THE FORGOTTEN HEIR

THE NIGHT OF SHADOWS

The palace of Aramore was a marvel to behold. Its golden spires pierced the heavens like arrows of light, its marble walls gleamed under the moon, and its courtyards sprawled with fountains that whispered secrets only the winds could hear. To the outside world, it was a place of grandeur, justice, and peace yet behind its jeweled gates, whispers of betrayal coiled like serpents in the dark.

On this fateful night, the palace corridors were unusually quiet. Even the guards who patrolled with polished spears moved with heavy steps, as though the air itself was weighed down with foreboding. Within the Queen’s chambers, however, silence was broken by the restless pacing of Lady Mirantha, the King’s second wife. Her eyes glistened with cold fury as she stared into the flickering firelight.

For months she had nursed a secret hatred. The King’s first wife, Queen Selene, had given him a son Kayan, barely five years old. That child was everything Mirantha’s heart envied: the heir, the apple of the King’s eye, the hope of the kingdom. And though Selene now lay heavy with her second child, the King’s affection for her remained unshaken. Mirantha had plotted, and tonight, her moment came.

Far away in Selene’s chambers, the Queen slumbered deeply. The weight of her unborn child pressed her into the bed, her breath soft and even. She had been restless for weeks, yet tonight exhaustion had stolen her vigilance. Beside her, the young Prince Kayan stirred in his small cot. He was a bright-eyed boy, with tousled dark hair and a curious mark etched upon his right shoulder an emblem shaped like a crescent sun, the ancient seal of Aramore’s bloodline. It was said that every true heir of the royal house bore this mark, a living symbol of divine favor.

The mark was his pride, though he was too young to understand its power. For Mirantha, it was a curse. As long as Kayan lived, her own son would never be heir.

Cloaked in midnight silk, Mirantha entered Selene’s chamber like a shadow. Her footsteps were soundless; her smile, cruel. She glanced once at the sleeping Queen, then at the child. Hatred flared in her chest, but she did not dare harm him directly. Instead, she reached for a small bell and rang it lightly. From the shadows emerged one of her trusted maids, a woman loyal not by choice but by the weight of debts.

“Take him,” Mirantha whispered, her eyes never leaving the child.

The maid hesitated. “But my lady, the King”

“Do as I say,” Mirantha hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Take him far from here. Leave him where no one will find him. Tonight, the palace forgets he ever lived.”

The boy stirred as he was lifted from his cot. His small hands clutched at the air, seeking the comfort of his mother, but Selene slept on, unaware of the storm stealing her son. The maid carried him swiftly through the corridors, past the grand halls, through the servants’ passageways, and out into the cold night.

The palace gates loomed behind them as she fled into the wilderness. The child whimpered, then began to cry, his voice piercing the night sky. Fear gnawed at the maid’s heart. She did not wish to harm him, but disobedience meant her own ruin. With trembling hands, she laid him upon the grassy edge of the forest, wrapped in a thin cloth.

“Forgive me, little one,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead. Then, with one last look, she disappeared into the night.

The child’s cries echoed through the darkness. Hours passed, and the moon drifted behind clouds. Just when silence threatened to claim him, the sound of footsteps approached. A woman, her cloak ragged and her basket half-filled with herbs, stopped at the sight of the abandoned boy.

Her name was Elara. She was a healer, widowed and childless, living on the edge of the kingdom where few dared dwell. Her heart clenched at the sight before her. She lifted the boy into her arms, and as the cloth slipped away, her eyes widened at the mark upon his shoulder.

“This… this is the sign,” she murmured. “But how could a child with such a mark be left here?”

The boy’s tears slowed as though he sensed her warmth. Elara pressed him close. “Fear not, little one. You are mine now. Whatever your past, whatever your destiny, I will raise you as my own.”

That night, the boy who was born to be a prince became the son of a healer. And in the palace, when Queen Selene awoke to find her son gone, the halls shook with her cries. She searched, she begged, she wept but Mirantha comforted her with false tears, whispering that perhaps the boy had been stolen by bandits or wolves. The King ordered every guard, every knight, to search the land, but no trace of the child was found.

For nineteen years, the King never ceased his search. His heart bore a wound that no triumph nor treasure could heal. Selene lived in constant sorrow, blaming herself for sleeping while her son was taken. And Mirantha, hidden behind her mask of devotion, raised her own children in the shadow of a crime no one could prove.

Yet fate, patient and unyielding, had written its story long ago. The boy marked by the crescent sun would return not as a prince, but as a servant and the palace would tremble when truth walked its halls again.