I woke to the voice of Eloise—the head servant, and the woman who had raised me more faithfully than any court tutor.
"The dawn is upon us, Your Highness. It is coronation day. You must rise," she said, firm yet reverent, her voice slicing through the haze of another sleepless night.
Sleep has eluded me ever since the proclamation.
That I—
not my brother—
would wear the crown.
It was never mine to claim.
He was the chosen heir, the Kingdom's sun.
For years, he trained—studied the histories, led councils, rode into skirmishes at the border.
All to prepare for the throne of Mahilaya.
And now...
he is ash in the wind.
Slain by the Jhaljie.
A wild clan from the edges of the Midnight Forest, long untamed,
defiant of Mahilaya's laws,
unmoved by its crown.
Now I am being robed in something sacred and strange.
The coronation mantle—thick with embroidery and old magic—presses down on me like judgment.
It was crafted for a ruler.
But I am only a shadow.
My spine bends beneath the weight.
And yet, I must stand.
.A knock came at the door as the handmaids were still dressing me, wiping the fatigue from my face with cold cloths and quiet hands.
It was Raphael — my knight.
I lifted a hand, motioning for the maids to step away. They bowed and slipped out in silence.
"What is it?" I asked.
He stood just inside the door, the candlelight casting his tall frame in flickering gold. His hair, the shade of garnets in firelight, caught the glow. His eyes — dark, steady — did not shift.
"Be careful," he said, voice even and low.
"I know."
I turned away and stepped onto the terrace. Below, the palace stirred like a hive. Servants rushed through corridors and courtyards, fixing ribbons, banners, garlands, trays. Already, the townspeople had begun to gather — voices rising with the sun. They were shouting. Laughing.
They seemed content.
I never meant to take the throne.
It was never meant to be mine.
It was his — my brother's — in every breath and birthright.
But he is gone now.
And so I must stand where he once stood.
I must become something more than grief.
Not for power, nor pride. But because there are those who still do not want me here — the clans loyal to his name, who saw no crown in mine.
I must be more than memory.
I must become what they need.
A sovereign born not of want, but of duty.
A better version of all that remains.
The bells rang out — one, two, three — until the high noon sky burned silver.
I descended the stairs wrapped in silk the shade of ash and rose, a color chosen by Eloise to appear neither mournful nor celebratory. The crown waited at the dais like a silent judge. Raphael walked behind me, and I felt the brush of his shadow with every step. The hall opened to a sea of nobles, priests, and high lords from the allied clans, their eyes trained upon me like hounds scenting blood. Yet they smiled. They always smile.
I moved past them like smoke.
At the foot of the throne stood the King — taller than I remembered, robed in the cold shimmer of the realm's light. He did not embrace me. He did not take my hand.
Instead, he raised his voice.
"Before the eyes of our people and under the will of the gods, I name her — Crown Princess of the Faeryn throne.
Let her wear the sign of sovereignty with dignity. Let her serve not for her own name, but for the name of the realm.
Today, the line is not broken.
Today, the crown endures."
A servant lifted the crown, gleaming like still water in the sunlight. When he placed it upon my head, it felt heavier than I imagined. Not in weight — but in silence. A hush fell like snowfall.
And then — thunder.
Applause broke out in waves. Some voices called my name. Others did not.
I stepped forward.
The platform stretched before me. The palace courtyard was filled beyond its walls, people standing on staircases, rooftops, even trees. Their eyes, like the nobles', waited — not for truth, but for certainty. Not love. Obedience.
I took a breath.
"People of Faeryn," I began.
"You gather today not for my sake, but for the future we must now build.
For peace to remain, it must be guarded. For justice to endure, it must be carried by steady hands.
I do not ask for your loyalty out of tradition. I ask for your courage, your patience, and your will.
There are shadows that hunger for disorder — but we are not broken. We are not rootless.
We are Faeryn.
And I swear, by the gods who watch and by the crown now upon me, that I will not falter."
My voice did not tremble, though my fingers curled slightly at my side.
"Let the dawn that follows today not mark the end of anything — but the beginning of all that must come next."
Another hush. Then, a swell of voices rose again. Some sincere. Others forced. All of them necessary.
I bowed my head, not low, but just enough to seal it — my first act as Crown Princess.
And thus, it was done.
Late Noon — The Banquet Hall
By the fifth bell, the throne hall had been transformed.
Silk banners hung from the carved archways, each bearing the golden emblem of Faeryn — a rose entwined with thorns. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber, gilded dishes set in perfect rows, goblets filled with dark wine and violet honey. The light through the lattice windows was waning, painting the room in long bars of gold.
I stood beneath the grand chandelier as lords and ladies bowed, their smiles sweetened by obligation. Every word they spoke was dipped in syrup. Every toast was a test.
The King had not yet spoken to me since the ceremony. He sat at the high table, centered beneath the crest of the realm, eyes unreadable behind a glass of elderfruit wine. He did not look my way.
Raphael stood at my left, unarmed but not unwatchful. His silence, unlike the others', was clean — a rare mercy.
As I moved among the guests, I heard them.
"A quiet strength, this one..."
"...too young for such burden, but perhaps that is best..."
"...no mention of the brother — odd, isn't it?"
"...what of the clans who favored the old line? Will they kneel?"
"She speaks well, but speaking is not ruling..."
I smiled at each of them. I said little. A crowned tongue must be sparing — or it will be measured.
At the center table, the High Priest of the western Church lifted a glass.
"To our Crown Princess," he said, his voice carrying with just enough gravity. "May her reign be wise, and her faith unshaken."
Glasses lifted. The nobles echoed the words, some with vigor, others only with motion. I raised mine, but did not drink. My cup remained untouched.
"Your Majesty," a voice murmured beside me — Lord Akarr of the Kinan clan, lean and silver-haired, always too gracious. "Will you now begin to appoint your Circle? The realm will be eager for your first declarations."
"In time," I answered. "I prefer to listen before I command."
He bowed his head. "A prudent answer. The kind your brother never—"
I turned my gaze to him, sharp and without invitation.
"The banquet," I said, "is not a place for ghosts."
He faltered, then recovered with a shallow smile. "As you say, Crown Princess."
Behind me, I sensed Raphael shift his weight — a quiet, invisible warning.
The music began then — low strings and reed flutes, the melody old and measured. Dancers stepped into the polished floor, sleeves trailing like mist, the scent of cardamom and rose oil thickening in the air.
And still, the King watched me — neither in approval nor defiance. Simply watching.
A performance of succession, uninterrupted.
I took my seat beside him only when summoned. A single gesture from his ringed hand, two fingers raised like a priest's benediction.
We ate in silence.
Then, softly, without looking at me, he spoke.
"You held the room."
I did not answer.
"They do not need to believe in you yet," he continued. "Only to obey. That will suffice, for now."
I turned to him, my voice composed.
"And when obedience falters?"
"Then fear will remind them. Or love, if you can summon it." He drank. "But don't count on love."
The candles burned lower. The bells would soon toll six — duskfall.
Outside, the sky was turning the color of ash and flame.
And inside, I sat crowned, surrounded by strangers who called themselves loyal.
The Sixth Bell — Duskfall, and the Dance
The dancers parted for me like silk in wind.
Now crowned, I had become the centerpiece of the evening — not for joy, but tradition. At the banquet's close, it was expected that I offer the First Dance. A gesture of grace. A signal of favor.
Dozens vied for that moment.
Lords' sons from the Eastern marshes. Heirs of loyal clans. Even the foreign emissary from the coast. Their eyes found mine with delicate calculation, each hoping for a nod, a smile, a name.
I offered none.
And then he stepped forward.
A scholar of Sera, ambassador in title only. He wore no crest nor sword, only a robe of dark blue and silver threading, more like a poet than a noble. His posture was too casual for the court. His hair fell loose at the shoulders, his boots scuffed from travel. But his smile — it curved like a secret.
"You look as though you might die of boredom," he said, voice low, the accent faint but unfamiliar. "Allow me to offer rescue — if not dignity." He dipped his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Cai of Dajharé. Scholar, once. Noble, occasionally. From Sera — though exile and envoy sound so much grander in courtlight."
I looked at him — this foreign thorn in the garden of Faeryn — and for the first time that day, I felt something shift. Not safety. Not comfort. But interest.
I extended my hand.
"Very well," I said. "Show me how Sera dances."
He bowed without mockery, took my fingers lightly in his.
As we moved to the center, I could feel the court watching — eyes narrowing, hands pausing mid-toast. This was not the choice they expected.
The music swelled — soft strings beneath a rhythm that felt both ancient and unmoored. Cai's movements were precise, effortless. His hand never tightened. His footwork never faltered. He danced not like a soldier or a prince, but like someone who had studied the art not for performance, but for joy.
"Tell me, Crown Princess," he murmured as we turned, "are you always so unreadable? Or is that a skill one earns with a crown?"
"Perhaps I'm not unreadable," I replied. "Perhaps you're reading the wrong story."
His grin deepened.
"Now that sounds like a challenge."
We turned again — step and glide, breath and shadow.
From the edge of the crowd, I felt it before I saw him.
Raphael.
He stood apart from the others, near the columns, silent among the nobility he did not belong to. His eyes, dark as winter's edge, were fixed on me. Or rather, on the space where Cai's hand met my waist. His jaw was clenched, arms folded behind his back with ceremonial restraint.
He did not look away.
He did not smile.
And I, for a heartbeat longer than necessary, did not look away either.
Cai followed my gaze and tilted his head.
"Ah," he said. "The knight. Loyal, quiet. Wounded."
"He does his duty."
"And yet you didn't choose him."
I met his eyes then, sharp and cold.
"He was never mine to choose."
Cai raised a brow, but said no more. He only turned us once more beneath the candlelit arch, his hand a breath above my spine.
The music waned. The final note shimmered through the hall like glass. Applause followed, scattered and strained.
We bowed to each other. I stepped away first.
As I returned to my seat, I did not glance back.
But I could feel both of them watching.
One with silence.
One with questions.
And the crown upon my head had never felt heavier.
Later That Night — Her Chambers
The fire in the hearth had burned low. Only cinders now — red, pulsing, breathless.
The crown lay on the table where she had tossed it.
The silk dress torn from her body by her own hand, crumpled in a corner like shed skin.
She stood before the mirror, stripped down to linen and sweat, her face flushed not with shame, but rage.
Winnifred stared at herself, hands pressed flat against the wooden vanity. Her breath came hard and silent. The head — her brother's head — still throbbed behind her eyes. She had not looked away when it fell. She had not screamed.
But now—
Now, her hands were trembling.
And then they were fists.
"The Jhaljie," she whispered, voice like a thread pulled taut. "They dare."
She could still hear them, the gasps, the whispers behind fans, the way even the King did not speak his name. Her brother — prince of Faeryn, heir before her, now returned like a beast slain in sport. Not even a body. Just a message.
She slammed her palm against the table. The glass on the vanity rattled.
"They sent him back like carrion. Like a warning."
"They think I will cower."
"They think me soft."
Her voice grew louder, each word a stone thrown at memory.
"Let them. Let the clans whisper. Let the nobles pity. Let the Church bow their heads in prayer. I will not bow."
She moved to the window, flung it open.
The city below was quiet now. The bells had ceased. Smoke drifted across the dark streets, and beyond the walls, the mountains loomed — southern, toward Jhaljie lands.
"Tashi," she hissed, naming him — the clanlord, the filthy-blooded traitor.
"You've sent your message. Now hear mine."
Her hands clutched the stone of the windowsill until her knuckles paled.
"You will burn."
"You will kneel."
"And your sons — if you have any left — will curse your name for dragging them into my path."
Her throat was tight now. Her heart thundered. But no tears came.
Winnifred did not mourn as daughters do.
She raged.
"I will be your end," she said, voice low now, deadly calm.
"You killed a prince."
"But you made a weapon."
Behind her, the candle flickered — then flared.
The flame bent in her direction, as if drawn.
And still, she did not turn.
She remained by the window, crowned not by gold, but by fury.
Watching the horizon.
Waiting.
The Next Morning — Courtroom
The morning sun bled cold light through the lattice windows, casting long bars across the stone floor of the council chamber.
Here, the Mahilaya clans gathered — four in total, their banners arrayed along the walls, dyed in the hues of old bloodlines: ochre, dusk green, oxblood, lapis black. Their leaders sat at the crescent table beneath the ceiling vaults, facing the high seat reserved for the sovereign.
But it was Winnifred who stood at its side — not seated, not crowned, but present. A presence more cutting than gold.
The King arrived in silence, robes pared back to their simplest thread. He took the throne, and gestured once.
The council began.
"We meet under breach," said Lord Eirn of the West Coast, voice deep and hoarse. "The return of the prince's body is a declaration. We must answer."
"We don't yet know it was Jhaljie," said Lady Lin-Mae, matriarch of the Halawe. Her rings clinked as she folded her hands. "A rogue faction, perhaps. Bandits. Rebels within their own clans."
Winnifred stepped forward, slow and steady.
"His head was marked."
The room fell still.
"A burn at the neck," she continued. "The Jhaljie sigil carved by flame."
She placed a small bundle onto the table — a strip of charred cloth, seared with the unmistakable triple-slash. The silence that followed was not of disbelief — it was fear, calculation, the sharpening of old knives.
"So it's war," muttered Lord Akarr of the Kinan mines.
"Not yet," the King said flatly.
All eyes turned to him.
He looked not at his council, but at his daughter.
"What would the Crown Princess decree?" he asked, voice low.
Winnifred's gaze flickered across the room — these ancient names who had watched her rise with polite dismay. These nobles who still called her a placeholder behind closed doors.
Let them watch. Let them listen.
She took a step forward.
And then—
the scent of harp-strings and spilled wine returned.
The memory came swift and hot.
[Flashback — The Seventh Bell]
The music had only just resumed — lighter now, a harp overture meant to carry the guests into their second courses. Servants poured wine, laughter returned like a low tide, and dancers swirled in silk-draped pairs across the polished floor.
She had just resumed her seat.
Then the doors burst open.
Not with fanfare. Not with ceremony. But with force.
A palace runner stumbled into the hall, dust still clinging to his boots, sweat matting his hair. In his hands, a sack — sagging, darkened by something that could only be blood.
"For the Crown," he'd choked, collapsing to his knees.
He'd opened the sack.
A head rolled to the marble.
Her brother.
Eyes half-lidded. Hair caked in rusted blood. Lips parted as if to speak a curse that never landed.
She had not screamed.
She had only stood.
And when she spoke, her voice had been a blade drawn from frost:
"Send word to the southern watchtowers. No one leaves. No one enters. Seal the borders by dawn."
[Back to Present — Courtroom]
Winnifred exhaled.
But it did not soften her.
"You ask if I accuse Jhaljie?" she said aloud, voice steady. "No."
"I accuse them of war."
She circled the table, slow and sure, her shadow moving across the clan banners.
"They've hidden behind neutrality long enough. Shielding spies. Feeding dissent. Harboring murderers."
"I propose a blockade. Seal the eastern roads. Halt all grain and salt routes. Cut trade. Cut coin."
"Let their people ask their lord why their bellies are empty."
"And if they retaliate?" asked Veilan again.
Winnifred smiled — not kindly.
"Then we give them something to retaliate against."
She turned to the King. He said nothing. His silence was permission.
"Each Mahilaya clan shall send ten riders to the eastern border. No banners. No announcements. Just presence. We are not yet at war — but we are no longer blind."
She let the words settle.
Then delivered her final strike.
"I will not let my brother's head rot in memory while the men who sent it live unbothered in their towers."
"Tashi will answer. And when he does..."
"I will be the one who hears him last."
No one spoke.
Even the torchlight seemed to dim, as if the very stone of the hall held its breath.
The war had not begun.
But all knew — by that meeting's end — that a crown had chosen its enemy.
And this time, the sword would follow.
Council Chamber — Later in the Meeting
The room had begun to stir again — cautious voices threading through the heavy air, some murmuring assent, others bracing for the turn.
Lady Eirn rose next — a tall, iron-haired figure from the western coast, known as much for her sea caravans as for her sharp tongue. Her banner — ochre and blue — hung behind her like a tide held back.
"Cutting off the Jhaljie," she said, "cuts through us, too."
Her voice carried clearly, a clean strike across the council table.
"My ships still run the southern pass. My merchants still barter across the frost rivers. I do not say this to defend cowards who hide in the mountains — but starvation knows no sides. Blockades starve more than soldiers."
She looked toward the high seat, but her gaze settled on Winnifred.
"How many western caravans will be left stranded if we choke the roads overnight? How many will return at all?"
Winnifred met her eyes, but said nothing at first.
The weight of the room pressed in — silence again, this time pointed.
She opened her mouth, then paused.
She knew the numbers. She had read the trade scrolls, seen the maps. The frost roads did cut close to Jhaljie borders. And the blockade would not just be bloodless — it would be felt.
Her hesitation was brief — barely a breath — but in the chamber of war, even that was dangerous.
Then—
"The Crown Princess speaks with caution," the King said, voice slow and measured, breaking the pause like a sword drawn from scabbard.
He did not look at her. But his words circled her like a shield.
"Because a crown must weigh blood against grain. Not in impulse. But in cost."
He turned to Lady Eirn.
"Your concerns are not dismissed. But neither are they singular. This is not yet war. It is warning."
Lady Eirn inclined her head slightly — not yielding, but listening.
"And if warning fails?" she asked, her voice lower.
"Then," said the King, finally looking toward Winnifred, "the Crown Princess will not hesitate."
Winnifred straightened at that. The message was clear: her silence had not been weakness, but preparation. A future she would name when the time was right.
She gave a single nod — calm, controlled, regal.
"Let the riders go," she said. "Let our silence be felt before our steel is seen."
And so it continued.
Street of acacia— Raphael's POV
The city had changed.
War had not yet come, but its scent lingered — like iron and incense, carried through alleys on the backs of whispering crowds. Flags were raised higher now. Soldiers drilled louder. The butcher sang with a blade in his hand.
"They cheer now," Giovanni murmured beside him, arms crossed over his chest. "But cheering turns to gnashing when the coin thins or the dead return in heaps."
Raphael didn't answer. His eyes followed the people instead — the way their steps quickened past the Jhaljie spice stalls, the way their voices hushed near the east-facing shrines. Children wore toy swords now. Boys carved the jhaljie sigil into wood and set it alight.
"We've lit a fire," Giovanni said. "May the gods help us when we're the ones holding the kindling."
They stood in the shade of a banyan canopy near the old incense market. Vendors had spread colored cloth on the stones, each square carrying brass bowls of dried herbs: soot-laced rosemary, crushed melabell petals, resin sticks bound in red string.
A woman stepped up to one of the stalls — plain-dressed, older, with crow lines near her mouth. She picked up a bundle of incense tied in Jhaljie fashion, ran her thumb over the weave.
A child brushed past her — small, dust-footed, pale-gray scarf. His ears were slightly pointed, his skin a warm bronze.
Jhaljie.
Before the child could take a second step, a merchant smacked him hard on the back.
"Watch it, rat."
The boy staggered, eyes wide, but he didn't cry. He didn't speak.
He simply turned and ran.
No one intervened.
The woman purchasing incense turned toward Raphael. Her eyes were strangely gentle.
"Did you know," she asked softly, "it was the Jhaljie who first studied melabell?" She lifted the bundle of incense. "They found it eased unrest, calmed the nerves — softened the nights for the old and sleepless."
Raphael stared at her, the words coiling in his throat. He had nothing to offer her — no comfort, no contradiction.
Giovanni only sighed.
"People forget who plants the seed," he said.
Across the plaza, a street performer lit a small fire with powdered chalk. The flame leapt violet — shaped like a beast.
Children clapped. Somewhere, a prayer bell rang.
And Raphael, watching the boy vanish into the crowd, thought:
This war won't cleanse the blood. It will only sharpen its edges.