The Royal Scapegoat

Curses and Prophesies

The courtyard fell into a jagged, stunned silence. The court had expected a tragedy, but the woman who stepped from the carriage possessed a beauty that made the rumors of her cruelty seem like impossible myths.

"Daley..." Roy hissed. His eyes burned with a cold, undisguised fury that seemed to lower the temperature of the air around them.

"Welcome, my Princess," Roy’s mother announced, her voice bridging the tension as she moved to greet the bride. Roy’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. His knuckles were white, his hands balled into fists as if he were fighting the urge to tear the stone walls down with his bare hands.

Musicians began a beautiful , rhythmic melody. Dancers whirled in vibrant circles, their forced joy clashing with the hateful atmosphere.

"Two noble hearts, by fate entwined, in sacred bond, their souls aligned," the singers chanted, the irony of the lyrics hanging heavy in the air. "See how the groom’s gaze never strays, lost in his bride’s enchanting ways. Deeply lost in love."

The Queen glanced at Roy, noting that his gaze was indeed fixed on Daley—but with the unmistakable loathing of a hunter looking at a snare.

"Escort your wife inside," the Queen commanded, her voice like steel. "The feast is prepared."

"Mother, I will not—"

"Enough, Roy!" she cut him off, her words slicing through his defiance. "I have humored your temper long enough. She is your wife by law. Take her hand."

Roy recoiled as if the suggestion were a physical blow.

"The entire court is watching your tantrum," the Queen whispered, her voice a sharp hiss. "Will you heap more disgrace upon this house?"

"Since when have I cared for the whispers of others?" he snarled.

"Take her hand, Roy. Now."

After a silence that felt like a lifetime, he seized Daley’s hand. His grip was a vice—cold, resentful, and bruising. Together, they marched into the palace hall to the sound of hollow cheers and swelling strings.

"Where is Rachel?" Roy muttered through a fixed, terrifying smile, refusing to look at her.

"I’ll explain everything when we are alone," Daley whispered, her voice trembling.

"If you think for a second that I will ever accept you, you are delusional," he growled.

"You won't have to," she replied softly. "Not for long. We just need to finish the ceremony properly."

"Properly?" Roy’s laugh was a jagged blade. "There is nothing proper about a union with a monster like you."

"Just give me time," she pleaded. "Please."

Servants approached with golden goblets of wine.

At the far end of the hall, the King and Queen stood, their faces grim with expectation.

Roy stood doing nothing. There was cricket silence.

"Roy," the King called out, his voice echoing off the ceiling. "The rite must be observed."

"I have no interest in your ancient rites," Roy called back icily.

"You will observe it," the King countered. "Offer your wife the cup. Let her return the gesture. Seal the union before the eyes of the realm."

Roy’s jaw set. With agonizing slowness, he stepped toward Daley, raising the goblet to her lips. Just as she parted them to drink, he tilted the cup with a violent, jerky motion, drenching the front of her exquisite silk gown in dark red wine.

The hall went deathly silent.

"There," Roy said, his voice a glacial whisper of contempt. "That is all the 'union' you deserve."

"Roy!" the King thundered, the floorboards vibrating with his rage.

Whispers erupted like a swarm of hornets. The Queen clutched at her chest, her face pale. "This is a terrible omen," she rasped. "To spill the wine is to invite doom. What sin have we committed to deserve a son so reckless?"

The King turned his eyes to Daley. "The husband has failed his duty. The wife must lead."

"But tradition says—" Daley started, her voice barely a breath.

"Tradition is for times of peace," the King barked.

"These are desperate hours. Guide your household, Daley. Offer the cup."

Daley nodded, pulling what was left of her dignity around her like a cloak. She lifted the second goblet and approached Roy. He looked less like a man and more like a cornered beast, terrifying in his silent rage. She took one trembling step, then another, until she was within reach.

He didn't wait for her to speak. With a backhanded strike, he sent the cup flying from her hands. It shattered against the marble, the wine spreading across the floor like a pool of blood.

"This marriage is a curse!" Roy roared. "I reject it! I reject her!"

He turned to storm out, but the Queen’s voice stopped him in his tracks. "Take one more step, Roy, and you sign the death warrant of both our kingdoms."

Roy froze.

"If this union remains unfinished," she continued with a deadly, quiet calm, "the borders will close forever. Our alliances will turn to dust. You will be remembered not as a King, but as the cause of our destructive ."

Roy turned back slowly, his face a mask of horror. "You would sacrifice my life for this lie?"

"For survival," she replied. "And for the prophecy."

Daley felt the blood drain from her face. "What are you saying?"

"The rites do not end with wine," the Queen declared. "This marriage must be consummated tonight. We require an heir—a physical proof that the bloodlines have merged. We need certainty."

Daley’s breath caught in her throat. "I beg your pardon?"

"The curse will not sleep without it," the Queen stated coldly. "We need a bloodline. We need proof of the bond."

Roy looked between them, his voice cracking with disbelief. "Mother, this is madness."

"This is your crown," she countered. "And if you refuse, you will face the consequences—Prince or not."