Chapter 66: Chapter 66

KAMORA

Lord Maroke walked down the halls leading to the throne room of the king and queen of Amalith. His footsteps echoed against the tiled floors, slow yet deliberate, carrying the weight of his purpose.

He felt the stares of those he passed—curious, speculative, questioning. Their silence only added to his satisfaction.

Because now, he could sense emotions.

It had been several weeks since his wife had been attacked by the man sent by the princess to kill her. The memory of that night still lingered, raw and painful.

Regret and fear gnawed at him, especially when he thought of what might have happened had fate not tipped the scales in their favor. The thought of losing her—of losing Kamora after she had finally remembered him—sent waves of dread coursing through him.

And then there was the return of his emotions, an experience as jarring as it was overwhelming. For over a decade, he had lived devoid of them, and now their sudden resurgence made even the faintest pinch feel like his arm had been torn off.

Every sensation was heightened, raw and unfiltered, and at times, he feared himself.

There were moments—too many—when his eagerness had nearly caused harm to Kamora. Kamora, who was still recovering from the attack.

Something had changed in her, but she refused to admit it. She had grown weaker, her strength faltering more with each passing day.

Whenever he voiced his concern, she brushed it aside, insisting she only needed rest. Lord Maroke, however, knew better.

Her outward appearance bore no wounds, yet the killer had left his mark. It wasn’t until Jarosh confided in him that he understood—Kamora’s weakness was her own doing; she had somehow found a way to subdue the killer and had used his powers to heal him.

The knowledge brought Lord Maroke no peace. Instead, it deepened his guilt.

With no outlet for his anger, he turned his focus to the one responsible for their suffering. The princess.

Her childish obsession had nearly destroyed his family. Kamora had faced death three times because of her.

It was time to put an end to it, even if it meant standing before the king and queen themselves. He would demand justice, no matter the cost.

Finally, he reached the throne room. The grand chamber was already filled with members of the royal court.

At its center sat the king and queen, their thrones imposing yet elegant. Maroke strode forward and offered a deep bow, his every movement measured and controlled.

“Lord Maroke,” the king said, his tone curt. “It is unusual to see you here. You seldom grace us with your presence unless forced.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Maroke replied, straightening. “Politics has never been my interest. However, today’s matter concerns the safety of my family—a matter that demands resolution. My wife still suffers from the effects of the attack, and I am here to make sure that the one responsible is punished.”

His words were sharp, laced with double meaning. He sought a public punishment, one that would bind the king and queen to their word.

They could not save the princess without risking their reputation.

The king’s jaw tightened, his eyes hard. The queen placed a gentle hand on his, calming him just enough.

“You claim your wife was attacked again?” she asked. “How can that be? The princess has been confined to her quarters since the ball.”

“As always, Your Majesty, the princess did not act alone,” Maroke said. “She has others who do her bidding. This time, the attacker confessed that he was hired by her to kill my wife. I have no reason to lie. The question is, what does the princess hope to gain by destroying my family?”

The queen snapped her fingers, and two guards stepped forward. “Bring the princess,” she commanded.

When the princess was brought in, Maroke’s sharp gaze caught every detail. She appeared unscathed, yet every inch of her skin was covered.

The guards kept their distance, standing at arm’s length. He smirked inwardly.

Kamora’s curse had worked.

“Princess,” the queen began, her tone cold. “Did you attack Lord Maroke again?”

“How could I?” the princess replied, feigning shock. She knelt before her parents, her voice trembling with practiced innocence.

“Lord Maroke claims you sent a killer to his home,” the queen said.

“I dare not,” the princess whispered, lowering her head.

The queen turned to Maroke. “Lord Maroke?”

He inclined his head respectfully. “Your Majesties, with all due respect, even you must see through her lies. My family has endured three attacks, all nearly fatal. My son was poisoned, my head maid was enslaved through manipulation, and many of my household’s memories have been altered.

“I have remained loyal to the crown, living quietly and fulfilling my duties. Yet I find myself asking—I have never had any problems with the princess. What have I done to deserve this torment? Is it just, Your Majesties?”

The court murmured in agreement, their voices rising in discontent.

“Torture?” the princess suddenly interjected, her voice sharp. “Why would you say that?”

“Princess, be silent,” the queen commanded, her tone clipped.

Maroke ignored her interruption. “What does the princess hope to gain? If I had lost my family to her schemes, I would rather have died than continue to live.”

At this, the princess shot to her feet, her composure shattering. “You would rather die than live with me? How can you say that?”

“Princess!” the queen snapped. “Remain silent—”

“I have always loved you!” she screamed. “You knew that, yet you married that whore!”

Maroke’s face darkened. “Speak kindly of my wife. She deserves respect. And even if I hadn’t married her, I would never have married you.”

“How dare you? I am a princess!”

“And I am but a simple noble, yet you attacked my family over a delusion.”

The princess huffed, her eyes blazing. “I should have killed your son,” she hissed. “Then you’d know true pain.”

Gasps rippled through the court.

The king’s face hardened further, his rage barely contained.

A bold official suddenly spoke. “Your Majesties, the princess has confessed to the crime. If word gets out on the streets, there will be a riot.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from the officials, and Lord Maroke silently waited.

“Enough,” the king commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Here is my decree.”

Silence enveloped the hall.

“The princess shall be stripped of her title,” he began, “and sent to the temple of the Goddess, where she will live out her days in repentance.” His tone was final.

“What?” the princess shrieked. “You can’t do this to me! I am your daughter!”

“Guards,” the king said, his voice heavy with resignation. “Take her away.”

As the guards grabbed her arms, the princess screamed, her cries echoing through the chamber. “It hurts! Let go of me! Don’t touch me!”

“My king,” the queen spoke, but the king suddenly stood, his eyes burning with unspoken anger.

“Are you satisfied now, Lord Maroke?”

Maroke bowed low. “His Majesty is fair and just.”