world remembered the name Arthur—not as a bastard prince, but as a force destined to change fate itself.

---