Believe It Or Not | The Truth That Could No Longer Be Hidden

Donovan in any other country would have been the heir apparent, yet everyone who mattered understood that he would never be crowned. His father, Jameson, knew it with a certainty that bordered on dread. The boy’s bloodline carried a truth too dangerous to ignore, and Jameson feared that, should Donovan ascend the throne, his instability would one day erupt into catastrophe. This was not a matter of temperament alone, but of origin. Donovan was the product of incest—born of a relationship that should never have existed, forged in isolation, neglect, and shame.

Jameson himself was the consequence of a deeply broken household. His father, King George, had conceived children out of wedlock with a maid named Charlotte in a rigidly Christian kingdom where such a scandal could ruin a dynasty. George was not mad, but he was careless—indifferent to the emotional lives of others, more concerned with appearances than responsibility. Charlotte, worn down by her station and her own detachment, did little to intervene. Their children, Jameson and his sister Scarlett, were raised in near-total isolation. Forbidden from forming friendships, denied affection once their infancy faded at 5, they were left with only each other. Emotional neglect calcified into dependence, and dependence slowly curdled into something forbidden.

By adulthood, the inevitable occurred. Jameson and Scarlett crossed a line neither fully understood until it was already behind them. The relationship was never formal, never acknowledged—only a quiet, shame-soaked entanglement sustained by loneliness and untreated mental illness. From it, Donovan was born. The child bore visible signs of inbreeding, marks that King George recognized immediately as proof of the family’s disgrace. Horrified and humiliated, he tightened the boundaries of their confinement. What little freedom they once had vanished entirely. The castle became a prison: no visitors, no conversation with servants, no glimpses of ordinary life. Silence and secrecy ruled all.

As George aged, guilt finally stirred him to action. He intervened too late, attempting to impress upon Jameson the gravity of his sins, the harm already done. Jameson listened. He was not without conscience, only without guidance. When George died—old, bitter, and grieving the failure of his household—Jameson severed all sexual ties with Scarlett. The loss hardened his resolve. He allowed Donovan limited contact with the outside world, hoping desperately that his son might escape the rot that had consumed the family. Yet the damage was irreversible. Donovan had been shaped by secrecy, by inherited illness, by a lineage steeped in repression and fear.

Jameson understood, with quiet sorrow, that love alone could not undo such foundations. Donovan might wear a crown one day—but if he did, the kingdom would bleed for it. And so Jameson made the only choice he believed was left: to keep his son alive, educated, and protected—yet far from the throne that would surely destroy him.

In another version of events—one Jameson could never stop imagining—Donovan would have been spared entirely.

“If George hadn’t let his shame take over,” Jameson once muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “Donovan would’ve just been born to Scarlett and some ordinary man. No isolation. No sickness. No madness. None of this.”

That truth haunted him. Donovan’s suffering had never been inevitable. It had been engineered—by secrecy, by neglect, by a fear of scandal that poisoned everything it touched.

After the incestuous relationship ended, Jameson and Scarlett continued raising Donovan together, though the air between them was permanently altered. The bond they shared was no longer physical, barely emotional—only residual obligation and unspoken guilt. Eventually, both sought lives that were unequivocally separate.

Jameson married a woman named Diamond, a foreigner by birth and entirely unrelated by blood. Scarlett married a man named Angel, also an outsider. Their choices were deliberate. Neither of them would ever again risk even distant kinship. What had once been confusion hardened into resolve.

Scarlett went on to have five children—Tony, Toby, Alex, John, and finally Sarah. Four sons and one daughter, listed always in birth order, as though the structure itself mattered. Sarah, the youngest, was her only daughter.

Jameson had one more child: Alexander. He named the boy after Alex—not as a gesture of affection, but coincidence sharpened by timing. Alex had been born first. Alexander followed shortly after. Unlike the others, Alexander’s name was intentionally extended. Alex was simply Alex. Alexander was Alexander, given extra letters so there would be no confusion, no overlap—no accidental intimacy in naming.

Donovan, meanwhile, remained the eldest. The firstborn. The beginning of everything.

In total, there were seven children.

Jameson took pride in the size of his family, yet the pride never lasted. It fractured the moment it formed.

Seven children, he would think—then immediately remember how the first had come to be.

The realization hollowed him out every time. Donovan was his son, unquestionably. And yet the knowledge of that origin—the sin bound to his birth—infected even Jameson’s love with shame. He loved all the children as his own, including Scarlett’s, even though they were not his by blood. And then the thought would strike him like ice: You weren’t in love with Scarlett. You never were.

What they had shared hadn’t been love. It had been desperation. A distorted dependence born of isolation. Remembering it now felt grotesque.

All of Jameson’s genuine affection belonged to Diamond. She was his wife. She was safe. She was unrelated. With her, there was no confusion, no sin masquerading as closeness.

George, however, had never let the matter rest.

He had founded the town himself, declared himself king not by inheritance but by will. A Danish monarchy built on ambition rather than tradition—and one that began badly. George knew it. The irony disgusted him.

“I will not be remembered like the ancient royals,” he told Jameson more than once. “I will not be another dynasty rotted by incest.”

He paced when he spoke, voice sharp with agitation.

“Do you know why children died in the Victorian era?” George demanded. “It wasn’t ignorance alone. It was blood. Cousins marrying cousins. Generations folding in on themselves. Weak immune systems. Madness. Deformity. Infant mortality.”

Jameson said nothing. He already knew what was coming.

“They said cousin marriages were ‘safer,’” George continued bitterly, “Three percent less risk, they claimed. Three percent less.” He scoffed. “If I tell you there’s a three percent chance you’ll die, do you take the gamble? Yes. Because that means a ninety-seven percent chance you live—but when it’s reversed, when it’s a three percent chance of survival, you'd call it certainty of death.”

He stopped pacing and faced his son.

“There is no meaningful difference,” George said coldly, “between sleeping with your cousin and sleeping with your sister. The outcome is the same. And you didn’t even choose a cousin—you chose your full sibling.”

Jameson flinched.

“I never married Charlotte,” George went on, voice rising, “She was never my wife. What I did was sinful enough. But you—you escalated it. And now there is a child.”

His voice cracked, anger bleeding into grief.

“Sex is not an accident,” George snapped, “It exists to create life. Across every species. Pleasure is the incentive. Reproduction is the function. You don’t get to act surprised when the function works.”

George shook his head, incredulous:

“And you ignored me. You kept going. All for a twisted bond you weren’t even happy in. What is wrong with you?”

That was the question Jameson could never answer.

And Donovan—born of that failure, shaped by confinement and consequence—would carry the weight of it all long after George was gone.

Chapter: The Question of Succession

Jameson carried shame the way other men carried titles. It sat on his shoulders even when no one spoke of it, even when the halls of Inkwell were quiet.

When Donovan reached adulthood—and when Alexander fell into those dreaded teen years not long after—the Royal Advisors finally spoke aloud what had been festering for years.

They summoned Jameson to the council chamber, stone cold despite the fire burning at its center. Inkwell could not remain without direction forever.

One of the advisors, Johnson, cleared his throat:

“We need you to choose an heir.”

Jameson did not respond.

Johnson: “You have many children,” the man continued carefully. “Your sister has many children. Traditionally, succession passes to the firstborn. However—”

Jameson’s jaw tightened.

Johnson: “—your father, King George, made it illegal for any royal conceived through incest to rule.”

Silence.

Johnson: “Your eldest son, Donovan, is therefore disqualified by law.”

Jameson looked down at the table.

“The only reason you were permitted to rule,” another advisor, Talia, added, “was because George had no other mentally stable heirs of age. Had there been one, the throne would never have passed to you.”

They were not cruel. They were precise.

“No child under eighteen may rule,” the advisor, Thomas, went on, “A child king invites disaster. That law remains.”

Jameson exhaled slowly.

“So what are you saying?” he asked.

The advisor, Thomas, folded his hands.

“You are the only one who can choose the next heir. Your wife can inherit automatically, but she cannot choose an heir if both of you meet an untimely demise around the same time or so. Your siblings cannot override you. But Donovan cannot rule, and your younger children are too young.”

Another voice, Tasha, joined in, gentler but no less firm.

“You could change the law,” the advisor, Tasha, said, “You have the authority. You could name Donovan.”

Jameson’s head snapped up.

“No,” Jameson said immediately: “I can’t.”

“Because he was born of incest?” the advisor, Johnson, asked.

“And because every royal line that relied on incest,” Jameson said hoarsely, “ended in blood.”

The room was quiet.

“My father warned me,” Jameson continued, “He told me what happened to those families. Physical sickness. Madness. Cruelty. Bloody reigns. They didn’t value life. They couldn’t.”

He swallowed:

“I love my son. I love Donovan. But I will not make him king.”

One advisor, Joseph, leaned forward:

“Then you must choose between your sister’s children and your son Alexander.”

Jameson laughed bitterly:

“Alexander is eleven.”

Johnson: “That is the problem.”

The Truth That Could No Longer Be Hidden

Jameson had been trained never to kill his advisors, no matter how unbearable the news. George had insisted on that much—no bloody legacy, no matter the sin that birthed it.

Still, the law left him trapped.

In 1978, with no legal solution left inside the town of Inkwell, Jameson did what the law allowed only in desperation.

He went to the prime minister & Queen of Denmark, where the town of inkwell lie.

At the time, Queen Margrethe II ruled the country, and Anker Jørgensen served as Prime Minister. Neither had ever known the truth about Donovan.

The family had hidden it carefully.

For years, the official story was simple:

“Donovan is Scarlett’s son,” Jameson had told the public. “His father abandoned him. I raised him as my own.”

The lie had been elegant. Convenient. Protected.

Even Johnson—one of George’s oldest advisors, a prophet by reputation—had allowed the blame of fatherhood to fall upon himself when rumors grew too loud in Jameson's head as Jameson threw him under the bus in the very same speech in his public statement of where Donovan came from, stating "Johnson is Donovan's father."

“It’s better this way, George would have wanted it this way,” Johnson had once said quietly, “Better me than the truth.”

But the truth had already escaped once.

Donovan was six years old when Charlotte—careless, detached, incapable of silence—spoke freely in front of him on the day his younger brother Alex was born.

“He doesn’t even know,” Scarlett had said casually: “Donovan doesn’t even know his father is his uncle.”

Johnson had frozen.

“Stop talking,” he hissed, “Please.”

She didn’t:

“Half-siblings, full blood—it’s all pretend anyway,” she rambled, “Alex only shares half our blood. Donovan shares all of it.”

The room had gone silent.

That was the day Donovan learned who his father truly was.

The Confession

Now, decades later, Jameson sat before the Queen, Margrethe II, and the Prime Minister, Anker Jørgensen. Johnson beside him, the 4 other remaining advisors behind. George had 12 advisors, but they were old and 7 died, so what was left was 5 advisors to pass down to Jameson.

The now 61-year-old Johnson spoke first.

“We are here because Inkwell faces a crisis of succession,” he said, “Our oldest eligible heir was conceived through unlawful means under local law. Not rape, but definitely unlawful means.”

Queen Margrethe || listened without interruption.

Jameson took over.

“When I was twenty-five,” he said quietly, “I entered an incestuous relationship with my sister Scarlett. She was twenty-four. We were isolated. Ashamed. Untaught.”

The words burned:

“Our son Donovan was born shortly after. The relationship continued for three years. We ended it after our father died at 69.”

The Prime Minister’s expression hardened with stunned confusion.

“I regret it every day,” Jameson continued, “I love my son. But I cannot make him king.”

“Because of the law,” the Queen said.

“And because of history,” Jameson replied, “Incest destroys families. Cultures. Nations. It creates rulers who do not value life.”

Jameson clenched his hands:

“My younger son, Alexander, is eleven. My sister’s eldest, Tony, is fourteen. None are of age.”

The Prime Minister leaned back slowly.

“So if you die,” Anker said, “the throne passes to your wife.”

Jameson: “Yes.”

Queen Margrethe ||: “And if she dies?”

Jameson closed his eyes:

“Then the law forces us to choose between the remaining eligible children.”

The Queen exchanged a glance with the Prime Minister.

Finally, Anker spoke:

“By your own laws, the solution is clear.”

Jameson looked up.

“We would name Tony as heir,” the Prime Minister said, “He is closest to adulthood. It prevents the throne from ever reverting to Donovan.”

Jameson’s shoulders sagged.

“And do you agree?” the Prime Minister asked the Queen.

She nodded once:

“I do.”

The Queen listened in silence as Jameson finished outlining the problem. When he was done, she exhaled slowly.

“Of course I agree with this arrangement,” she said at last: “We have no choice.”

With that, the matter of succession was formally reopened.

Jameson straightened: “Then let it be determined that Tony will serve as heir to the throne. However,” he continued carefully, “once my own son comes of age, I would like him to inherit the crown—but only if he is an adult at the time the reigning monarch dies.”

The Queen raised an eyebrow: “Clarify.”

Jameson nodded. “If Tony dies before my son Alexander reaches adulthood, then Tony’s eldest living sibling—provided that sibling is already an adult—will inherit the throne. If Tony dies after Alexander is an adult, then Alexander inherits, and Tony’s siblings are skipped entirely.”

There was a pause as the Queen considered this.

“So,” she said slowly, “if Tony dies while one of his siblings is already an adult, that sibling becomes monarch. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Jameson said.

“And if Alexander is an adult at the time Tony dies,” she continued, “then Alexander inherits instead of Tony’s siblings?”

“Yes,” Jameson said again, then added, “But only if Tony dies after Alexander reaches adulthood. If Alexander is still underage at the time of Tony’s death, the crown passes to Tony’s adult sibling.”

The Queen nodded: “All right. That structure is clear. Is this the structure you desire?”

Jameson inclined his head: “It is.”

The Queen of Denmark: “Then we will proceed with it.”

Jameson hesitated: “There is… another concern. I will have to announce this to the children. But I fear what might happen once they know. The throne can only be claimed after the reigning monarch dies, yes—but what if someone attempts to hasten that?”

The Queen considered him carefully: “For safety’s sake, the wisest course would be to delay a full disclosure until after you and your wife have passed. However, legally speaking, succession decisions are typically disclosed once finalized.”

She paused, then added more gently, “Your son has not harmed you. There is no evidence he intends to. I believe you may trust that he is not as unstable as you fear.”

Jameson returned to Inkwell and chose not silence, but ceremony.

The hall was full when he stood before them.

“After consultation with the Queen of Denmark and the Prime Minister,” Jameson announced, “we have determined the order of succession following the deaths of my wife, Diamond, and myself.”

He took a breath.

“Scarlett has been excluded from deliberation due to her mental health. Should all eligible heirs perish—myself, my wife, Tony, my son, and all of Scarlett’s children—only then may Scarlett rule, pending government approval. This provision will be documented separately.”

He turned toward Scarlett: “That said, we are formally bypassing you in the line of succession in favor of your eldest son. Is that acceptable to you?”

Scarlett nodded eagerly, unbothered and pleased up unto excitement that her son, Tony, would be a king.

“Very well,” Jameson said.

He continued, forcing himself to be precise:

“Tony has been chosen as heir because he is the eldest. My wife and I are still in our forties, and it is expected we will live long enough for Tony to reach adulthood while we are alive. Under normal circumstances, Tony will inherit the throne.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“However,” Jameson said, raising his voice, “if Tony dies after my son Alexander is an adult—eighteen or older—then Alexander will inherit the throne immediately.”

He gestured toward Scarlett’s children. “If Tony dies before Alexander reaches adulthood, then Tony’s eldest adult sibling will inherit. If that sibling later dies while Alexander is still underage, the throne passes to the next adult sibling, and so on.”

He sighed: “Given how closely spaced the children are in age, adulthood will not be long in coming.”

Then, firmly: “At any point—any point—if the reigning monarch dies while Alexander is already an adult, all of Tony’s siblings are skipped. Alexander inherits. This rule overrides all others.”

He stopped. “That concludes the structure.”

Donovan rose abruptly.

“What about me?” he demanded: “I’m the eldest. Why do they inherit instead of me? Why is Tony the heir?”

The room went still.

Jameson did not raise his voice.

“You were excluded,” he said, “because you are the product of incest, you suffer from severe mental instability, and pose a potential danger as you have been homicidal in the past.”

Donovan stared at him in complete confusion.

“Alexander,” Jameson continued, “is the definitive heir. Tony is a provisional heir—appointed only until Alexander reaches adulthood. Once Alexander is of age, he supersedes all others.”

He exhaled slowly: “History shows us that dynasties & cultures built on unchecked incest produce rulers who govern through cruelty, disordered thinking, and violence. We will not repeat that mistake.”

Jameson met Donovan’s eyes.

“You will not inherit the throne,” he said evenly: “You never were the heir. And you never will be.”

Silence followed—absolute, final, unyielding.

To Be Continued...