There was no official declaration.
Not initially.
Only silence.
The kind that seeps into the stone and lingers in every hallway like haze. The kind that prompts whispers among courtiers and causes soldiers to forget their drills.
Princess Charlotte had died.
The tea had been poisoned with bloodroot venom—traced back to a servant who was also found dead by morning. It took hours for Mira to be subdued, her blood-stained hands refusing to let go of Charlotte's lifeless body. Her scream had never ceased, only becoming hoarse. Silent once more.
In the Queen's quarters, no one was permitted to enter. Not even the King. She remained beside the vacant window seat, gazing into the garden where Charlotte used to paint.
And when the King finally spoke, it was not as a ruler.
He collapsed soon after. Though he would awaken again, he would never truly come back.
In the war room, Elias stood alone at the map table. It was covered not with tokens and lines, but with ashes.
He had burned it.
The very night she passed away.
At dawn, he rode to the barracks and surrendered his sword. Then he picked it up again, without a word. His expression was unwavering, yet the guards murmured that he had not slept since. They said he trained alone each night with a fervor even steel feared.
The knights of Black Hall refused to pledge loyalty to anyone else. Instead, they took shifts guarding her grave day and night, dressed in black with no banners. Their vow was clear:
"We serve the crown she was destined to wear."
Little Eladin did not grasp the situation.
At first, he only asked if Charlotte was "sleeping in again."
When he learned the truth, it shattered him.
He clung to Mira, who could not find words, only warmth. The palace maids wept to see him holding his sister's portrait at night, whispering the stories she used to tell him as though she might respond.
He started to decline food. Decline tutors. Decline the crown his father attempted to bestow upon him.
"I don't want to be king," he said. "I just want Lottie."
No one dared to argue.
The Queen descended the stairs herself on the day of Charlotte's funeral, wearing not mourning black, but the lavender Charlotte adored. Her face was pale. Her hands did not shake.
She walked to the council chamber.
And when she spoke, her voice was both ice and fire.
"You took her from me," she declared—not directed at one individual, but to all of them. "With your doubts. Your fears. Your constant indecision."
Some lords wept. Others bowed their heads in disgrace.
None dared to reply.
The Harvest Moon Gathering was canceled indefinitely.
The throne remained vacant.
The nobles splintered. With no heir, old bloodlines began circling like vultures. House Vellador denied any involvement but lost what little remaining sympathy they had. Others began to promote puppet successors.
But the people...
The people lit candles.
Not for a princess.
For Charlotte the Brave.
They adorned walls with murals in alleyways and shared tales in taverns. Her likeness became a symbol—not of sorrow, but of resistance.
She had ruled for such a brief period. But her influence extended longer than any crown.
And as the empire shook in her absence, no one could deny one truth:
She had been its last true hope.