Bittersweet Treasure

Prolouge

Chapter One — The King's Promise

The Kingdom of Draleri lay wrapped in winter's pale hush, and within its great stone heart, a king sat beside his daughter's sickbed.

King Robert Ivar clasped the small hand of the child who had become the center of his world. Her breathing came slow and shallow, her skin pale as the moonlight spilling through the window. She had always been small for her age—delicate, like her mother—and it broke him to see her so still.

"Your Majesty," murmured Roland, his loyal steward, from behind him. "She is a brave child. The healers say she will mend."

"I made a promise," the king said, his voice distant, eyes never leaving his daughter's face. "I swore to her mother, as she lay dying, that no harm would ever come to our child. Yet here she lies, suffering beneath my own roof. Tell me, Roland—how can I keep that promise if she is not safe even in her own home?"

Roland hesitated, then spoke softly. "Your Grace, may I offer counsel?"

The king nodded absently.

"Send her away," Roland said.

Robert's head snapped up, eyes hard as steel. "You would have me lose her as I lost her mother?" His voice broke into a low snarl. "She is the sole reason I live, and you dare suggest I send her away?"

"I mean only to protect her," Roland replied, bowing his head. "The queen's jealousy festers, sire. If I may be so bold—it was no mere accident that the princess fell from the—"

"Enough!" the king thundered, surging to his feet. "Hold your tongue before I tear it from your mouth!"

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Roland bowed deeply, saying no more.

The king turned back to his daughter. Her skin was still hot with fever. He brushed her cheek with trembling fingers, heart aching. Could Margaret truly mean harm to a child of five? To his child? Yet the thought clung to him like a shadow—one he could not shake.

There had been too many accidents: the fall from the tree that nearly broke her arm, the runaway wagon that missed her by inches, and most recently, the icy pond she had fallen into while walking with the queen. Had Roland not leapt into the freezing water without a thought for his own life, she would have drowned.

The hours slipped by. The king did not move until the chamber door opened and Queen Margaret Mowbray glided in, her beauty a mask of silk and poison.

"My husband," she said sweetly, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder, "will you not come to bed? The hour grows late."

"I did not see the time," the king said absently. "Go on, Margaret. I will visit you on the morrow."

Margaret stiffened. She was not accustomed to being dismissed. Her teeth pressed together, but her smile did not falter. "You will make yourself ill with worry," she said softly. "Come to bed."

"I will not leave Kanani until she wakes," he replied, tone brooking no argument.

The queen's eyes cooled to shards of gold. "Very well, Your Majesty," she said, bowing. "Good night."

She paused at the door and looked back. The king's hand rested on the child's hair, his expression tender and raw. Jealousy burned through her like fire. She must be removed, the thought whispered, dark and certain. That little bastard must be erased from this world.

Roland caught the glint in her eye and bowed low, but his gut turned cold. He had no doubt now—the queen's hatred was real, and deadly.

Weeks passed, and Kanani recovered. The castle came alive again with her laughter and mischief. She ran through halls tracked with mud, a troop of harried maids chasing behind.