FICTION — “THE KING’S 30-YEAR SECRET”

An original dramatic story — not real, not historical — purely entertainment.

At seventy-five years old, King Alistair felt the weight of time pressing down like a crown made of iron. His once-steady hands trembled now, not from age… but from guilt. For three decades, he had guarded a truth darker than any shadow cast upon the Silver Palace. A truth carved into his heart the night Queen Adriana — beloved mother of the future king — never came home.

Tonight, that secret demanded release.

Prince Julian stood before him — tall, resolute, unknowingly fragile. The flickering fireplace lit his features with a warm glow that could not chase away the confusion in his eyes.

“Father… why have you summoned me so late?”

King Alistair swallowed hard. Words had never been heavier.

“There is something you must know,” he said quietly.
“About your mother. About her final moments.”

Julian’s breath hitched — the wound of her death had never fully healed. It was the tragedy that shaped his life, his duty… his grief.

The King reached into his coat, pulling out a worn envelope — edges frayed, sealed with tape yellowed by time.

“I should have destroyed this,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t. Her memory deserved… the truth.”

Julian stepped closer.
“What truth?”

The King’s voice cracked:
“It wasn’t an accident.”

Silence snapped through the room like a whip.

Julian felt the floor tilt beneath him.
He struggled to speak. “But they said—”

“I know what they said,” the King interrupted, tears rising, “because I told them to.”

He looked up — eyes drowning in regret.

“There was someone else that night. Someone who unloved her as fiercely as they once loved her. Someone who believed… if she couldn’t be theirs, she should be no one’s.”

Julian froze.
“…Who?”

The King’s answer came as a breath, not a voice:

“The seatbelt… was cut.”

Shock thundered through the young prince.

His mother’s last moments replayed in his mind — the flashing cameras, the endless theories, the lies cloaked in dignity.

Julian clenched his fists.
“Why hide it?”

The King shut his eyes, letting the past suffocate him.

“To protect you. To protect the crown. Because the one who committed this… was royal blood.”

Julian staggered back like the words had struck him with a blade.

“A traitor in our family?” he whispered.

“A monster wearing silk,” the King replied.

A log popped loudly in the fire — reminding them both that the world outside still lived unaware of the storm about to break.

Julian stared into his father’s eyes — searching for the name he knew was coming.

“Tell me who.”

King Alistair looked away.
His lips moved… but the name did not escape.

Instead, he said only three haunting words:

“They still walk free.”

Lightning split the sky outside the palace walls.
Thunder rolled like judgment.

And deep within Julian’s chest, something ancient and dangerous awakened — not grief, not fear…

Revenge.