The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Thirty

The vast amounts of wine that Prince Jovah plunged into his body had finally caught up with him. He stumbled through the corridor, having to run his fingers along the wall and lean on a few pillars just to keep upright. But he did not care if the guards who monitored the halls stared as he struggled to carry his cumbersome limbs up the flight of imperial stairs. No, Jovah's thoughts were elsewhere.

The bitch.

That spiteful, half-breed bitch.

No one beneath him spoke to him like that. No one would dare to humiliate him in front of his own kingdom.

But Morana did.

Her confidence had grown to a preposterous size. With the aid of Alastair and Ferryn, the halfling now felt as if she was an equal. Hell, even his own father had helped mold Morana's growing willpower. Warrick's lack of punishment made him weak to her. That had to be it. She would have never lashed out at a prince if she truly feared the king.

The revelry faded into the distance the further he went. Jovah fumbled up the staircase, grinding his teeth. He gripped the banister and heaved himself upward, but his legs were so damn heavy. A growl burst out of his chest when he finally reached the upper level. He started for the queen's chamber.

Morana truly despised him. She hated him with every ounce of her being. It festered inside him and he didn't know why. Something had stopped him from striking her for that public humiliation. Something had kept his magick reeled in long enough for him to escape into the hall and roar flames so hot his throat still burned. What was wrong with him? It was not rage he felt as she scolded him.

Guilt. Despair. Envy.

He loathed it.

Jovah attempted to blink away the fuzziness that grappled with his vision and failed. He hauled himself down the long stretch of corridor that would take him to the queen's room. He couldn't stand to be with anyone else, or for that matter, alone. Perhaps in her dissociated state of mind, she wouldn't judge him for everything he needed to release. When she was healthy, Isleen had always listened to him. Even if he didn't always heed her wise advice, he still appreciated that fact.

The prince glowered at the guards stationed along the stretch of the hall. He swore their expressions were that of disgust. How else were they supposed to gaze upon such a failure prince? He kept his eyes on Isleen's door and paused before the guards who flanked it. "Let me pass."

The guards eyed each other before stepping out of his path.

Jovah pushed into the dark room. He latched the door behind him and fumbled through the sitting room. An end table caught his ankle, sending him clattering to the ground. He smacked the floor with a grunt, but luckily, his palms instinctively planted into the hardwood before he could bust open his nose.

The door swung open.

"Highness!" The same pair of guards appeared on either side of him, but did not touch him.

Jovah jerked his chin toward the door. "Leave me!" he barked, the heat of shame dampening the back of his neck.

They hesitated, but left him to roll onto his hip. Once the door clicked shut, he sucked in a deep breath. He strained to sit upright, suddenly regretting filling his stomach with nothing but booze. Once on his rear, he gripped onto the table he had tripped over and pulled himself up. The alcohol made his steps uneven, but he reached the bedroom without further embarrassment. He opened the door.

Queen Isleen Dawnshard slept on her cloud of sheets. Her eyes shifted beneath heavy lids, lost in her own fractured mind. As Jovah crept over the floor, he wondered where she went while in that state. She used to tell him everything. The queen used to speak with him for hours about the dreams—visions, as she called them. The ones where Astraea begged her to find her. Icy fingers clasped over his heart. For months he had listened to Isleen wail for her lost daughter, and he had ignored her until the dreams reached him, as well.