THE FORGOTTEN HEIR

THE CELEBRATION OF THE RETURN

The days following Kayan’s arrival in the palace blurred into weeks. He worked tirelessly, scrubbing the marble floors until they gleamed, carrying buckets of water that soaked his clothes, polishing the golden banisters until his reflection stared back at him. But though his body tired, his spirit only grew stronger. The palace walls no longer intimidated him; instead, they seemed to whisper to him, as though welcoming back a child long lost.

Yet above those glittering halls, King Aldren could not rest. He had seen the boy twice now first at the Festival of Unity, then among the palace cleaners. Each time, the mark had been unmistakable. For nineteen years, his heart had carried the ache of loss, refusing to believe the whispers that his son was gone forever. And now, destiny itself had brought the boy back to him.

Still, doubt gnawed at him. What if it was mere coincidence? What if grief had clouded his eyes? He needed proof undeniable, unquestionable proof before he declared to the kingdom that their heir had returned.

So he devised a plan.

The Feast of Renewal

Every spring, the palace hosted the Feast of Renewal, a tradition that marked the rebirth of the land after winter. Nobles from every province flocked to the capital, dressed in silks and adorned with jewels. Music filled the halls, and the tables overflowed with roasted meats, spiced wine, and fruits piled high like mountains.

This year, King Aldren declared, the feast would be greater than ever. Trumpets blared across the kingdom, announcing the celebration. But only a handful of his closest advisors knew the truth the feast was a stage, and Kayan was its unsuspecting player.

Whispers in the Dark

In her chambers, Queen Mirantha listened to the proclamations with clenched teeth. She knew the King well enough to sense when something was amiss. His sudden vigor, his secretive smiles, the way his eyes strayed too often toward the servants’ quarters it all pointed to one thing.

“That boy,” she hissed to her maid, pacing like a caged viper. “The one with the mark. The one who unsettles me.”

The maid lowered her gaze. “My Queen, you believe he is… the lost prince?”

Mirantha’s eyes flashed with rage. “He cannot be. I rid this palace of him with my own hands! And yet…” She clenched her fists. “If Aldren dares to bring him forward, if the boy dares to claim what is mine, then he will not live to see another dawn.”

But outwardly, she painted her face with smiles. No one must suspect the storm within her.

Preparations

Kayan knew nothing of the King’s secret plans. For him, the feast meant endless labor. He and the other cleaners were ordered to polish the great hall until it shone like glass, to arrange tapestries woven with golden thread, to scatter flower petals along the pathways. He worked beside Liora, who laughed as she dusted the chandeliers.

“You would think we were preparing for the gods themselves,” she teased.

“Perhaps we are,” Kayan replied, smiling faintly. But his heart beat with a strange rhythm. For reasons he could not name, he felt as though this feast was meant not for the kingdom—but for him.

The Feast Begins

The night of the feast arrived. The palace blazed with torches, its towers glowing against the star-studded sky. Nobles poured into the great hall, their laughter ringing like bells, their jewels flashing under chandeliers of crystal. Musicians played harps and flutes, while dancers spun across the polished floor.

Kayan stood at the edges, a humble cleaner with a tray of goblets. He moved quietly among the guests, serving wine, bowing respectfully. Yet his eyes wandered often to the dais where the King and Queen sat in splendor.

King Aldren’s gaze, though he tried to mask it, followed Kayan’s every step.

The Queen, too, watched, her smile frozen, her mind whirling with venomous thoughts.

The King’s Test

At the height of the feast, when the hall was brimming with music and laughter, King Aldren rose to his feet. The room fell silent at once, for his voice carried weight heavier than gold.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his eyes scanning the hall, “tonight we celebrate not only the renewal of our land, but the endurance of our people. Yet… what is a kingdom, without its heirs? Without those who carry its future?”

The nobles murmured in agreement.

“And so,” the King continued, his voice steady though his heart thundered, “I wish to honor one among us. A humble servant, who has shown diligence, courage, and grace in these very halls. Step forward, boy.”

Kayan froze, nearly dropping the goblet in his hand. Every eye turned to him. Confused, trembling slightly, he set the tray aside and stepped forward, his footsteps echoing through the vast hall.

When he stood before the dais, the King studied him in silence. Then, with a voice that held both authority and trembling hope, he said, “Remove your tunic.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Kayan’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty…?”

“Do as I command,” the King said, his voice firm but gentle.

Hands shaking, Kayan pulled his tunic over his head. And there, under the blazing chandeliers, the mark was revealed the crescent sun of Aramore, glowing as though the gods themselves had branded it upon his skin.

The hall erupted. Nobles cried out, some in shock, some in awe. “The mark! The royal seal!” “It cannot be!” “The prince lives!”

The King’s face crumpled with emotion. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he stepped down from the dais. Slowly, reverently, he placed his hands on Kayan’s shoulders.

“My son,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “My lost son… you have returned.”

The Hall in Uproar

The great hall exploded into chaos. Some nobles cheered, weeping with joy at the miracle. Others whispered darkly, suspicious of the timing, fearing deception. Servants dropped their trays, kneeling in shock.

Queen Selene, heavy with sorrow for nineteen years, stood trembling. Her eyes devoured the sight of him, tears spilling freely. “Kayan…” she whispered. “My child, my child!” She rushed forward, her hands clutching his face, her lips pressing his brow. The years of guilt, of mourning, melted away in a flood of joy.

But Queen Mirantha stood frozen, her smile fixed, her nails digging into her palms until blood welled. Inside, her mind screamed. No. No! This cannot be! He was gone he was supposed to be gone forever!

Suspicion and Shadows

Even as joy filled the hall, shadows crept among the whispers.

“Can we be certain it is him?” a noble demanded. “Nineteen years lost how can we trust?”

“The mark does not lie,” another countered. “The gods themselves confirm his blood.”

“But who raised him? What loyalty does he hold? Will he claim the throne?”

The hall fractured into debates, joy mixing with doubt, hope laced with fear.

And in the shadows, Mirantha’s eyes glinted with venom. She approached, her voice honeyed. “What a miracle,” she cooed, embracing Kayan as though he were her own. “What joy the gods have granted us. Welcome home, dear prince.”

But as she pressed her cheek to his, she whispered so only he could hear: “Enjoy your return, boy. For it will be short.”

Kayan stiffened, unease prickling down his spine.

The King’s Declaration

Raising his hand for silence, King Aldren addressed the hall. “Hear me, people of Aramore! This is my son, my heir, lost to us nineteen years ago but returned by fate. From this day forward, let it be known Prince Kayan lives!”

Cheers thundered. Trumpets blared. The palace itself seemed to tremble with the force of the declaration.

But beneath the celebration, Kayan’s heart raced. He had come to the palace seeking answers. Now he had them but with those answers came a crown of thorns.

And somewhere in the darkness, his stepmother’s plot began to take root.