Chapter 137: Forsaken Sanctuary

“Mmm… soon… soon… my son… soon…”

The crazed murmur crawled through the chamber, the sound low and uneven, like broken glass grinding against stone.

It was difficult to reconcile. Earlier, she had been every inch a queen.

Now, she was unrecognizable.

Her silver hair had come loose from its braids, strands falling wild across her face, and the gemstones that once caught the light dangled crookedly in their pins. Her icy blue eyes were no longer steady or unreadable but clouded and restless, darting as though chasing shadows.

The layered silks of pale green and white clung unevenly to her frame, wrinkled and stained, their once-regal elegance broken into something unsettling and frail.

And now, instead of a teacup, the woman clutched something tightly against her chest, and only when the faint outline came into focus did it register as a stuffed animal. Her fingers dug into the worn fabric as if it were her lifeline, her nails whitening from the force of her grip.

Then her head jerked up suddenly, like a puppet’s string had been yanked, her gaze sharp and wild as if searching for the ticket that would guarantee her reunion with her son.

“If only they cooperated,” she hissed, voice trembling with both fury and despair, “then none of this would have happened.”

Her expression twisted, caught between grief and rage.

“And more than that… if my own child hadn’t betrayed me, if he hadn’t broken my trust…” her jaw clenched, eyes glistening. “Then I wouldn’t have been forced into this. But what else could I do… when my baby needs me?”

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The Queen of Silvara stood at the arched balcony that overlooked the garden, the one she had painstakingly designed for him. Every path, every hedge, every bloom was chosen because her son had once smiled at them. The trickle of water, the song of birds—she had tamed them all to bring him comfort when he was here.

This place was his. His sanctuary.

And now, in that very sanctuary, she saw Rowan.

Her breath eased at first. Relief washed through her as she caught sight of him sitting across from the human aide, voice calm, gestures smooth, every bit the prince he was meant to be.

Yes. Just as he had promised her. Rowan had said he would handle the human, soothe him, prevent the dangerous thought of leaving from ever taking root. If Riley stayed, then the dragon lord would stay, and Finn—her sweet Finn—would be saved.

She wanted to believe it.

She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing her heartbeat to calm. Her Rowan was clever, responsible. He knew what was at stake.

But still…

Still, her mind whispered, ’What if?’

The paranoia she could never silence pushed her to seek confirmation.

So later, when the garden was still, and her son had long since left it behind, she went down among the hedges and fountains.

Her hand brushed against leaves, her voice coaxing in a low murmur, and the plants, her loyal sentinels, stirred. Slowly, hesitantly, they yielded what they had kept. Fragments of whispers, threads of voices carried on their roots and petals, replaying the words spoken beneath their watch.

And what they revealed made her blood run cold.

Not restraint. Not caution. Not Rowan holding the line as promised.

Instead—encouragement.

Encouragement of the human’s longing for home. A suggestion. A rumor about a way the dragon lord could speed up the search. Rowan had not clipped the wing of temptation—he had fanned it.

Her fingers dug into the stone railing.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No, that cannot be…”

Yet the whispers of the leaves had never lied.

Her memory of the garden soured. Rowan’s smile no longer looked gentle but sly. His calm voice twisted into treachery. Her heart lurched.

Her son. Her own Rowan. Was he betraying them? Betraying him?

For what? To be rid of his brother? To lessen competition for the throne?

The thought struck like lightning, and once it appeared, it consumed her.

She staggered back, her silks swishing against the balcony rail. Her hand trembled as she pressed it against her lips. “No… Rowan… you would not…” But doubt had already taken root.

Her mind spiraled.

Was he smiling so kindly because he was plotting?

Had he chosen that garden on purpose, knowing it was his brother’s place, and poisoned it with betrayal?

Her knees gave way, and she sank into the nearest seat. Tears stung her eyes.

“What did Finn ever do to deserve this?” she whispered. “My baby… my precious child… why must he suffer? Why must even his own blood forsake him?”

Her nails bit into her palms. The pain anchored her, but it did not quiet the storm in her chest.

If Rowan would not guard his brother, then she would. If Rowan turned his back, then she would seize the reins.

She would do whatever it took.

Because no one cared enough.

And if she did not save her child, then who would?

__

Certainly not this betrayer seeking the human aide when he couldn’t even be bothered to look for his own brother!

“Mother! What happened? Where is Riley? The Dragon Lord tore through the entire wing because his aide hadn’t returned! If he’s not found, the entire palace may just be turned upside down!”

Queen Rhiannon heard Rowan’s voice calling from behind the door.

Rowan himself could hardly believe it when the reports reached him—that Kael had stormed through the palace, practically burning through an entire wing, particularly his mother’s drawing room, because no one could tell him where Riley was.

But how? How could Riley even be missing when he hadn’t left the palace?

And worse, why was Kael convinced his aide would be here, of all places?

Then his discovery struck like a hammer: prior to the human’s disappearance, he had been with his mother. The Queen. Tea had been served, formally, properly, an invitation written in her own hand.

And now he was gone.

Rowan’s heart lurched violently. His mother—she couldn’t have, not out of desperation, right?

If only.

But Rowan knew his mother.

Fear pressed tight against his chest as he raced through the halls and slipped into the secret passages. He prayed he was wrong, prayed the dread clawing at his gut was only paranoia. He reached the heavy doors, but they refused to yield. No answer came from within. With trembling hands, he forced them open and froze.

The scene struck him like a physical blow.

Inside, chained and locked behind enchanted bars, was Riley—alive, but trapped, bound against the cold stone.

And in front of the cell, her silks wrinkled, her hair undone, sat his mother. Queen Rhiannon, the radiant monarch of Silvara, rocking back and forth on her knees like a broken doll.

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