Chapter 21 Aug 19, 2025 Celeste "The Princess Céleste… uh… Her Royal… I mean…" The young guard's voice cracked as he attempted to announce my arrival at the council chamber doors. His face flushed crimson, sweat gathering at his temples despite the cool morning air. Behind him, I could hear the sudden hush of conversation. "The Princess Céleste," I said quietly, helping him find his words. "Yes, Your Highness. The Princess Céleste." He stammered through the rest of the announcement, his eyes darting nervously to my rounded belly before fixing on some point above my head. I swept past him into the chamber, my hand resting naturally on the curve of my stomach. Eight months now. No hiding it, no pretending anymore. The child moved within me as I walked, a constant reminder of everything at stake. "Gentlemen," I said, taking my seat at the mahogany table. "Please, continue your discussion." The silence stretched longer than protocol demanded. Lord Beaumont cleared his throat, shuffling his papers with unnecessary attention. Count Moreau studied his hands as if they held the secrets of the universe. Only Duke Laurent met my gaze directly, and what I saw there wasn't reassuring. "We were discussing the harvest reports from the northern provinces," Lord Beaumont said finally. "Of course." I folded my hands over my belly, feeling the child kick against my ribs. "I trust the yields are satisfactory?" "Quite satisfactory, Your Highness," Duke Laurent replied, but his tone suggested harvests were the furthest thing from his mind. As the meeting progressed, I caught the subtle glances, the meaningful looks exchanged over my head. They spoke in careful euphemisms about "succession planning" and "legitimacy concerns" and "proper documentation of bloodlines." Nothing direct. Nothing actionable. But the meaning was crystal clear. When I left the chamber an hour later, the same young guard fumbled my departure announcement just as badly as my arrival. "Get that boy some training," I murmured to his captain as I passed. "Yes, Your Highness. He's… new." New guards were making mistakes. Old guards were avoiding eye contact. Even the servants seemed affected by whatever poison was spreading through the palace corridors. In the Rose Gallery, I paused to admire the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. The gardens beyond looked peaceful, serene, but I could feel eyes watching from the shadows between the columns. "Your Highness," came a soft voice behind me. I turned to find Marie, one of the younger maids, approaching with a tea service. But she walked past me without the customary curtsy, setting the tray on a nearby table with shaking hands. "Marie," I said gently. She startled, finally looking at me. "Your Highness! Forgive me, I-" She dropped into a hasty curtsy, nearly upsetting the tea service in her haste. "It's quite alright." But it wasn't alright. These lapses were becoming more frequent. A page who forgot to bow. A footman who looked through me as if I were a ghost. A seamstress who measured my expanding waistline with barely concealed disgust. The whispers followed me down every corridor. They stopped when I approached, resumed when I passed. But sometimes, just sometimes, I caught fragments that made my blood run cold. "…timing is all wrong…" "…never shared a bed before…" "…bastard in the bloodline…" I maintained my composure, my royal bearing, my serene smile. But inside, something harder than diamonds was forming around my heart. It was Lord Sinclair who delivered the most cutting blow, though I doubt he meant for me to hear it. I was passing the map room when his voice drifted through the partially open door. "Mark my words, that child is illegitimate as they come. No amount of royal acknowledgment will change what it truly is." I stopped breathing for a moment, my hand pressed against the wall for support. The child within me seemed to sense my distress, kicking frantically against my ribs. "Careful, my lord," came another voice-Duke Laurent. "Such words could be considered treasonous." "Only if they're false," Sinclair replied with a bitter laugh. I forced myself to continue walking, though my legs felt unsteady. Each step echoed in the marble corridor like a countdown to some terrible revelation. Hannah was waiting in my chambers when I finally returned, her face grave with concern. "We need to talk," she said without preamble, closing the door firmly behind me. "What is it?" "I've been hearing things. Disturbing things." She helped me settle into the chair by the window, her hands gentle but urgent. "Two of the court scribes have been asking questions." "Questions about what?" "About you. Your movements over the past year. They're particularly interested in the months before your marriage to Prince Renard." My throat went dry. "What kind of questions?" "Dates. Times. Who you met with, where you went, when you returned from outings." Hannah's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "They're building a timeline, Your Highness. Documenting everything." "For what purpose?" "To prove the child isn't the Prince's." She knelt beside my chair, her weathered hands covering mine. "Someone is building a case, gathering whispers and timelines and misaligned dates. They want to destroy your child's claim to legitimacy." The room seemed to tilt around me. I pressed both hands to my belly, feeling the strong, steady movement of the life within me. "Not to expose the King," Hannah continued urgently. "They're too careful for that. But to destroy the child. To make sure it can never wear a crow