Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 127: The Silence That Cannot Be Carried

While Lyria cleaned her room, a meeting was going on.

The Crescent Council Hall had never been a place for raised voices.

Not because decorum demanded restraint—though it did—but because the chamber itself permitted no excess. No echo lingered. No word travelled beyond its walls. Sound entered, existed briefly... and died.

It had been built that way.

Or rather, sealed that way.

A quieting work, old as the throne itself, lay woven into the very stone. Even the keenest werewolf senses found nothing to grasp beyond those doors. No heartbeat could be traced through the walls, no whisper stolen, no breath followed.

Within this chamber, truth could be spoken without fear of being hunted.

And that alone made it dangerous.

The long table of polished blackwood stretched through the centre of the room, its surface reflecting the steady glow of the chandeliers above. High-backed chairs lined either side, each occupied by those whose voices shaped the kingdom in ways most would never see.

At the head of the table sat the King and the Queen.

Side by side.

As they always did when matters required unity—whether such unity truly existed or not.

The King sat with measured stillness, one hand resting against the arm of his chair, the other folded loosely before him. His expression revealed little, his gaze moving slowly across those gathered, weighing, considering, withholding.

Beside him, the Queen was the very image of composed authority.

Her posture was flawless, her hands resting lightly upon the table, her chin slightly lifted. There was no tension in her features, no visible strain. Only calm.

But there was a sharpness in her eyes.

To the King’s right sat the Chancellor.

Lord Cedric Halverton.

His presence was defined not by grandeur, but by precision. His attire was immaculate, his posture straight, his expression carefully neutral. Before him lay a series of documents, arranged with deliberate care.

To the Queen’s left sat the High Priestess.

Lady Seraphine Vael.

She seemed almost untouched by the room itself. Draped in pale robes threaded with silver, she sat with her hands resting lightly in her lap, her gaze distant, as though her attention lingered somewhere beyond what others could perceive.

Further along the table sat the Grand Arbiter.

Lord Alaric Veyne.

Lean, sharp-featured, and observant in a way that bordered on unsettling. His hands were clasped loosely before him, though nothing about him suggested ease. His gaze moved rarely, but when it did, it lingered.

Opposite him sat the Voice of the Nobility.

Lord Percival Durnham.

He was not a man easily overlooked.

His frame was large, his stomach pressing firmly against the front of his richly tailored coat, the fabric straining faintly at the seams. Rings adorned each of his fingers—ten in total, each set with a different jewel that caught the light with every movement of his hands.

His moustache, thick and curled, shifted with his expressions, giving him an almost theatrical appearance that did little to soften the weight of his position.

At the far end of the table sat the Keeper of the Veil.

Lady Mirelle Voss.

She wore dark garments that seemed to blend into the dimness of the room, her posture perfectly composed, her presence almost... forgettable.

Which, perhaps, was precisely the point.

Before her lay parchments arranged carefully.

And of all those present, she was the one who held the voice of the kingdom beyond these walls.

Near the great doors, though not seated, stood the Royal Chamberlain.

A witness to entry and exit, but not to deliberation—at least not officially.

The chamber settled.

Then, at last, the Queen spoke.

”It is inevitable.”

Her voice carried clearly—though even here, it did not echo. It simply existed, then faded into the stillness.

All attention turned to her.

”That the girl will join the competition,” she continued, her tone composed. ”Given the circumstances of last evening, it would be... impractical to suggest otherwise.”

The Queen’s gaze moved across the table, assessing.

”And as Duke Valenridge so... thoughtfully suggested,” she added, ”it may be prudent to consider whether the competition ought to begin anew.”

A pause followed.

”Your Majesty,” Lord Halverton began, inclining his head slightly, ”with the utmost respect... I must object.”

The Queen’s gaze shifted to him.

”On what grounds?” she asked.

He did not hesitate.

”Princess Lyria’s status,” he replied. ”She is, by all formal recognition, illegitimate.”

The word settled into the room with quiet finality.

”The structure of this competition,” he continued, ”was never intended to accommodate such a... deviation. To alter its course now would set a precedent difficult to contain.”

The Queen said nothing.

Before she could respond, another voice joined.

”Yes, quite so.”

Lord Durnham leaned forward slightly, his rings clicking softly against the polished wood.

”I must agree,” he said, his moustache lifting with the movement of his lips. ”Her presence alone is... an eyesore to the proceedings.”

He sniffed faintly.

”This is a matter of nobility. Of lineage. Of refinement. The competition is not a stage for... irregularities.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the King.

”Many houses would find such inclusion... distasteful.”

The Grand Arbiter spoke next.

”Lord Durnham,” Alaric Veyne said, his voice even, unhurried, ”may I inquire—”

The nobleman turned his head, irritation already forming.

”—whether Princess Lyria is not the King’s daughter?”

The room stilled.

Durnham’s eyes narrowed.

”I beg your pardon?”

Alaric did not look away.

”What precisely do you mean by that?” Durnham pressed.

Alaric’s tone did not change.

”It was stated before the court,” he said. ”Before witnesses. Before the entirety of the assembled nobility.”

He paused, just slightly.

”That she is of royal blood.”

Durnham’s expression tightened.

”Stated,” he repeated. ”Not confirmed.”

At that, the Queen spoke.

”Nothing was confirmed,” she said smoothly.

Her voice was calm.

But Alaric did not yield.

”That may be so, Your Majesty,” he replied, inclining his head with due respect, ”but actions, I find, often carry greater weight than words.”

He paused, his gaze lifting to meet hers directly.

”You embraced her,” he continued. ”In full view of the court. And there was no denial that she was the King’s daughter.”

There was silence in the hall.

The Queen leaned forward slightly and smiled, though it held no warmth.

”Lord Veyne,” she said, her voice soft. ”You speak with remarkable confidence.”

”I speak only to what was observed,” he replied.

Her gaze sharpened.

”Do you?” she asked him calmly. ”Or have you simply forgotten yourself?”