NTR: King gets Cucked-Chapter 16: Whispers of Guilt

The days that followed were not kind to Althea.

Guilt clung to her like a second skin, an ever-present reminder of the night she could never take back. Or had she? The more she thought about it, the more the details blurred. She had believed she had initiated it, that she had given in to temptation. But why did certain moments feel... hazy? Why couldn't she remember every sensation clearly? Karlos had hinted that it had been her choice, but something inside her nagged at that truth. Had she truly wanted it?

She had thought herself strong, capable of keeping her emotions separate from her actions, but the truth gnawed at her in the quiet moments—when Zyran's absence left her alone with her thoughts, when Karlos's knowing smirk made her stomach churn with a mixture of disgust and something more dangerous.

Karlos, ever the opportunist, seemed to sense her inner turmoil and relished in it.

"You've been quieter than usual, my queen," he mused one evening, lounging beside her as if he belonged there. His fingers traced absent patterns along her wrist, light enough to tease. "Regretting your choices?"

Althea gave no response, simply freeing her hand from Karlos and stepping away, putting distance between them.

Karlos chuckled, unbothered by her attempt at indifference. "Oh, but your body betrays you, Althea. I see the way you tremble when I touch you. You tell yourself it's duty, but deep down... you crave this." His fingers brushed over her waist, a whisper of a touch that sent an unwanted thrill through her spine.

She clenched her fists beneath the table, ignoring the heat rising to her skin. "You mistake tolerance for desire."

"Do I?" His smirk widened. "I wonder how long you'll keep lying to yourself. After all, it was your idea, wasn't it?"

Althea's breath hitched. She turned away sharply, unwilling to let him see the flicker of doubt in her eyes. Was it really? She bit her lip, her mind racing. Her memories were muddled—she had felt strange that night, hadn't she? Lightheaded, overwhelmed. Drugs? The thought sent a shiver down her spine. No... he wouldn't... Would he?

⸻

Nyra was the first to notice the change in Althea.

Once playful and flirtatious, Althea now carried an air of distraction, her laughter forced, her teasing words lacking the spark they once held.

"Althea," Nyra said hesitantly one afternoon, catching her outside the grand balcony. "Is something wrong?"

Althea stiffened, then forced a smile. "Why would anything be wrong?"

"You're not yourself. You don't joke with me like before. You don't even seem happy." Nyra's coral-blue hair shimmered under the sunlight as she gazed at her friend with concern. "Please, talk to me."

"I said I'm fine," Althea snapped, harsher than she intended.

Nyra flinched, her expression shifting to hurt. "Althea..."

Althea exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temple. "I'm sorry. I just... have a lot on my mind."

Nyra hesitated before nodding. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here."

Althea turned away, staring into the distant horizon. "I know."

⸻

On the Road to Drakestone...

The night was still, save for the soft clatter of hooves on dirt as Zyran's caravan made its way through the dense forest path. He was returning victorious, yet something felt off.

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A sudden rustle in the trees.

A whistle of air.

Then—chaos.

Masked figures lunged from the shadows, their weapons gleaming under the moonlight. Arrows whizzed through the air, piercing through soldiers caught off guard. The enemy moved with deadly precision, too organized for mere bandits.

Evrin reacted instantly. "Formation!" he barked, unsheathing his blade. A pulse of mana surged through him as flames roared to life along his sword's edge.

Zyran barely had time to draw his own weapon before an attacker charged at him, twin daggers flashing. He parried clumsily, the impact jolting up his arms. He was no match for these men.

Evrin, however, was another story.

With a swift incantation, his blade ignited into an inferno. He moved like a tempest, cutting through foes with precise, burning strikes. One attacker screamed as Evrin's sword sliced through his armor, fire consuming him instantly.

Zyran turned just in time to block another strike, but his counter was weak. His opponent sneered. "You're pathetic."

Before the enemy could finish him, a searing blade drove through his chest from behind. Evrin withdrew his sword, flames licking at the dying man's corpse. "Your Highness, focus."

Zyran gritted his teeth. The battlefield was a blur of clashing steel and erupting magic. Fire, ice, wind—all elements clashed as the royal guards fought against their ambushers. One soldier summoned jagged earth spikes, impaling two enemies at once. Another cast a defensive barrier to shield against an incoming barrage of arrows.

The enemy began to falter.

One by one, they fell, and soon, the survivors fled into the darkness.

Evrin wiped his blade clean, his gaze scanning the area. "This was no ordinary attack. Someone sent them."

Zyran sheathed his sword, frustration gnawing at him. "I was useless."

Evrin placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not useless, but unprepared. You need to hone your strength, Your Highness. The throne demands it."

Zyran exhaled, nodding. "We need to take a different route. Drakestone awaits."

⸻

The Return to Drakestone

Zyran rode through the gates, head high despite the unease clawing at him. He had succeeded in his political endeavors, but the road back had been a sobering reminder of his own shortcomings.

He dismounted, expecting a warm welcome from his queen. Instead, Althea stood at the entrance, her expression unreadable.

"My love," Zyran greeted, reaching for her.

Althea allowed the embrace but did not melt into it as she once did. There was a distance between them, one he couldn't place.

"You seem troubled," Zyran murmured, stroking her cheek.

Althea forced a smile. "I've just had... a lot to handle in your absence."

Zyran studied her, sensing something beneath her words. But he dismissed it. Perhaps she was merely overwhelmed by court affairs.

For now, he let it be.

But the whispers of doubt had already begun to take root.