Chapter 30 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

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Chapter 30

 

 

Erald had spent a year in exile, clinging to the hope that one day he might reunite with Chalon at the lakeside villa they had once dreamed of. Now, with autumn's harvest festival approaching, he found himself once again walking through the bustling capital of Aschenptel.

 

Exactly a year had passed since that fateful masquerade ball. He had been granted a royal pardon and declared innocent—but there were still too many reasons to doubt whether it was real.

 

For one, several royal decrees issued at the same time as the pardon—personally spearheaded by the new king, Varius—contained blatant falsehoods.

 

And none more glaring than the claim that Prince Chalon was intersex.

 

Erald, more than anyone, knew that wasn't true.

 

By this lie, Chalon had been made eligible to marry a man. And by allowing his suitor to be of any social rank, the story began to resemble The Glass Slipper—offering Erald a fairy-tale chance at becoming the prince's chosen.

 

It was all too perfect.

 

At first, Erald had wanted to believe it—that Chalon had spent a year persuading his brother, that the two had come to a secret agreement to use this fabricated identity to buy Erald another chance.

 

But after visiting the town in disguise and seeing things with his own eyes… he didn't know what to believe anymore.

 

The festival—officially both a harvest celebration and a suitor selection—was set for the next night. Today was the entry day, with the pre-selection process underway.

 

Dozens of enclosed tents lined the central square. Royal officials were stationed inside and out, overseeing the evaluations.

 

And standing brazenly in the middle of the sunlit square was… an object.

 

A sculpture, carved from black crystal, unmistakably shaped to mimic an erect male organ.

 

The crowd had split in two.

 

Some were thrilled—laughing, gasping, praising the audacity of it all. Others turned away in disgust, calling it obscene, vulgar, utterly shameful.

 

Erald counted himself among the latter.

 

Only those unmarried men who matched the size and proportions of the sculpture were eligible to enter as candidates for Chalon's hand. The preliminary inspections were conducted inside the tents. Most turned back upon seeing the sculpture, but the few who proceeded were large, burly men with builds like bears.

 

That… that's a replica of my own genitals.

 

Erald recognized it instantly.

 

Chalon must have carved it… but he would never do such a thing willingly. That means it was Varius—the crown prince, no, the new king—who forced his hand. Which means this is all a trap.

 

As rumors spread and towering men gathered, Erald, stooped low and clad in a dusty traveler's cloak, moved quietly through the crowd—disguised as an elderly man of average height.

 

His baggy clothes concealed his frame, while a hood and cape obscured his features. His hair and beard had been left to grow long and wild, dusted with white powder and ash. No one could have connected this worn figure with the man shown in the wanted posters.

 

For the past year, Erald had lived as a drifter, avoiding use of the escape funds Chalon had entrusted to him. He had wandered the forested mountains of the neighboring kingdom of Auden, surviving on foraged food and what little help he could quietly barter for.

 

Parting with his beloved horse, Aston, had been painful. But riding or selling such a noble steed would only draw attention. In the end, he had quietly left Aston in the care of a wealthy noble family's estate in Auden.

 

Several times, Erald had attempted to sneak back into Aschenptel to find a way into the royal castle—but since Varius's ascension, the number of guards had doubled, and there wasn't a single gap to slip through.

 

Reluctantly, Erald had returned to the wilderness of Auden. When he needed food or information, he disguised himself as a hunched old man and ventured into nearby towns.

 

More than once in a tavern, he overheard soldiers grumbling—soldiers tasked with hunting him.

 

They seemed to universally despise the new king's extravagance and waste. Among commoners, sympathy ran strong for Erald, whom they whispered about as a friend of the well-loved Prince Chalon.

 

He also picked up rumors—some said Chalon had been confined by the king, others that he had fallen into melancholy and shut himself away.

 

But it was a strange remark he heard among the search parties that gave him the most pause.

 

The new king has forbidden Erald's execution. On the contrary, he's commanded the soldiers to capture him alive and unharmed—and any who injure him will be punished.

 

Erald had puzzled over this ever since.

 

It makes no sense, he thought. Given the charges, my execution should be inevitable. Why such an order?

 

Even now, Erald had no answer.

 

Now, disguised once more as an old man, he made his way through the western forest, headed toward the lake—a journey long and wearisome on foot.

 

It was his first time traveling there from the capital. Along the way, he took wrong turns more than once. And just like he faltered between paths, he found himself wavering in thought.

 

Why would Prince Chalon's brother want me captured unharmed?

 

If he were to indulge a hopeful thought, he might suppose that Varius was willing to acknowledge his younger brother's love for an "outsider," and that he had declared Chalon to be intersex so the two could be wed.

 

But no—after seeing the vulgar object displayed in the square, Erald could no longer believe in such a gentle explanation.

 

Varius was the same man he had been a year ago—bitter and cruel, hating Erald, resenting Chalon.

 

Most likely, this was all a trap: a reenactment of The Glass Slipper meant to lure Erald out, capture him, and ultimately execute him before Chalon's eyes. To that end, he had to arrive alive—unharmed, unmistakably himself, even to Chalon, whose sight was impaired.

 

Coming upon a grove of trees marked with violet ribbons and cords, Erald came to a stop.

 

They signaled the boundary of royal land—entering without permission was a crime punishable by imprisonment or worse. If the pardon were genuine, it would be foolish to risk committing another offense.

 

But Erald knew: The time for indecision has passed.

 

Even if this was a trap, he would do as he had promised a year ago.

 

He would wait here.

 

Chalon was likely being held under house arrest by the king—and Erald… well, there was no way he could make it to the castle on his own.

 

If so, the only option was to spring the trap. To be caught—and brought before Chalon once more.

 

Reaching out, he gently touched one of the violet ribbons, and narrowed his eyes toward the glittering lake beyond.

 

Chalon must want to be here now, he thought.

 

He believed that without doubt.

 

And that belief alone made it impossible to keep running.

 

If he never saw him again, he would never know Chalon's fate.

 

Perhaps their next meeting would be their last—perhaps it would end in his death. But if they didn't meet at all, Chalon would be left behind, left alone. Left in a cage until the king's mood changed—or worse, married off to some man whose body matched the obscenely sculpted object on display, subjected to a loveless, sacrilegious union that would torment both heart and flesh.

 

Does His Majesty the King truly think I would step forward as a suitor? Or was summoning me to the capital always the goal? Could he have guessed—no, known—that Chalon and I would meet again at this villa today? Has he already hidden soldiers in wait?

 

If so, then stepping beyond this point might be the end.

 

But Erald accepted that.

 

He would face what came.

 

He no longer stooped or bent his knees to hide his height. Instead, he straightened his back and walked forward as himself.

 

In the rough traveler's sack he carried—so fitting for his disguise—was Varius' evening suit, the same one Erald had donned for the masquerade ball a year ago. The mask had been lost during his escape, but everything else—the shoes, the long silk stockings—had been kept safe. He hadn't sold a single jeweled ornament, nor lost a single button.

 

As he neared the villa, the fragrance of that radiant, all-too-brief honeymoon seemed to rise in the air once more.

 

The villa itself appeared at last—modest for a royal residence, a stone structure draped in thick ivy.

 

And behind that veil of green, roses of every hue bloomed in riotous splendor.

 

The faint floral perfume, the sweet-and-tart scent of berries, and even the crisp coolness of the autumn wind brushing across the lake's surface—none of it had changed. It was as though time had looped back on itself.

 

The sky and the land reflected off the lake, creating the illusion that the world had split into two.

 

Once Erald confirmed that no horses or people were nearby, he approached the large candlestick stand that flanked the entry path.

 

It stood nearly as tall as his chest and held no candle—only rainwater collected in the grooves, with a few rotting leaves floating on the surface.

 

Touching the underside of the highest sconce, he found a hidden key nestled in a small recess made during the stand's construction.

 

No sign of anyone yet. Perhaps they're still on their way… or maybe His Majesty truly believes I'll enter as a candidate and never imagined I'd come here instead.

 

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