The Mad Princess and the Dying Prince novel Chapter 83

Lately, Matron Cecily had been sick with worry over Prince Jareth.

The old king had passed away two days ago, compounding her fears. She had always taken comfort in the fact that the old king remained in the Royal Capital. He doted on Jareth and had always been there to back him up. She never expected the venerable monarch to suddenly pass away right after Jareth returned to the city.

Matron Cecily feared what would happen to Jareth now that his greatest protector was gone. And what of his injured legs?

Perhaps it was this heavy anxiety, but she had slept terribly for the past few nights. Last night, she even dreamt of the old king. In the dream, he was furious—stomping his feet, pointing a finger at her, and scolding her harshly. Yet, upon waking, she couldn't remember a single word of his reprimand. She only remembered waking with a splitting headache and profound exhaustion.

She knew that if she didn't sleep well tonight, she would likely fall ill. Already, her bones felt a heavy chill.

That evening, as she prepared for bed, her gaze landed on the small cloth pouch resting on her outer garments.

Celia seemed to have immense faith in Lady Lucia. Normally, Matron Cecily never wore anything to bed, but something drew her to the pouch. She picked it up and slipped it into the inner pocket of her linen sleeping gown.

She lay down, closed her eyes, and let out a soft sigh.

That night, Matron Cecily slept deeper than she had in years.

Meanwhile, inside the royal family chapel, the old king's carved wooden memorial plaque suddenly tipped forward in the middle of the night, clattering flat against the stone altar.

The next morning, a novice monk entered to light the morning candles. Seeing the fallen plaque, he gasped and looked around in sheer bewilderment.

The heavy wooden doors and stained-glass windows were shut tight. There were no other drafts in the sanctuary. The other royal plaques stood perfectly upright, and the candelabras were undisturbed. Not even the melted wax had been blown askew by the wind.

So why had only the old king's plaque fallen?

The young boy scratched his shaved head, reached out with both hands, and respectfully stood the heavy wooden plaque back up.

"Brother Kai, what are you doing?"

An older novice walked in, pausing when he saw his little brother adjusting the sacred plaque.

Young Kai was only seven years old. The monks here were sustained by royal patronage and dedicated their lives to praying for the royal ancestors. Only eight monks lived at the chapel, occasionally swapping duties with the brothers at the Abbey of the State outside the city limits. But Young Kai had practically been raised within these stone walls.

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