The moon sharpened Velmorra's rooftops into silver knives.
Queen Seralya stood on her terrace, cloak fluttering, her gaze fixed beyond the palace walls. Power made her untouchable. Loneliness made her dangerous.
Behind her, the guards announced a visitor.
"A bard," one said. "No name given."
She didn't flinch. "Then he carries a story instead."
The man who entered looked more like a ghost of the road — dust on his boots, mystery in his eyes. A lute hung across his back like a secret.
"You stand before a queen," Seralya said. "Do you kneel?"
"I don't kneel for crowns forged in silence," he answered.
That earned a smile — faint, like a crack in ice.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I've come to tell you a story," he said. "One you buried. About a girl who made a deal... and a queen who paid the price."
Her eyes darkened.
"Careful, bard. Stories like that cost lives."
He stepped closer. "Then it's time someone paid."
And somewhere in the shadows, the past stirred.