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Book 2: Chapter 10: The Unchosen Heir
🕑 Added 2025-08-01 22:25:00 +0000 UTCChapter 10:
The Unchosen Heir
Selira of Ashford.
This was her name now, for better or worse, and she couldn't quite decide which. The past days had rushed by in a surreal fever dream, each moment blending into the next until reality itself felt distorted, impossible to fully grasp. Her own feverish nightmare was, she suspected, among the nastiest to unfold within the walls of Valewick. She finally understood why her marriage had been hastily arranged without proper ceremony, announced abruptly and publicly on the birthday of Grace, her own wedding reduced to a mere afterthought, a political convenience robbed of the dignity and romance she'd dreamed of as a girl.
Of course, it was political. Selira was no fool. Her father, the Duke of Velmire, and Liliana of Ashford had long been architects of their ambition, meticulously crafting plans for power long before Ronan’s staggering idiocy presented itself as a convenient excuse. Still, knowing the truth behind it did nothing to lessen the sting. Every time Selira heard her new name spoken, her anger only deepened, tempered now into a blade of bitter resentment toward the hapless man she had the misfortune of calling husband.
Yet, she had once harbored hope for Ronan. Perhaps not love in the storybook sense, but something more practical, a partnership of strength where she might bolster his weaknesses, transforming a man who lacked mana, martial prowess, and political acumen into a duke worthy of respect. After all, she had always carried a quiet admiration for those refined by courtly etiquette. He'd been raised near the crown, polished in the capital; surely some elegance or wisdom had rubbed off on him.
She’d never been more mistaken in her life.
Her illusions had begun fracturing from the very moment she laid eyes on him—awkward, oblivious, helplessly polite in a way that grated rather than charmed. Her faint childhood hopes unraveled with every bland pleasantry, every stumbling attempt at conversation. By the time their wedding had been declared in the grand hall of Valewick Citadel at midday, she’d already resigned herself to a dreary future.
Yet the true fracture—the irreversible moment of ruin—occurred publicly, in front of the entire Ashford court. Just moments after their vows, Ronan dared to embrace her, whispering a reassurance that now, at long last, he would protect her. The gall of it nearly made her snap, mana burning hot at her fingertips, ready to immolate his pathetic pretensions right there. Somehow, she held back, a testament to her self-control. She’d swallowed down the rage, delicately clasping his hands, forcing herself to whisper gently in return, “I’m in your care now… husband.”
The word had tasted like poison on her tongue.
The rest of the day offered no reprieve. Mere hours after their hastily completed ceremony, Liliana had taken Grace onto the balcony to declare the birth of the Ashford Empire, overshadowing even the shallow pretense of celebration for Selira’s marriage. She was nothing more than a footnote, a convenience, a stepping stone on the path of someone else’s ambition.
Evening fell heavily, pulling Selira unwillingly toward the banquet. A banquet intended first and foremost to celebrate Grace’s sixth birthday, not her own wedding, now hastily repurposed as a farce of congratulations. The humiliation of being seated prominently at a table covered in delicate floral arrangements, all carefully chosen for a child, gnawed bitterly at her pride.
And Ronan? He showed no comprehension of the disgrace. He seemed oblivious, eagerly turning the banquet into his personal stage, sharing exaggerated accounts of his alleged adventures on the eastern frontline, idle, inflated tales designed solely to enhance his nonexistent reputation. Weeks of cowardice and inaction were recounted as heroics, each boast further staining Selira’s pride.
Worse still, at the very banquet intended—at least ostensibly—to honor their union, Ronan managed to turn all focus back toward Grace. Every word dripped admiration for his little sister: her struggles, her resilience, her brilliance. It was not jealousy that boiled inside Selira, but the sheer insult of being openly dismissed by the man she was now bound to. More than once, she found herself just one sharp breath away from throttling Ronan in full view of everyone present.
Ronan drank, goblet after goblet, becoming increasingly unsteady. When Liliana presented Grace with the ancestral seat at Gatewick, something changed abruptly in him. It wasn’t that he coveted the castle, he knew it belonged to Liliana’s line, but the realization of his own dispossession seemed suddenly to sink in. Selira cautiously tried to rein him in, suggesting he’d had enough wine. He ignored her entirely, bitterness fueling his continued drunken spiral.
At last, mercifully, Grace had excused herself early. Only then did Liliana finally rise to formally announce the marriage between Selira and Ronan, gifting them an impressive city estate in Valewick’s noble district. In that moment, Selira felt an unexpected flicker of gratitude—Liliana, at least, acknowledged the sacrifice, showed some measure of empathy. The nobles applauded politely, the formality restoring a shred of dignity to the evening. Her father even stood, delivering a generous speech and bestowing yet another estate, this one in Velport, alongside a sizable dowry of gold.
Heart lifting slightly, Selira stood to offer formal thanks, bowing gracefully, only to realize Ronan remained slouched in his seat, mumbling bitterly under his breath about his lands being mere "shacks" compared to hers. The hall fell silent. Ronan staggered upright, disgracing himself entirely as he left, too drunk to even walk straight.
The silence was deafening. Every noble stared openly at Selira, whose cheeks burned with shame and barely restrained fury. Liliana arched a single eyebrow but withheld comment. Her father, with misplaced humor, murmured some half-hearted jest about it being difficult for a man’s pride when overshadowed by his wife. Selira wanted nothing more than to vanish into oblivion, escaping the unbearable humiliation.
Their wedding night, of course, never happened.
The chambers had been prepared, at least someone showing foresight amid the chaos, but Selira didn’t stay. Without hesitation, she ordered her retainers to pack, briefly thanked Liliana and her father, and departed swiftly for the gifted Valewick estate, just fifteen minutes’ ride from the citadel.
The mansion was vast, luxurious, richly furnished, a thoughtful gesture clearly orchestrated by Liliana. Selira took bitter comfort in the careful preparations. Without Ronan present, she immediately occupied the master bedroom, firmly instructing her knights to allow entry to no one, least of all her incompetent husband.
In the blessed solitude of her new chambers, Selira finally allowed herself to breathe deeply, reclaiming the strength and dignity she'd felt slipping throughout the disastrous day. She realized, with steely clarity, that Ronan would soon discover their marriage granted him no authority over her. Unlike him, she wielded real power: magical, political, personal. He was mistaken if he thought she would submit meekly to his whims or incompetence.
She stood before a large mirror, her reflection composed, proud, unyielding. Carefully, deliberately, she spoke aloud to the silence.
"Selira of Ashford." The name hung strangely in the air. She tasted it again, the bitterness mingling with something new—resolve. "Let us see how much weight this name truly carries."
She had not clawed her way through Velmire’s intrigues, endured a lifetime of training, etiquette, and ambition, merely to become a plaything in someone else’s war. She was not Grace’s shadow, Ronan’s consolation prize, or Liliana’s convenient pawn.
No. She was Selira, daughter of Duke Velmire, now bound irrevocably to House Ashford. If fate had tied her hands, she would forge these chains into weapons. She would sharpen her new name until it cut through every humiliation, every obstacle. The nobles who had watched her wedding fiasco might remember her shame, but she would ensure they soon feared her far more.
Let Ronan believe he had won something, if it made him feel important. She would build her influence from within, using every opportunity, every resource, starting with this estate, her knights, and her own formidable talents.
“Very well,” she murmured softly to herself, eyes fierce with determination. “Let the empire rise on Ashford’s folly, but I refuse to fall.”
She stepped away from the mirror, feeling stronger now, her resolve hardening into iron within her chest. Ronan might be insignificant, but she would not share his fate. He would learn soon enough: this marriage granted him no power over her.
The following days offered Selira no reprieve from her torment. If anything, the nightmare had deepened into a cruel and absurd spectacle, a twisted parody of marital life from which she could not awaken.
Ronan had appeared at her estate the very next afternoon, freshly sober, cleaned up, and seemingly oblivious to the disgrace he’d inflicted upon himself and her just hours before. He'd shown up smiling, bouquet in hand as though mere flowers could mend what his incompetence had broken. Lilies, of all things, fragrant and pure white, an irony so heavy Selira could scarcely contain her disgust.
She'd stood at the balcony of her room, watching him arrive on horseback, his posture confident, as though his drunken escapades had never happened. His cheerfulness only twisted the knife deeper into her wounded pride. Before she'd even allowed him inside the estate, nausea had risen in her throat, a bitter bile she struggled to swallow.
Their first true encounter since their catastrophic wedding took place in the grand drawing room of the Valewick estate. The room was tastefully decorated; rich velvet curtains, lush carpets, artfully chosen paintings. Yet all she saw was Ronan’s awkward smile, framed by that elaborate room. His earnest expression made her physically ill.
"My dear wife," he'd begun gently, offering the flowers. "I've come to make amends. We've had little time to truly know one another with all that's happened."
Selira had forced herself to remain composed, accepting the flowers stiffly, with the minimal politeness her upbringing required.
"You flatter me," she replied, tone carefully neutral. "Though perhaps you misunderstand the situation, my lord. Our union hardly calls for romantic gestures."
Ronan’s face had fallen slightly, confusion clouding his expression. "Selira…please, allow me a chance. I know things started poorly—"
"Started poorly?" she echoed sharply, the ice in her voice palpable. "You reduced our wedding to a spectacle of disgrace, and now you expect flowers to smooth over your mistakes? Spare me your shallow apologies."
He’d winced visibly, yet persisted, stepping closer. "Please understand, I was…overwhelmed. Let me prove my sincerity—"
Selira had flinched at his approach, physically recoiling as nausea surged again. She barely managed to suppress the urge to retch right there.
"Keep your distance," she hissed sharply, gripping the back of the nearest chair tightly, knuckles white. Ronan stopped, startled, genuinely hurt flashing across his face.
"What have I done to earn such loathing?" he asked quietly, almost childlike. "Please, Selira. If there's anything I can do to make it right—"
"Leave," she interrupted curtly. "For today, leave me be. I have neither the patience nor the strength to humor your delusions."
He withdrew reluctantly, murmuring apologies under his breath. Even as the door closed behind him, Selira’s body still shuddered with revulsion, her breath coming in shallow, furious gasps. What was wrong with her? Ronan, for all his idiocy, was neither ugly nor repellent by normal standards. Physically, he was exactly her type: tall, fair-haired, undeniably handsome, polished by his years near the crown.
Yet something deeper, darker, had taken root within her. A loathing so profound it physically sickened her, filling her with revulsion whenever he drew near. Perhaps it was knowing that beneath that attractive exterior lay nothing of substance, a void of incompetence, entitlement, and weakness.
Still, a nagging thought persisted, unavoidable and sharp: the necessity of a child. It was expected, required. Politically crucial. The sooner, the better, and yet she could hardly bear his proximity, let alone the intimacy the task demanded.
In the days that followed, Ronan continued his misguided attempts at affection. Each morning brought a new token of his misguided romanticism; flowers, jewelry, poetry clumsily penned and painfully delivered. Each gesture, meant to bring them closer, only pushed her further away. His letters of attempted apology grew increasingly desperate, filled with promises of change, vows of eternal devotion.
Selira barely skimmed them, her disgust swelling further each day.
When avoidance became impossible, she endured short visits in shared spaces, forcing herself to maintain civility. Dinners were silent ordeals; breakfasts felt like punishment. Even in public, despite the practiced elegance she showed to nobles and retainers alike, each moment beside Ronan felt like torture.
Yet a part of her knew the importance of public perception. Selira was pragmatic. Their marriage was political, their roles strategic. She could not afford open hostility. So, reluctantly, she softened her public demeanor, allowing Ronan to appear somewhat redeemed in the eyes of their attendants and retainers. She even offered occasional small smiles, quiet nods of approval, enough to soothe observers, though privately she despised every second.
But the thought of their union, the necessary intimacy—sharing a bed with Ronan—filled her with such revulsion that she felt physically ill each time she imagined it.
Finally, after days of strained interactions and quiet disgust, the inevitable came. They sat together in the lounge of their manor, tea cups and porcelain laid out impeccably before them. The afternoon sun streamed through tall windows, softening the room’s atmosphere in a mockery of warmth and intimacy.
Selira lifted her teacup, sipping delicately, eyes trained carefully on the elaborate patterns of the porcelain to avoid Ronan’s hopeful gaze.
"Selira," Ronan began tentatively, voice gentle yet strained, breaking the heavy silence. "We can't avoid each other forever."
She raised a brow, giving him a cool glance. "I wasn’t aware we were avoiding one another."
His shoulders sagged slightly, frustration evident. "You know exactly what I mean. We have obligations. Expectations. I wish you'd at least let me—"
"Obligations," Selira cut in, voice icy. "Ah, yes. I recall the obligations clearly, husband. Would you like to remind me again how well you handle your responsibilities?"
Ronan winced, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I deserve your anger. I know that. But we need each other. Ashford, Velmire, the whole empire depends upon our cooperation."
She laughed bitterly, setting her teacup down sharply. "What empire can rely on a man who can barely stand through his own wedding?"
A flush rose in his cheeks, shame evident. "Selira, please. I’m trying. Give me a chance to redeem myself."
Her gaze softened slightly, almost pityingly. "Ronan, your chance was already given. You have shown your true character. And yet…" She swallowed down her nausea, forcing the next words out painfully. "Yet I understand we must at least appear united. If only in public."
He brightened slightly, misunderstanding her meaning. "You see? I knew we could find a way through this."
"No," she said sharply, the word slicing through his fragile optimism. "Don’t mistake my tolerance for forgiveness or affection. It is purely strategic. You and I—we are bound only by political necessity."
He recoiled again, his expression darkening with frustration. "Can’t you at least try? If not for me, then for the sake of Ashford—"
Selira snapped, slamming her palm against the table, rattling porcelain. "Do not lecture me on duty. Every humiliation I've endured is because of your incompetence. The very thought of sharing more than this conversation with you fills me with physical revulsion."
He flinched, hurt evident in his eyes. Silence settled thickly between them. He dropped his gaze, defeated. "Then why even pretend?"
Selira straightened her shoulders, breathing slowly, regaining composure. "Because this empire your family has declared requires heirs. Our obligations don’t vanish merely because I despise you."
Ronan stared at her quietly, finally grasping her meaning. "You hate me so much that even the thought of our children disgusts you?"
"Not the children," she whispered sharply, voice brittle, controlled fury in every word. "Only their father."
He bowed his head, absorbing the cutting words. "Then what would you have me do?"
She sighed, resigned. "We maintain appearances publicly. Privately, we interact only when necessary."
"And a child?" he asked cautiously.
"That, too, is a necessity," she admitted, voice taut, full of bitterness. "A duty I will fulfill, but not happily. You have made certain of that."
He stood, quietly nodding. "Then I will trouble you no further today. But please know—I'm truly sorry, Selira."
She didn’t reply. She allowed him to exit in silence, the room quiet again save for the trembling of her hands, rage and sorrow swirling within her.
As she sat alone, a bitter irony settled over her. To build the empire her father and Liliana envisioned, she had become imprisoned in a union that filled her with loathing. The man chosen as her husband was now the source of her deepest disgust.
But Selira would not break. She would endure, even if it meant living within this carefully crafted illusion, sacrificing her heart and body for the sake of empire and ambition.
No matter the cost.
--::--
Ronan stepped out of the grand estate onto the polished stone street, letting the heavy oak door close quietly behind him. A fresh, sharp breeze caught at his cloak, a stark contrast to the tension and suffocating disdain that lingered inside his so-called home.
He sighed deeply, feeling the cool air soothe some of the burning shame that had lingered since that disastrous night. In Valewick, he had expected to find sanctuary, a place to rebuild the fragments of dignity left to him. Instead, each day brought new humiliations, each interaction another reminder of his failures.
When he'd first returned to Ashford, summoned from the capital to inherit his father's title, he'd been terrified. The mountain duchy, its harsh climate, and even harsher people had always felt foreign to him. He was raised in the comfortable warmth of the royal court, trained in the gentle arts of music, and refined conversation. The thought of ruling this rugged land had been daunting enough. Yet, the reality had proved infinitely worse.
He strode away from the estate, leaving behind Selira’s cold stares and the silent judgment of the servants. The cobbled road stretched before him, lined with trimmed hedges and ornate streetlamps, leading into the heart of Valewick’s noble district. Normally, a man of his position would never walk these streets alone, but today he wanted neither guards nor retainers. The security of the district was enough, he reasoned. Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone considered him significant enough to attack.
He drifted into the bustling marketplace, stalls brimming with exquisite goods arranged tastefully, the vendors smiling courteously. Everything here was clean, orderly, far removed from the chaos that still haunted his dreams. Yet, despite the pleasant surroundings, Ronan found no peace.
His thoughts inevitably turned back to Steve. A dull pain twisted in his chest whenever he remembered his friend’s easy smile, his unwavering support, the confident gleam in his eyes as they shared meals and dreams in that damned mountain fortress. Steve had believed in him, genuinely. He’d trusted Ronan’s judgment, supported him openly.
And look what it cost him, Ronan thought bitterly.
He wandered aimlessly through the stalls, half-heartedly scanning goods he had no interest in buying. He finally stopped before a street vendor grilling skewers of spiced meat, the aroma tantalizing even through his melancholy. With a faint nod, he ordered a portion, the warmth of the food a minor comfort as he chewed thoughtfully.
His mind kept circling back to that chaotic day, the charge born from false news, the terror in his chest as he realized his catastrophic mistake, and Steve’s face pale and bewildered, eyes wide as Dareth had stabbed him.
“Why,” he whispered, voice tight with frustration and grief, “why was I so easily fooled?”
Suddenly, Ronan’s gaze snagged on something, a flicker of recognition amidst the bustling market crowd. He blinked, thinking his eyes deceived him. But as he watched, his heart raced, certainty growing.
A man walked swiftly through the throng, familiar features etched vividly into Ronan’s memory. The messenger. The traitor who’d brought false news that day at the fortress, claiming the king’s army was under attack, spurring Ronan to his disastrous charge. It was him, the man whose deceit had unraveled his life.
That bastard.
Ronan’s grip slackened, the skewer slipping unnoticed from his fingers onto the cobblestones. Without hesitation, driven by anger and desperation, he began weaving through the crowd, keeping his gaze fixed on the messenger’s back.
Adrenaline surged through him as he pushed past startled nobles and merchants. This was his chance—perhaps his only chance—to clear his name. If he could seize this traitor and present him to Liliana, to the court, it might absolve him, even slightly, of the disgrace he now carried like a brand.
But the market was dense with people, and the traitor moved swiftly, expertly navigating the crowd. Ronan found himself lagging behind, frustration gnawing at his resolve. Yet determination fueled him onward, eyes fixed fiercely upon the retreating figure.
He followed discreetly, keeping a cautious distance as the messenger joined three other men near a quieter side street. Ronan slowed, caution finally tempering his rage. They were four now, four against him alone. A wiser voice whispered that he should retreat, fetch guards, summon reinforcements. Yet anger burned brighter, drowning reason.
I’ll not lose him again, he vowed silently, jaw clenched.
The group slipped away from the noble district, passing through the gated archway into one of Valewick’s bustling middle-class neighborhoods. Ronan hesitated for a heartbeat, the sight of unfamiliar streets and unknown faces giving him pause. He'd never ventured beyond the noble district's safety before. But fury and desperation overcame caution, driving him forward into unfamiliar territory.
He shadowed them carefully, the unfamiliar streets growing narrower, the atmosphere less refined but still bustling with trade and conversation. This wasn't a slum, it was orderly, clean enough, but far removed from the polished elegance Ronan knew.
Finally, the men ducked into a lively tavern, laughter and warmth spilling out as the door swung shut behind them. Ronan paused outside, heart pounding, but only for a moment. Summoning every ounce of courage, he straightened his cloak, lifted his chin, and stepped resolutely inside.
Warm air thick with the scent of ale, meat, and wood smoke enveloped him instantly. Patrons, mostly tradesmen, artisans, and merchants, filled tables and benches, their chatter lively and unconcerned. Ronan scanned the room discreetly, spotting the group already seated in a shadowy corner.
Choosing a table opposite theirs, half-hidden by a wooden support beam, he took a seat and pretended to study the simple menu. His heart still raced, though the warmth and ordinariness of the tavern slowly steadied him.
He glanced cautiously toward the traitor’s table, catching fragments of their conversation. The messenger leaned forward urgently, whispering something to the others. Ronan strained to listen, but the distance was too great, and their words drowned beneath the tavern’s noise.
Frustration gnawed at him again. He needed to get closer, needed evidence to expose their treachery. As he considered moving nearer, a serving girl approached his table, smiling politely.
"Something to drink, sir?"
Ronan nodded absently. "Ale," he murmured, distracted, "whatever you have."
She left with a nod, allowing Ronan to focus again on the men. He realized, sharply, the messenger’s companions weren't locals. Their clothing, though modest, carried an unmistakably foreign cut. They were careful, watchful, speaking low and casting wary glances around.
Spies? The thought ignited new urgency in Ronan’s chest. This was bigger than he'd imagined, beyond a mere traitor’s deceit. He had stumbled upon something significant, and probably dangerous.
His ale arrived moments later, and he sipped cautiously, keeping his gaze fixed discreetly upon the conspirators. They rose after a while, paying their tab and slipping toward a rear door. Ronan’s pulse quickened again. He set coins hastily on the table, rising to follow.
Through narrow back alleys and quieter streets, Ronan trailed them, his confidence growing with every step. The evidence he gathered now would redeem him. He was sure of it.
He kept his distance, far enough not to be noticed, close enough not to lose them. The men weaved through the tangle of alleyways, deeper and deeper into unfamiliar territory, the city’s evening din fading behind thick stone walls. Ronan’s footsteps echoed too loud in his own ears, but adrenaline steadied his nerves.
A right turn. A sharp left. He caught glimpses of their silhouettes ahead, a huddle of shadowed shapes, moving swiftly, deliberately. Then a sudden fork. For a heartbeat he lost sight of them, rounded the corner…
Gone.
He froze, heart hammering. Empty alley, slick with rain and littered with crates. For a moment, confusion warred with frustration. He peered into the shadows, straining to catch any movement.
What the…?
He took another tentative step forward.
Something hard and cold slammed into the back of his skull. Light exploded, pain blooming through his mind, and the world spun away beneath him. He staggered, tried to shout, then darkness swallowed everything. He collapsed to the cobblestones, the city’s distant noise receding into silence.
For Ronan, there was only black.
Comments
Ryan N
Is he dead? If not, I sincerely hope that Selira does not have to see him again. Good development on both Selira’s and Ronan’s characters so far though. I like the difference of perspectives in their POVs. Anyhow, thank you for the chapter.
