DRAGONBORN SORCERER-Chapter 31: Birth of Royalty: Heir or Regret

Despite being surrounded by barren lands and dangerous forests teeming with untamed beasts, the Nation of Rosevill remained prosperous. Though small in size, it was an efficiently governed and well-regulated kingdom. Perhaps this was the reason it had earned its place among the ’Eleven Great Kingdoms.’

Unlike other nations, which were divided into multiple territories ruled by noble families and barons, Rosevill’s geographical structure was rather distinct.

Instead of a vast spread of land segmented into countless regions, it had only two major settlements: the main town, where commoners resided, and the capital city, which was home to the royal family and nobility. However, the kingdom was not closed off to its people—commoners were not forbidden from entering the capital. It made Rosevill one of the most accessible royal domains in the world.

Between the Main Town and the Capital City stood the Grand Church, a structure of unparalleled magnificence. It was not merely a place of worship but a symbol of divine power and grace. Built entirely from pure gold, its walls shimmered under the sun, casting a radiant glow that could be seen for miles.

Sacred scriptures and ancient prayers were intricately engraved into its foundation, as if the very essence of faith had been woven into its architecture. Tall spires reached skyward, their peaks seemingly striving to touch the heavens themselves. Enchanted gemstones, embedded into the church’s walls, emitted a soft, holy light, and the air around the structure felt lighter, purer, as though it repelled all forms of corruption.

Here, the Goddess of Creation was venerated—a divine being believed to be the source of all life, the mother of creation, and the granter of blessings and graces. The Grand Church was said to be a sanctuary of eternal peace, a place untouched by sin and impurity. Yet, even the purest of places can harbor shadows.

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It was a night of relentless thunderstorm, when lightning tore through the sky with a menacing roar, and the wind howled as if possessed by some unseen force. Rain poured in torrents, drenching the land and obscuring the world in a veil of darkness. Even the sound of its dropping on the wall of the Grand Church, was way heavier than usual.

Amidst this tempest, two figures visited within the Grand Church. They were none other than the ruler of Rosevill, King Makarov Rosevill Del Heathway, and his wife, Queen Silica Del Heathway.

The royal couple had been married for twelve years, yet their union had not been blessed with children. They had exhausted every conceivable method—medical treatments, magical remedies, and countless prayers—but to no avail.

Desperation had driven them to the Grand Church that night, where they knelt before the Goddess of Creation, their hearts heavy with longing and despair.

At the time, the High Priest of the church was Hyndall Wiseman, a man revered for his unwavering devotion and divine wisdom.

Though in his sixties, Hyndall’s appearance defied his age, a gift of eternal youth bestowed upon him by the goddess.

His raven-black hair cascaded down his back, and his piercing black eyes held an unnatural depth, as though they could peer into the very soul of anyone who met his gaze.

His presence was mesmerizing, his voice a powerful instrument of persuasion. He was a masterful orator, capable of stirring the hearts of even the most skeptical, and a skilled manipulator of emotions. To the lost and the desperate, he was the perfect guide.

That night, Hyndall stood before the kneeling royal couple, his expression solemn as he observed their trembling hands and tear-streaked faces.

The sight was undeniably pitiful, and even the stoic High Priest felt a pang of sympathy. He closed his eyes, lifting his hands in silent prayer. A moment passed, and then, as if by divine intervention, a brilliant ray of sunlight pierced through the stormy darkness, illuminating Hyndall in an ethereal glow.

It was a moment of profound significance, one that seemed to transcend the natural order of the world.

"Ah... I see," he whispered, as though unravelling a sacred mystery that was hidden for long time before their eyes. His lips curled into a faint smile as he continued holding his impression. "So that is the reason why Her Majesty is unable to bear a child."

"Father Hyndall..." The king broke into tears as his voice surged with anticipation, "What did the goddess reveal? Am I truly capable of becoming a father? Please, I beg you... tell me!"

The priest placed a reassuring hand on the king’s shoulders. His expression was gentle yet firm.

"Rise, O benevolent King of Rosevill." He replied, "You need not kneel any longer. The goddess has heard your pleas. She has been moved by your unwavering faith. And yes, you are still capable of fathering a child."

A wave of relief washed over King Makarov, but before he could rejoice, Hyndall’s voice turned solemn.

"However...."

The priest’s gaze shifted toward Queen Silica. She was an exquisite beauty, with cascading golden hair and deep blue eyes that resembled the tranquil sea. Even in despair, she radiated grace, and her elegant attire shimmered under the church’s golden light. Her presence made her shine like divine itself, so as her figure.

"It’s a shame that I could not say the same for, Her Majesty."

A stunned silence fell over room as Hyndall gestured disappointment, looking at her regretfully.

"What??" The king murmured, unbelieving what Hyndall told them, "Are you saying... she is the reason why we have not been blessed with a child? That she is at fault? She the root of our all problems?"

An anger crawled over him as he looked at Silica with a hint of disgust. The atmosphere was changing rather drastically against her. She felt disappointed in herself too, hearing those words as well. Yet she couldn’t speak anything. Just a tear dropped from her eyes.

"Not entirely," Hyndall interjected while stepping closer. Gently, he cupped Silica’s face in his hands, and tilted her chin up so that she met his unwavering gaze.

"My child, while it is true that the goddess has withheld her blessing from you, it is not without reason. There is something you have yet to atone for."

Silica’s brows furrowed in utter confusion.

"Atone... For what father?" She whispered, desperate and overwhelmed by her sadness, "Have I done something that opposed our goddess? I don’t understand. Tell me father, what did I do?"

She burst into tears. Despite her age over thirty, her face looked innocent, adorable and sweet. The only exception was the tears which Hyndall gently wiped.

"It appears, you still has something to atone for your past incidents. You may have overlooked those, and that is what offended our goddess, granting you no blessing for having a child."

A thunder collapsed outside. Silica paled. The weight of his words crashed down upon her like a tidal wave. Her mind race fast, thinking of any possible deeds for what she never atoned. However, she found nothing.

How could she anyway. She was a devotee, even greater than the king himself. Never in her life she once offended anyone, nor she was involved in bad deeds. She devoted her body and soul to the Goddess of Creation. Yet for some reason she felt distressed, knowing nothing how did she let her faith to falter.

"But fear not, my child." Hyndall replied, still holding her distressed face, "If you can atone for those deeds now. Your sins shall be forgiven. Redemption will be granted."

He paused for a second before saying more as though to increase the weight of his words.

"But, it will be though as past sins always becomes heavy with each moment passing by. And the repentance might require a great deal of sacrifice and endurance."

"I am prepared." Silica said without any hesitation, her eyes drenched with tears yet with burning determination. Her heart pounded hard. She clinched fist.

"No matter what it takes, I will atone. Please, guide me, Father."

A slow smile crept onto Hyndall’s lips. A hint of malice remained hidden under his smile.

"Of course," he murmured. "That is what I am here for."

*************

Ten months later, the sound of a child’s cry echoed through the royal palace for the first time. King Makarov rushed to the queen’s chambers, his heart pounding with anticipation.

There, he found Silica cradling not one, but two newborns—a boy and a girl, both bearing a striking resemblance to their mother.

They rested peacefully on their mother’s lap, their tiny faces serene.

Tears welled in the king’s eyes as he gently stroked Silica’s hair. "In the end, we can still be parents," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

"Indeed," Silica replied softly, a single tear slipping down her cheek. But her smile was tinged with sorrow, for her tears were not solely of joy. A hint of regret resided within her tears.

Later the King came up with wonderful names for them. The boy was named Michael Rosevill Del Heathway, and the girl, Rosaline Del Heathway.