8. Chapter 8 - Investigation Deepens
Gabriella
The Royal Archives were located in the oldest wing of the palace, a labyrinth of climate-controlled rooms and rolling ladders that smelled of aging paper and history.
For three days after the attack, I had hidden here, using my recovery and Marcus's convalescence as excuses to avoid Roman, to avoid the conversation we needed to have but couldn't bear to begin.
"Your Majesty," Henri, the archivist, said, approaching with another stack of leather-bound volumes. "The Blackwood genealogical records you requested. They're... extensive."
"Thank you, Henri," I replied, my voice softer than I intended. "I appreciate your discretion."
He nodded, understanding without being told that my interest in the Blackwood family was more than academic curiosity. In the palace, information was currency, and discretion was survival.
I waited until he had retreated to his office before opening the first volume.
The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible, the family trees sprawling across centuries of marriages, alliances, and births.
I was looking for something specific, something that had been nagging at me since Roman had first mentioned Sebastian's name in connection to The True Crown.
The attack had changed everything. Marcus was alive but would need months of physical therapy.
Roman was distant, haunted by the life he had taken to save mine.
And I am angry. Angry at the violation, angry at the fear they had instilled, angry at the way they had forced Roman to become the killer he never wanted to be.
But beneath the anger was a chilling realization: this wasn't just about destroying me. It was about replacing me.
The records stretched back generations, a dizzying web of names and dates and connections. I traced the Blackwood line back through the centuries, through kings and queens, through wars and rebellions, through the births and deaths that had shaped Valeria's monarchy.
And then I found it.
Buried in the nineteenth-century records, in a footnote about a minor royal marriage that had been annulled for "reasons of state," was the connection I had been looking for.
A Blackwood daughter, married to a second son of the royal house, divorced before the marriage could be consummated, but not before a child had been conceived—a child whose legitimacy had been questioned, whose claim to the throne had been set aside in favor of a more direct heir.
I cross-referenced the name with the modern lineage, my heart pounding as the connection became clear. The child had been raised in obscurity, their claim forgotten, their descendants scattered across Europe, their royal blood diluted but not extinguished.
Until Sebastian Blackwood.
I pulled up the digital archives, my fingers flying across the keyboard, searching for the name that had been haunting my nightmares.
There it was. Sebastian Blackwood, born 35 years ago to Lord and Lady Blackwood.
His mother's maiden name, De la Croix. His grandmother's maiden name, Valerius.
His great-grandmother's name, the annulled princess from the nineteenth-century records.
His claim was distant. Tenuous. Almost laughable in its indirectness.
But it was legitimate.
"Your Majesty?" Henri asked, reappearing at my elbow. "Is everything alright?"
I closed the laptop, my hands shaking. "Fine, Henri. Just... absorbed in my research."
He nodded, but I saw the concern in his eyes. "You've been down here for days. Perhaps a break would be beneficial?"
"I'll finish up soon," I promised, though I knew I wouldn't. Not until I understood the full scope of what I had discovered.
After he left, I reopened the records, my mind racing through the implications. Sebastian wasn't just a traditionalist noble angry about reforms. He wasn't just an ideologue committed to absolute monarchy.
He was a claimant to the throne.
A claimant with a legitimate, if distant, connection to the royal bloodline.
A claimant who believed Gabriella had "polluted" that bloodline with common blood and democratic ideals.
A claimant who saw himself not as a usurper, but as a restorer.
As the one who would purify the monarchy and return it to its "rightful" state.
And his plan, as Roman had overheard in the crypt, was chillingly clear: wait for Gabriella to give birth, kill her and Roman, claim the child as his puppet monarch, rule as regent until she came of age, then mold her into the queen he wanted her to be.
A queen who understood the sacred nature of absolute monarchy, the divine right of kings, the importance of pure bloodlines.
The conspiracy wasn't about destroying me.
It was about replacing me.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath, making my hands tremble. They didn't want to kill me because I was a reformer. They wanted to kill me because I stood between them and the throne. They didn't want to destroy the monarchy; they wanted to reclaim it.
"Your Majesty," Roman said from the doorway, his voice hesitant. "I've been looking for you."
I looked up, my mind still reeling from the implications of what I had discovered. "Roman."
He crossed the room, his movements careful, as if approaching a wounded animal. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," I lied, turning back to the records. "Just researching."
"Gabriella," he said softly, his hand finding my shoulder. "We need to talk."
"Not here," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Not now."
He flinched, but didn't retreat. "Then when? Where? How long are you going to hide down here, avoiding me, avoiding what happened?"
"I'm not avoiding you," I countered, though I knew I was. "I'm working. Investigating. Trying to understand why they're doing this."
"They're doing it because they hate what we stand for," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Because they can't accept a queen who limits her own power. Because they can't accept a monarchy that serves rather than rules."
"That's not it," I said, turning to face him, my expression grim. "That's not all of it, anyway."
I showed him what I had found; the genealogical records, the distant connection, the legitimate claim. I watched his face as the realization dawned, as the pieces fell into place, as he understood the true scope of what we were facing.
"He's not just trying to destroy you," Roman said, his voice dangerously quiet. "He's trying to replace you."
"He sees himself as the rightful heir," I confirmed. "Or at least as the rightful regent. His plan is to kill us after the baby is born, claim Sophia as his ward, rule as regent until she comes of age, then mold her into the queen he wants her to be."
Roman's expression hardened, his eyes darkening with a cold fury I had never seen before. "He wants to use our daughter to legitimize his claim. He wants to turn her into his puppet."
"And he'll succeed if we don't stop him," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. "He has the bloodline. He has the ideology. He has the resources. And he has the patience to wait for the perfect moment to strike."
Roman moved behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his touch grounding me in the present even as my mind raced with the implications of the past.
"We knew this was about more than just politics," he said quietly. "We knew there were people who would never accept the changes we've made. But this... this is personal. This is about blood. About lineage. About the sacred trust they believe has been violated."
"And they're willing to kill to restore it," I finished, my voice barely audible. "They're willing to kill us. They're willing to use our daughter. They're willing to do whatever it takes to reclaim what they believe is rightfully theirs."
We stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of what we had discovered settling over us, the reality of the threat becoming clearer, more immediate, more dangerous than we had imagined.
"We need to tell Marcus," Roman said finally. "We need to tell the council. We need to—"
"No," I interrupted, turning to face him. "Not yet. If we move against Sebastian based on this information, he'll know how we found it. He'll know we're investigating his claim. He'll know we're onto him."
"What do you want to do?" he asked, his expression uncertain.
"Play along," I said, my voice firm with resolve. "Let him think we're still focused on The True Crown as an ideological threat. Let him think we don't know about his claim. Let him underestimate us until we have enough evidence to destroy him completely."
Roman studied my face, his expression unreadable. "This is dangerous, Gabriella. More dangerous than anything we've faced so far."
"Everything about this is dangerous," I countered. "But for the first time, I understand what we're fighting. Not just an idea. Not just an ideology. A man. A claim. A specific threat with a specific goal."
"And a specific weakness," Roman added, his eyes narrowing. "His claim depends on Sophia being alive to legitimize it. He won't harm her. Not until after he's secured his position as regent."
"Which means she's our greatest strength and our greatest vulnerability," I finished, my hand moving to my stomach, where Sophia was kicking, oblivious to the danger surrounding her. "Our shield and our sword."
Roman's arms tightened around me, pulling me close, his body a familiar comfort in the face of an unfamiliar threat. "We'll protect her. We'll protect each other. We'll protect what we've built."
I nodded, but my mind was already racing, already strategizing, already planning the next move in a game that had suddenly become clearer, more dangerous, more winnable than I had imagined.
Sebastian Blackwood had a claim to the throne.
But I had the crown.
And I would not let him take it. Not without a fight. Not without a war. Not without shedding the blood he was so willing to spill to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.