Todos los capítulos de King Of Eldoria: Reborn To Be His: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The private solar of Princess Liora smelled of spilled wine and burning herbs. Heavy curtains blocked the afternoon light. Duke Darian Blackthorn paced the length of the room like a caged wolf, boots striking the polished floor hard enough to make the candlesticks rattle. Liora stood near the cold hearth with her head bowed, hands twisted together in front of her skirts.“Liora, are you crazy?” Darian’s voice cracked like a whip. “Who the hell gave you permission to send assassins after the king?”Her head snapped up. Color flooded her cheeks, but her eyes stayed defiant. “He won’t find out it’s me, baby. I already cleaned up all the evidence. The men who carried the draught to the night watch are dead. The one who survived the bedchamber is dead. There is nothing tying it back to us.”Darian stopped pacing and stared at her. “You sent blades into the royal bedchamber while he was sleeping next to the Valthorne prince. Do you have any idea what happens if even one thread leads back he

Morning light crept across the bed in thin gold bars. Caelian woke to the deep, steady ache between his legs and the heavier warmth of an arm locked around his waist. For a long moment he did not move. Every shift of muscle reminded him of the night before, the bath, the way Ravyn had asked permission, the slow stretch and burn, the way he had come apart in the king’s arms. Heat flooded his face. He pressed it into the pillow, half wishing he could disappear. Ravyn’s arm tightened. The king was already awake. Caelian felt the change in his breathing, the slight shift of the mattress as Ravyn propped himself up on one elbow to look down at him. “Sore?” Ravyn’s voice was rough with sleep but quiet. Caelian managed a small nod without turning his head. A broad hand slid under the blanket and rested, warm and steady, on his lower stomach. Not demanding. Just there. “I should have been gentler,” Ravyn said after a moment. “You asked,” Caelian answered, voice barely above a whisper. “

The royal physician arrived within minutes of Ravyn carrying Caelian back to the king’s chambers. The old man, Master Helwin, had served the crown for three decades and had the calm, measured manner of someone who had seen every manner of illness and injury. He examined Caelian thoroughly while Ravyn stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to move more than a few paces away. Helwin checked the prince’s pulse, lifted his eyelids, pressed gentle fingers along his neck and temples, and listened to his breathing with a hollow wooden tube. He asked quiet questions of the guards who had found him, how long he had been unconscious, whether he had struck his head, whether he had eaten or drunk anything unusual. When the examination was finished, the physician stepped back and shook his head. “There is no fever, no injury, no sign of poison or seizure that I can detect, Your Majesty. His heart is steady. His color is returning. It may have been simple exhaustion, or a

The silence that followed King Edric’s proposal stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. Ravyn did not move. He sat at the head of the table with one hand resting loosely on the carved arm of his chair, dark eyes fixed on the King of Valthorne. The candle flames between them flickered. No one at the table spoke. Queen Morgana’s smile had frozen in place. Liora kept her gaze lowered, but the small, satisfied curve of her mouth was still visible. On Ravyn’s right, Caelian remained perfectly still, head bowed, the single tear track already drying on his cheek. Ravyn’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet and dangerously even. “Did Liora put you up to this?” King Edric chuckled, the sound rich and practiced. He leaned back slightly in his chair and spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “No, Your Majesty. This comes from me. But we all know the truth of the matter. The entire court of Eldoria has watched you for years. Your regard for my daughter was never a secret. The ma

In a low ceilinged cellar beneath an abandoned warehouse near the river docks, nine men stood in a loose circle. Black cloth masks covered the lower halves of their faces. The only light came from a single hanging lantern that swung gently with the draft, throwing long, distorted shadows across the damp stone walls. At the center of the circle stood their leader, taller than the rest, shoulders broad under a heavy cloak, eyes cold and steady above the mask. “I believe you all know what we are doing soon,” he said. His voice was low, roughened by years of issuing orders in places where loud speech got men killed. “No mistakes. The king must die.” A few of the men shifted their weight. One adjusted the grip on the short sword at his hip. Another nodded once, sharp and certain. “The Year Ball gives us the chaos we need,” the leader continued. “Too many guests. Too many servants who don’t belong to the castle. Security will be stretched thin no matter how many extra men he posts. We go