THE KING'S VIRGIN MAID:(true beauty)1

. . . There were three things every child in the kingdom of Eldoria learned before they could read. Never wander into the Black Forest after sunset. Never speak the name of the dead king after midnight. And never, under any circumstances, anger King Lucien Valerius. The first warning was meant to keep children alive. The second was meant to keep them from disturbing old spirits and older stories. But the third— The third was the one everyone obeyed. King Lucien Valerius was thirty years old, and in those thirty years, he had become the kind of man whose name could silence an entire room. He was known as the Black King. Not because he wore black. Although he did. Not because his castle was built from dark stone. Although it was. And not because the royal banners that flew above his towers were black silk embroidered with silver wolves. They were. He was called the Black King because of what he had become. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Dangerously intelligent. A ruler who did not hesitate when others did. A man who had conquered rebellious provinces before his twenty-fifth birthday and crushed invading armies before turning thirty. There were stories about him everywhere. Some said he had once killed seven assassins with a single sword. Others claimed he could hear a lie in a person's heartbeat. Children whispered that he had no heart at all. The older people said that was nonsense. They knew better. A man without a heart could not become so frighteningly good at protecting the things he loved. But nobody knew what those things were. Nobody except the king himself. And perhaps that was why the people feared him. Because a man who loved nothing could not be controlled. But a man who loved something... could be destroyed. --- The royal palace of Eldoria stood on a mountain overlooking the capital. It was called Valerius Keep. The fortress had been built almost four hundred years earlier, long before Lucien's birth, by kings who believed that beauty was secondary to survival. Its towers rose into the clouds. Its walls were made of dark gray stone streaked with silver mineral veins that glowed faintly beneath moonlight. Massive iron gates guarded the entrance. Above them hung the royal crest: A silver wolf beneath a crescent moon. The wolf represented strength. The moon represented destiny. Together, they represented the Valerius bloodline. On most mornings, the palace was alive with movement. Soldiers marched through the courtyard. Servants carried baskets of bread and fruit. Stable boys groomed the royal horses. Messengers rushed between the council chambers and the throne room. Nobles arrived in elaborate carriages. But on the morning Elena first truly noticed the king, the palace felt strangely quiet. It was early. The sun had barely risen over the mountains. A pale golden light touched the highest towers while mist curled around the lower walls. In the kitchens, however, there was no such peace. The royal kitchen was a world of fire, steam, shouting, and hurried footsteps. Pots clattered. Knives struck wooden boards. Bread baked in enormous stone ovens. Cooks shouted orders across the room. And in the middle of it all stood a young woman carrying a silver tray. Her name was Elena. She was twenty-one years old. She was not noble. She had no famous family name. She owned no land. She had never attended a royal ball. She had never worn silk. And she certainly had never imagined that one day she would become the center of a prophecy that had been waiting for her before she was even born. At that moment, however, Elena knew none of that. She only knew that her feet hurt. Her back hurt. And the tray in her hands was far too heavy. "Careful!" A cook shouted. Elena immediately stepped aside as another servant rushed past her carrying a steaming pot. "I'm sorry." "You'll be more sorry if you drop that." Elena glanced down at the tray. A porcelain plate sat in the center. Beside it were roasted vegetables, glazed meat, fresh bread, berries, and a silver goblet filled with dark red wine. It was breakfast fit for a king. Literally. Elena swallowed. "Who ordered this?" The older cook looked at her as though she had asked a foolish question. "The king." Her stomach tightened. "The king?" "Who else?" Elena stared at the tray. She had served nobles before. She had served council members. She had even served visiting princes. But she had never personally delivered food to King Lucien. "Why me?" The cook shrugged. "Because you're closest to the royal wing." Elena looked toward the kitchen entrance. That was certainly not true. There were six other servants closer. She knew exactly why she had been chosen. Nobody else wanted to do it. The king had dismissed three servants that month alone. One for speaking too loudly. Another for spilling wine. The third had supposedly lied to him. Nobody knew what happened to the third servant. Rumors said he had been sent to the northern mines. Elena tightened her grip on the tray. "Do I have to go now?" The cook nodded. "Immediately." Elena took a breath. "All right." She walked toward the door. Then stopped. "Wait." The cook looked up. "Yes?" "What if he asks me something?" The kitchen went silent. Then someone laughed. Another servant whispered, "Just don't answer." Elena frowned. "That makes no sense." "With the king, it does." The cook stepped closer. "Do your job. Keep your eyes down. Speak only when spoken to. And whatever happens..." She lowered her voice. "Do not touch him." Elena nodded. "Understood." She left the kitchen. --- The palace corridors were enormous. Elena had worked there for almost two years, yet there were still sections she had never seen. The royal wing was different from the servant quarters. Everything there seemed colder. More beautiful. More dangerous. The walls were covered with portraits of dead kings and queens. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Large windows overlooked the kingdom. Guards stood at every entrance. As Elena walked through the corridor, she could feel their eyes following her. She tried not to shake. She passed a portrait of King Lucien. She stopped. She had seen the painting before. But never this closely. The artist had captured him standing beside the throne, dressed entirely in black. His hair was dark, almost black, and fell slightly across his forehead. His face was sharp and striking. Strong jaw. Straight nose. High cheekbones. A mouth that rarely smiled. But it was his eyes that drew attention. Gray. Not soft gray. Storm-gray. The kind of eyes that looked silver beneath certain light. In the portrait, his expression was cold. Untouchable. Powerful. But Elena had always thought there was something else hidden beneath that expression. Something lonely. She quickly looked away. "You shouldn't stare at the king." Elena jumped. A guard stood behind her. "I'm sorry." "Keep moving." She obeyed. But she couldn't stop thinking about the portrait. She wondered what it would feel like to stand in front of the real king. She wondered if he really was as cruel as everyone said. She wondered if he ever laughed. Then she immediately scolded herself. Why would she care? He was the king. She was a maid. Their worlds were separated by more than walls and titles. They might as well have been separated by oceans. Elena continued walking. She reached the dining hall. Two guards stood outside. One looked at the tray. "The king is inside." Elena nodded. The guard opened the door. "Go." She stepped inside. The door closed behind her. --- The dining hall was enormous. A long table stretched almost the entire length of the room. Yet only one person sat there. King Lucien. He was not eating. He was reading. Several documents lay scattered around him. A silver goblet stood untouched beside his hand. Morning light entered through tall windows and fell across the dark wooden table. Lucien sat at the head. Even seated, he looked imposing. He was tall—well over six feet—and his broad shoulders filled the black coat he wore. The coat was simple by royal standards. No excessive embroidery. No jewels. Only a silver wolf pinned near his collar. His hands rested over a document. Long fingers. A faint scar crossed his right knuckle. Another disappeared beneath his sleeve. There were probably more. Elena knew soldiers often carried scars like medals. But Lucien's scars looked different. They looked like memories. He didn't notice her immediately. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to acknowledge her. Elena stood several steps away. Her hands began to tremble. She remembered the cook's warning. Keep your eyes down. Speak only when spoken to. Do not touch him. She lowered her gaze. "Your Majesty." Lucien continued reading. "Leave it." Elena hesitated. He sounded irritated. She stepped forward. "Where would you like me to place it?" Silence. Lucien finally looked up. Their eyes met. And Elena forgot every instruction she had ever been given. For one strange second, the room seemed to disappear. Lucien stared at her. Elena stared back. Neither moved. His expression changed. Only slightly. But it changed. Something in his eyes sharpened. He studied her face as though trying to remember where he had seen her before. Elena's cheeks warmed. She looked away. "I'm sorry." Lucien said nothing. She placed the tray on the table. Her fingers brushed the edge of the silver plate. Then she stepped back. "Is there anything else, Your Majesty?" "Your name." Elena froze. "My name?" Lucien leaned back slightly. "Yes." "Elena." "Elena what?" "Elena Maren." He repeated it quietly. "Elena Maren." The sound of her name in his voice made her strangely uncomfortable. Not because he sounded threatening. Because he didn't. His voice was deep and controlled, but there was something almost gentle beneath it. "How long have you worked here?" "Almost two years." "Have I seen you before?" Elena swallowed. "Perhaps." Lucien's eyebrow lifted. "Perhaps?" "I serve in the kitchens." "I know." She looked up. "You know?" "I know every person who works inside this palace." Elena didn't know whether that was reassuring or frightening. Lucien looked at her carefully. "You are afraid of me." She immediately shook her head. "No." One eyebrow rose. Elena realized her mistake. "I'm sorry." "You just lied." "I didn't mean to." "You said you weren't afraid." "I am." Lucien leaned back. "Then why did you lie?" Elena hesitated. "Because I thought you wouldn't like the truth." Something unexpected happened. The corner of Lucien's mouth moved. It wasn't quite a smile. But it was close. Elena stared. He noticed. "Is there something on my face?" "No." "Then stop staring." She immediately looked down. "I'm sorry." Lucien returned his attention to his papers. Elena waited. When he didn't speak again, she turned toward the door. "Wait." She stopped. "Yes, Your Majesty?" "Come here." Her heart skipped. She turned around. Slowly, she walked toward him. Lucien watched every step. When she stood before the table, he looked at her face again. "You aren't from the capital." "No." "Where are you from?" "A village near the eastern border." "What brought you here?" "My family." "Where are they?" Elena's fingers tightened. "My father died when I was young." Lucien said nothing. "My mother died afterward." Something in his expression softened. "And your siblings?" "I have a younger brother." "His name?" "Thomas." "How old?" "Fourteen." Lucien nodded. "Who cares for him?" "I do." "You support him with your wages?" "Yes." Lucien looked at her hands. They were rough from years of work. There were tiny cuts across her fingers. Burn marks near her wrist. A faint scar on her palm. He looked back at her face. "You work too hard." Elena blinked. "I beg your pardon?" "Nothing." She stood awkwardly. "May I go?" Lucien nodded. She turned. "Elena." She stopped again. "Yes?" "Look at me." Slowly, she turned. Their eyes met. This time, neither looked away. Lucien felt something strange. It wasn't desire. Not yet. It was recognition. As if some forgotten part of his mind had suddenly awakened. Elena felt it too. A strange warmth moved through her chest. Then pain. Sharp. Brief. She touched her wrist. Lucien noticed. "Are you hurt?" "No." "What happened?" "Nothing." She lowered her hand. Lucien watched her. Then his eyes fell upon the crescent-shaped mark on her wrist. His expression changed. For the first time that morning, the king looked genuinely unsettled. "Where did you get that?" Elena looked at her wrist. "The mark?" "Yes." "I was born with it." Lucien stood. The movement was so sudden that Elena stepped backward. He walked around the table. She instinctively retreated. Lucien stopped. He seemed to realize he had frightened her. "I'm not going to hurt you." Elena nodded. He looked at the mark again. "Who told you what it means?" "Nobody." "Your parents?" "My father called it a birthmark." Lucien's expression darkened. "Your father was wrong." Elena stared. "What does it mean?" Before Lucien could answer, the doors opened. A guard entered hurriedly. "Your Majesty." Lucien turned. "What?" "The council is waiting." Lucien's jaw tightened. "I'll come." The guard bowed. Lucien looked back at Elena. "Leave." She nodded. But as she walked toward the door, she heard him say: "Elena." She turned. Lucien's eyes remained fixed on her. "Come back tomorrow." Her heart skipped. "For breakfast?" "Yes." She nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty." She left. The doors closed behind her. Lucien remained standing. His gaze stayed on the place where she had disappeared. The king's adviser, Lord Adrian, entered moments later. He stopped when he saw Lucien's expression. "What happened?" Lucien didn't answer. Adrian glanced toward the door. "Who was that?" "The kitchen maid." Adrian frowned. "Why was she here?" Lucien looked down at his hand. The silver wolf ring on his finger suddenly felt unusually cold. "I don't know." --- Elena hurried down the corridor. Her heart was beating far too quickly. She didn't understand what had happened. The king had spoken to her. Not like a servant. Like a person. She reached the servants' staircase and finally allowed herself to breathe. She leaned against the wall. "What is wrong with me?" She covered her face. Her cheeks were burning. Then she remembered his eyes. His voice. The way he had said her name. She shook her head. "No." She couldn't think about him. He was the king. She was a maid. Nothing could ever happen between them. Nothing. She hurried back toward the kitchens. But halfway there, she stopped. Her wrist hurt. She pulled back her sleeve. The crescent-shaped birthmark was glowing. Elena stared at it. She had never seen it do that before. The light grew brighter. Then suddenly disappeared. She looked around. Nobody had noticed. Or so she thought. From the far end of the corridor, an old woman was watching her. Martha. One of the palace's oldest servants. The moment their eyes met, Martha's face went pale. She hurried toward Elena. "Where did you get that?" Elena covered her wrist. "It's just a birthmark." Martha grabbed her hand. "Who told you that?" "My father." Martha's grip tightened. "Your father lied." Elena stared at her. "What?" The old woman's eyes filled with fear. "Child..." She looked toward the royal wing. Then back at Elena. "Whatever happens, do not let the king see that mark again." Elena frowned. "Why?" Martha's lips trembled. "Because if he discovers who you are..." She stopped. "Who am I?" Martha didn't answer. She simply released Elena's hand. Then she whispered: "Pray that the prophecy is wrong." Elena watched her walk away. "What prophecy?" Martha didn't turn around. And far above them, inside the royal dining hall, King Lucien stood before an old portrait. His mother's portrait. Queen Evelyne Valerius. The dead queen had silver-blonde hair. Pale skin. Gray eyes. And the same crescent-shaped mark on her wrist. Lucien stared at the portrait. Then he whispered: "Who are you, Elena Maren?" For the first time in years, the Black King felt something he could not conquer with a sword. Fear. And somewhere deep beneath the palace... something ancient awakened. A woman's voice whispered through the darkness. "She has returned." to be continued...