CHAPTER 456: THE KING’S JUDGMENT, HELGA’S RETRIBUTION

That night, behind the sealed doors of her chambers, Queen Helga wept. Not the quiet sobs of a grieving mother, but the raw, ragged cries of a woman stripped bare. She wept for her son, whose young body lay broken beyond repair. For her birthday feast, meant for joy, turned into a funeral dirge. For her kingdom, mocked and bloodied before the eyes of its enemies. Her sorrow battered the stone walls, turning the once-safe haven of her room into something hollow as a tomb.

At the foot of her family portrait, Helga knelt. Her hands clutched tightly in her lap, knuckles pale, as though in desperate prayer. Candlelight trembled across her face, carving deep shadows that flickered between anguish and something far darker: the cold gleam of vengeance.

"Forgive me," she breathed, voice hoarse. She whispered to no one. "Forgive my blindness. My vanity has cost us blood and honor. But no more."

She raised her head. Her tear-streaked face hardened, eyes narrowing into steel.

"I will see Turik’s head upon a spike. I will repay humiliation with humiliation. And if Northem must be forged into a fortress of fire and iron to do it—then so be it."

Beyond the door, a shadow stirred. Heimdal had heard every word.

When he entered, the air changed. The room chilled, as though a storm had stepped inside with him. Though Odin and Asael escorted him, they lingered outside; the King needed no guard. His presence alone filled the chamber, oppressive and heavy, and Helga felt the weight of judgment before he even spoke.

His eyes settled on Helga.

"You," he said, his voice low, terrible, like a blade drawn in silence.

Helga’s head snapped up. "Me?" she hissed, her face streaked with tears. "Have you seen your son—our son—ruined, crawling in blood? Did you not see what the Zurans did to him?"

"I saw," Heimdal replied, his voice flat. "I saw the truth. The gates they breached, the ambush they laid, the banquet turned to slaughter—those were no coincidences. They were guided." His eyes bore into her. "Fed to them. By you."

The blood drained from Helga’s face. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.

So he knew.

"You thought to play the dutiful queen," Heimdal continued, each word sharpened like a blade, "cooing over nobles, feigning care, while whispering to the snakes in our midst. You opened the back door while guarding the front. And now—" His voice thundered, shaking the chamber. "Now, our son lies crippled. The blood of knights are still warm in the banquet hall and in the corridor. You make Northem bleeds!"

"Lies!" Helga shrieked. She clutched her gown like armor. "You accuse me while your throne rots beneath you! If I had betrayed you, would I still be here? Would I bleed as you do? Would I suffer this shame?"

Heimdal stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. "You suffer because of ambition. Because of hunger. You thought to use Zura’s blade to cut me down and pave your way to power. But knives do not choose their wielder—they cut the hand that grasps them."

Helga’s chest heaved, her breath quickening. She stared at her husband—once her protector, now her executioner. A jagged laugh burst from her lips, raw and broken.

"Do you see, Heimdal?" she whispered, her eyes wide and glistening. "My son—our son—broken, maimed, crawling for the rest of his life. And you dare call it my sin?"

Heimdal’s eyes narrowed. "I warned you not to hold that banquet. I counseled Reuben on whom to trust. But you—" He pointed, his voice like judgment itself. "You turned deaf, and all that followed is your doing. Your sin. And you must answer for it."

Helga’s laughter grew shriller, echoing madly. She tugged at her hair, tears cutting wild paths down her cheeks. "No throne! No kingdom! No heir! What queen am I now? What kind of mother? Nothing! Nothing!"

Outside the chamber, Odin and Asael exchanged grim glances. Their queen was unraveling—her mind splintering under grief, guilt, and accusation.

Helga’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper, broken yet venomous. "If Northem burns, it will burn with me. If my son crawls, so will your line. You will have no peace, Heimdal. No legacy."

Her laughter followed—high, hollow, unending. A queen’s laughter, turned mad.

Heimdal’s eyes closed briefly, sorrow tracing his features. But when he opened them again, it was the king who looked upon her—cold and resolute.

"The court will investigate you and your kin for treachery—beginning with the crime two years past."

Helga froze. Her voice cracked. "What? No... You cannot. I am the Queen of Northem. The most powerful woman in this kingdom! You would shame your crown by dragging me through mud?" She lunged at him, nails bared, a desperate shriek tearing from her throat. But a guard caught her wrists before she could touch him.

"Then, you shouldn’t have done the things you did, Helga. You should have been content," Heimdal said softly, almost wearily. "You had everything. A throne. A son destined for the crown. Yet your greed devoured it all."

Her eyes blazed. "Greed? No—it was her!" She pointed at the empty air, wild. "Even now, she stands beside you. Astrid! The ghost you cannot let go. She mocks me with that smile. Always mocking—always her!"

Heimdal froze, his breath caught. He turned slightly, as though half-believing he might glimpse what she claimed. But there was nothing.

Was Helga hallucinating? Had she been under too much stress that her brain was muddled?

Helga screamed at the empty space, eyes blazing with madness. "Bitch! Mock me if you dare! My son may be broken, but yours will never wear the crown!" She seized a teacup and hurled it—shards exploded against the wall near Heimdal.

The guard paled, too slow to stop her. Heimdal stood unmoved, though shock flickered across his face. All this time, she was still jealous of Astrid? Haunted by her memory?

"Let the queen rest. She is tired." Heimdal commanded, his voice flat. "Summon the royal physician."

He turned to leave. Helga screamed his name, cursed Astrid, shrieked until her voice cracked.

At the threshold, Heimdal paused. His gaze cut back, icy and final.

"Let history remember," he said, voice like stone. "That Queen Helga of Northem, was struck mad on her fiftieth birthday. From this day forward, she is stripped of her crown. Her chamber will serve as her prison."

His eyes locked on hers, cold and unyielding. "This is my last mercy—for you as my wife, and because you were blameless in Astrid’s death. But your kin—the architects of that murder—will not be spared. You gave me evidence by your own actions; and they shall be judged."

...

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