Page 63 of Maid For The Dark Elf

"Actually, I can." I release him and step back, producing the royal seal from my inner pocket. The golden dragon catches the firelight, its ruby eyes seeming to burn. "King Grymlock's personal authorization. I've been investigating under Crown mandate from the beginning."

Darion stares at the seal, his defiance crumbling into hollow understanding. My guards enter on cue, moving with professional efficiency as they bind his hands.

The King's outpost squats like a stone fortress against the night sky, its windows glowing with the harsh light of interrogation chambers. Inside, Therovar and Velryssa sit in separate rooms, their earlier arrogance replaced by the hollow-eyed shock of the truly caught.

Father handles the questioning with skill earned from years of this kind of work, his indigo eyes never leaving Therovar's face as the older elf breaks down completely.

"We had evidence," Therovar insists, his voice cracking. "Years of correspondence, financial records, witness testimony. Aethan was planning to eliminate our entire branch from succession. My children, my grandchildren—he would have destroyed us all!"

"Where is this evidence?" Father's tone remains perfectly neutral.

"In my study. The locked cabinet behind my desk. Everything is documented, catalogued, preserved." Therovar's hands shake as he gestures. "We didn't want to act, but what choice did we have? Our family's survival was at stake!"

Father nods to one of the King's guards, who departs immediately. The wait stretches like a taut bowstring until he returns carrying an ornate wooden box.

I open it slowly, revealing stacks of letters, financial ledgers, and testimony statements. Each document appears authentic at first glance—official seals, proper parchment, convincing handwriting.

"This wasn't evidence," I announce, holding up one of the forged letters. "This was manipulation."

Velryssa's lavender eyes widen in horror. "That's impossible. The magical signatures, the authenticity spells⁠—"

"All forgeries. Sophisticated ones, but forgeries nonetheless." I let the weight of their realization settle. "You murdered one of King Grymlock's most trusted advisors because someone wanted you to believe a lie."

"The correspondence seals it," Father states grimly, his violet gaze fixed on the damning letters. "Detailed plans discussing the watchtower location, the timing of Aethan's death, and instructions for disposing of his body so new legitimacy was established."

Aunt Nythessa's pale fingers drum against the table's polished surface. "They obviously weren't planning on a wedding between our families to some estranged cousin."

I study Therovar's handwriting on one of the recovered letters, noting how his usual elegant script becomes increasingly erratic as the conspiracy progressed. "This wasn't just about succession rights. They genuinely believed Aethan intended to destroy the family."

"Years of manipulation," Mother observes quietly, her tone carrying both sympathy and condemnation. "Someone fed them careful lies until paranoia transformed into desperation."

"The question remains," Father interjects, "who orchestrated this manipulation? These three may have committed the actual murder, but they were clearly pawns in a larger game."

Asterion nods toward a stack of unsigned correspondence. "These anonymous letters convinced Therovar that Aethan planned to formally disinherit his entire bloodline. The psychological manipulation was methodical, building over years until murder seemed like their only option for survival."

The scope of the deception staggers me. Someone spent years poisoning relationships within House Ardyn, turning family members against each other like batlaz tearing their kin for a piece of meat.

I turn to face the three murderers, letting the weight of revelation settle in the stone chamber before delivering the blow that will shatter their understanding completely.

"There's something none of you knew about Aethan's claim to House Ardyn."

Therovar's crimson-violet eyes narrow with suspicion. "What would that be?"

"Aethan wasn't actually the legitimate line of succession. He had an older brother."

Therovar rolls his eyes with theatrical disgust, his shackled hands gesturing dismissively despite the chains. "Yes, brilliant observation. But that uncle died over a century ago and the title went to Aethan. Elementary succession law, even for someone as young as you."

"No." I let the single word hang like a blade. "It went to his son."

The three share a look of complete bewilderment. Velryssa's lavender eyes widen before her face hardens into vehement denial.

"Impossible," she snaps, her voice cutting through the chamber's oppressive atmosphere. "We would have known. The genealogies, the records⁠—"

"Quite possible—and true." I snap back, matching her intensity. "He was only fifty years old when his father died, and Aethan likely knew that he would be an easy target for exactly the kind of manipulation you three fell victim to. So he sent him away for his own protection."

Darion looks up from his slumped position, his face strained with sudden understanding and burning anger. His violet eyes blaze with the fury of someone realizing they've been played on multiple levels.

"Alaric." The name escapes his lips like a curse. "That's why your ridiculous sister suddenly decided to marry after rejecting me twice."