The Heiress Carrying His Heir-Chapter 28 - 29: Witness

Elara’s POV

A few hours later, Lena was back to her quarters to clean herself up.

I stood in front of my mirror while servants dressed me. They pulled tight the laces of my most formal gown. Deep purple silk, heavy with gold thread. The kind of dress that made it hard to breathe. Hard to move.

Perfect.

One servant placed the crown on my head. Not the light one I usually wore. The heavy one. The one my mother had worn for state occasions. It sat on my head like a weight, pressing down, making my neck ache.

Another servant pinned my hair up. Every strand in place. Perfect. Controlled.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale but calm. My eyes were dry. My expression was carefully blank.

I looked like a queen.

Not a girl who was about to watch someone she cared about be torn apart.

"Your Majesty," one servant said quietly. "It’s time."

I nodded once. Stood. Straightened my spine.

Walked to the door with my head high.

The hallways were empty. Everyone was already in the courtyard. Waiting for the show.

My guards fell into step behind me. We walked through the palace in silence. My dress rustled with each step. The crown felt heavier with every moment.

I could hear voices ahead. Lots of voices. The crowd gathering.

We reached the doors that led to the courtyard. Through the windows, I could see people everywhere. Packed in tight. Villagers. Soldiers. Servants. Members of the council.

All of them waiting to see blood.

The guards opened the doors.

I stepped out.

The noise stopped immediately. Everyone turned to look at me.

I walked down the steps slowly. Carefully. My face showed nothing.

A path opened through the crowd. People moved aside, bowing their heads as I passed.

I could feel their eyes on me. Judging. Whispering. Some looked sympathetic. Some looked curious. Some looked like they were enjoying this.

A platform had been set up in the center of the courtyard. Lord Malakor stood on it, hands clasped behind his back. Looking pleased with himself.

Beside the platform was a wooden post. Thick. Tall. With iron rings bolted to it.

For tying people to.

My stomach turned, but I kept my face blank.

A chair had been placed at the front of the crowd. For me. So I could sit and watch.

I walked to it. Sat down. Arranged my skirts carefully. Placed my hands in my lap.

And waited.

Malakor stepped forward to address the crowd.

"People of Dravara," he said. His voice carried across the courtyard. "We are gathered here today to witness justice. To see the law upheld. To be reminded that no one, not even those closest to the crown, is above the rules that protect us all."

The crowd murmured. Some nodded.

"The man being punished today violated sacred protocol," Malakor continued. "He removed Her Majesty the Queen from the palace without proper authorization. Without adequate security measures. Without informing the Captain of the Guard or the council. He endangered the crown. He acted above his station. He put his own judgment above the safety of our kingdom."

His eyes swept across the crowd. "Some might say he was simply following orders. That he was being loyal to the queen. But true loyalty is not blind obedience. True loyalty means protecting those we serve, even from themselves. Even when they don’t want our protection."

He paused. Let the words sink in.

"This punishment serves as a reminder," he said. "That loyalty to the throne does not mean loyalty to individual whims. That duty means doing what is right, not what is easy. That the law applies to everyone. No exceptions."

He looked directly at me when he said that last part.

I stared back at him. My face like stone.

"Bring out the prisoner," Malakor ordered.

Two guards appeared from a side door. Between them, barely able to walk, was Kaelen.

My heart clenched.

They’d already hurt him. His face was bruised, one eye swollen. His lip was split and bleeding. His shirt was torn, showing dark bruises on his ribs.

But he stood upright. Refusing to bow. Refusing to look broken.

The guards dragged him to the post. Started tying his wrists to the iron rings. He didn’t resist. Didn’t fight.

Just stood there, arms stretched above his head, tied in place.

One of the guards ripped his shirt off completely. Exposing his back.

The crowd gasped. I saw women cover their mouths. Saw men wince.

His back was already covered in old scars. Pale lines crossing his skin. Evidence of beatings long past.

He’d survived worse, he’d said.

He’d been telling the truth.

His eyes searched the crowd. Looking for something. Someone.

Then he found me.

Our eyes met across the courtyard.

And he smiled.

It was small. Weak. But it was there.

A smile that said: I’m okay. This is okay. Don’t worry about me.

That smile nearly broke me.

My hands clenched in my lap. My nails digging into my palms. Fighting to keep my face calm. To not scream. To not run to him. To not order this madness stopped.

"Begin," Malakor said.

A guard stepped forward. He held a whip. Long. Leather. With metal tips at the end.

Made to tear skin. To cause maximum pain.

The guard raised the whip.

And brought it down.

The crack echoed across the courtyard like thunder.

Kaelen’s body jerked. His muscles went tight. But he didn’t cry out.

A line of red appeared across his back.

The second strike came. Then the third.

The sound was terrible. Wet. Sharp. Each strike tearing into flesh.

Some people in the crowd cheered. Others winced. Others just watched in silence.

I watched too.

I didn’t look away. Didn’t close my eyes. Didn’t turn my head.

I watched every single strike.

Because if Kaelen had to endure this, the least I could do was witness it. And that is exactly what I was doing right now.

After ten strikes, his back was covered in blood. The lines crisscrossing over each other. Some wounds bleeding heavily. Others just oozing.

After twenty, he started to sway. His knees buckled slightly, but the ropes held him up.

After thirty, he couldn’t hold his head up anymore. It hung forward, his hair soaked with sweat.

I felt each strike like it was landing on my own back. Each crack of the whip making me flinch inside.

But outside, I remained still. My face calm. My hands in my lap.

I could feel Malakor watching me. Waiting for me to break. To cry. To scream. To do something that would prove I was too emotional to rule.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

After forty strikes, Kaelen’s legs gave out completely. He hung from the ropes, his weight pulling at his wrists. Blood ran down his back in streams, dripping onto the ground.

The crowd had gone quiet now. Even the ones who’d been cheering at first had stopped.

This wasn’t justice anymore. It was just cruelty.

After forty-five strikes, I saw Kaelen lift his head. Just slightly. Just enough to look at me again.

His face was pale. Covered in sweat. Twisted with pain.

But he looked at me. And even through the agony, even through the blood and the suffering, his eyes said: I’m sorry.

Sorry for failing me. Sorry for not being strong enough. Sorry for putting me through this.

As if any of this was his fault.

I wanted to tell him it wasn’t. Wanted to tell him I was the one who should be sorry. That this was my fault. My choice. My responsibility.

But I couldn’t. Could only sit there and watch as they destroyed him.

Fifty.

The final strike fell.

Kaelen’s body went completely limp. Unconscious. Maybe worse.

The guard stepped back, coiling the whip.

"It is done," Malakor announced. "Justice has been served. Let this be a lesson to all who would put the crown in danger."

He gestured to the guards. "Return him to the dungeon."

Not to a healer. Not to a bed. To the dungeon.

The guards cut the ropes. Kaelen’s body fell forward. They caught him before he hit the ground, but barely.

He was limp. Dead weight. His back was a mess of torn flesh and blood. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

They lifted him, one guard under each arm, and started carrying him away.

His feet dragged on the ground. His head hung forward. Blood dripped from his back, leaving a trail behind him.

The crowd parted to let them through. Some people looked away. Some stared. Some looked sick.

I stood up.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The movement drew every eye to me.

I said nothing. Gave no speech. Made no declaration.

Just stood there, my crown on my head, my spine straight, my face carefully blank.

The crowd watched me. Waiting for something. Anything.

I gave them nothing.

Just walked forward. The crowd parted for me immediately. Creating a path.

I walked through them. Past Malakor. Past the bloody post. Past the whispers and the stares.

My guards fell into step behind me.

I walked back into the palace the same way I’d come out. Crowned. Composed. Unbroken on the surface.

Behind me, I could hear the crowd starting to disperse. Murmuring. Discussing what they’d seen.

The servants closed the doors behind me. The sound echoed through the empty hallway.

And still I kept walking. Head high. Back straight. Face calm.

It wasn’t until I reached my chambers that I finally stopped.

The door closed. And I was alone.