Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 107: The Name the Streets Knew

The child did not understand politics.

She did not understand prophecy, nor crowns, nor the quiet, dangerous ways in which truth could unravel a kingdom.

But she knew a face.

The chalk slipped from her fingers.

It struck the cobblestones with a dull, forgotten tap as her gaze remained fixed upward, unblinking, unmoving.

Around her, the other children stared too. Their game had been paused from the moment the man had announced the King had another child.

The child stared. Her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and certainty.

Because she knew.

Even with the difference in dress.

Even with the mask that was not the one she had grown used to.

Even in a place that did not belong to her.

She knew exactly who the duke with a blinding smile was holding. She did not know who the duke was, but she didn’t care.

”Iria...” she whispered as her eyes locked on the figure being shown by the veil.

”Who’s that?” another child asked, nudging her. ”D’you know her?”

The child didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and started running.

Her small feet struck hard against the stone, quick and uneven as she darted through the street, weaving between bodies and skirts and shoes with reckless urgency.

People cursed as she passed too close.

Someone tried to catch her sleeve to get her to stop running, but she slipped free.

A carriage turned sharply into her path.

The horses snorted, their hooves striking the ground as they halted just short of her.

”Watch yourself, girl!” the driver snapped.

”Sorry!” she gasped, already moving again before the reprimand had settled.

Mercer’s Row stretched before her. She took a turn, and within minutes she was at her destination.

The Tallow and Tide stood where it always had—unchanged, unbothered by whatever chaos had begun to stir elsewhere in the city.

Its windows glowed faintly.

Its door remained closed, though not barred.

The child shoved the door open.

”Mama!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The sound cut through the quiet of the tavern.

It was not open for business fully, but a few men lingered, as they often did—acquaintances of Helen, more than customers—gathered around a table with cards spread between them, mugs half-finished at their elbows.

The scent of ale and smoke lingered in the air, softened.

Olly looked up first.

His brows drew together immediately.

”Well now—what’s got into ye?” he asked, setting his cards down.

The child stood in the doorway, chest heaving, braids loose and wild about her shoulders.

”Iria—” she began.

Olly huffed a small laugh.

”Aye, what about her?” he said. ”She ain’t here today, lass. Though I’d like she be here tonight.”

”She’s on the veil!” the child said.

There was a pause.

Then a low chuckle from one of the others.

”On the veil?” Olly repeated. ”Now don’t be makin’ stories, sweet girl.”

”I’m not!” the child insisted, stamping her foot, her braids bouncing wildly. ”I know her! I know Iria—she’s there!”

Olly shook his head, amused.

”Ye’ve mistaken someone else,” he said. ”Happens. Folk look similar from a distance—”

”No!”

The word cracked.

Loud enough to still the room.

”I know her!” the child insisted again, voice rising. ”She’s my best friend!”

”Brianna.”

At the voice, Brianna looked toward the stairs and saw her mother, Helen, making her way down, wiping her hands against her apron, her expression set in that familiar line that spoke of patience worn thin.

”I know ye miss her,” she said, not unkindly, though there was no room for argument in her tone. ”And I know ye’re still sore with me for not wakin’ ye the last time she came—”

”Mama—”

”But that don’t mean ye go seein’ her face on a scrying veil,” Helen continued. ”That’s not how things work.”

Brianna’s hands clenched.

”I’m not makin’ it up!”

Helen sighed.

”Bri—”

”She’s there!” Brianna grabbed her mother’s apron, tugging insistently. ”Come see! Please—just come see!”

There was something in the child’s voice that made Helen pause. Brianna was filled with conviction.

Helen looked down at her, then exhaled.

”Fine,” she said. ”We’ll see, then.”

Chairs scraped against wood as Olly pushed himself to his feet.

”Well now, I’ve a mind to see this myself,” he muttered.

The others followed more slowly, curiosity outweighing skepticism.

They stepped out onto Mercer’s Row and noticed the streets had changed.

The usual flow of movement had gathered into something else—clusters of people drawn toward the glow above, their voices quieter now, threaded with something uncertain.

Helen lifted her gaze and stilled in shock.

She knew the girl on the scrying veil. Brianna had been right, and she should never have doubted the child. There was no way she would mistake Lyria, after all.

The mask was different from what she usually wore, but those eyes, wide with shock, that beautiful hair... there was no mistaking it.

”Lyria...” she whispered in shock.

Helen swallowed. ”It’s her.”

Beside her, Brianna nodded quickly.

”I told you,” she said, pointing upward. ”That’s Iria.”

Olly too was in shock.

”...Bloody goddess arse,” he muttered under his breath.

On the veil, the Grand Hall gleamed in all its distant, unreachable grandeur.

And the focus was on Lyria, whose eyes were wide in shock as if she had been frozen in time.

Brianna tugged at her mother again.

”Mama,” she said softly now, ”that man—”

She pointed toward the figure who had spoken before.

The one who had brought all of this crashing into the open.

”He said she’s a princess.”

Silence settled heavily among them.

Helen did not respond at once.

Her gaze did not waver.

A princess.

”Well, I’ll be damned!” Olly said.

Duke Thorncrest stood with effortless composure, though the woman he had drawn from the shadows remained stiff in his hold.

Duke Valenridge’s expression held that same sharp amusement, though his eyes were anything but careless.

”Do tell, my lord,” he said smoothly, his attention turning toward Baron Redwick, ”what are your thoughts on this?”

Every gaze shifted.

Baron Redwick did not immediately respond.

For perhaps the first time since any of them had known him, he appeared at a loss for words.

His posture remained immaculate.

His composure, almost intact.

But his mouth was ajar, evidence of the shock coursing through his veins.

The hall was filled with silence. On Mercer’s Row, there was silence too. No one spoke as they watched, shock evident on every face.

”It’s you,” Earl Hawthorne said in shock as he pointed at Lyria.