The morning sun had just begun to melt the veil of mist draped across the fields of Aeloria. A thousand dewdrops shimmered on blades of grass, catching the light like diamonds, while the tall trees surrounding the lake stood still and solemn, like ancient sentinels holding their breath.
Selena stood on the soft earth, her toes curled slightly into the wet grass. The lake before her stretched wide and calm, its surface like a polished mirror, reflecting the golden blush of dawn. Her long dark hair, loosely braided, hung over one shoulder. She had come here often in her youth—before the crown, before the war, before the world demanded her magic and her silence.
Now, she returned not as a sorceress, not even as a queen, but simply as a woman with something to protect.
"I still don't understand how you wake up before the sun," Arya called from behind, groaning as she settled beside her with a handful of wildflowers. "If I were queen, I'd sleep till midday."
Selena turned with a soft laugh. "That's why you'll never be queen."
Arya grinned and plopped onto the grass, her white dress quickly stained green at the knees. She began weaving the flowers into a circlet, her nimble fingers working with the ease of practice. "But I am a royal pain. That counts for something."
Selena sat beside her, brushing her fingers along the edge of the lake. The water was cold, grounding. Her eyes traced the horizon, then dropped to her hands, where they now rested over her lower belly. "I have something to tell you."
Arya glanced up. Her teasing expression softened at once. "What is it?"
Selena's smile was small, almost shy. "I'm with child."
The moment hung between them, quiet and warm like sunlight through glass.
Arya's eyes widened. "You—Selena!"
She leapt up, dropping the half-finished crown, and pulled the queen into a fierce embrace. "By the gods, this is wonderful. Have you told him?"
"Not yet," Selena murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "I wanted to tell you first."
"You'll be a mother," Arya whispered, pulling back to look at her. "The king will be overjoyed."
Selena's smile faltered, just slightly. "Yes… I hope so."
They stood together in the golden hush, wrapped in the fragile hope of a new beginning. But then—
The thunder of hooves broke the peace.
A rider crested the hill at full gallop, dust and dew spraying beneath his horse's hooves. He rode with urgency, not ceremony, and his face was pale beneath his helm.
The moment Selena saw him, the warmth of the morning vanished.
The rider leapt down, bowing quickly. "Your Grace. A summons. Immediate. The throne room."
"What's happened?" Selena asked, already stepping toward him.
"I—Forgive me, my queen. I was told only to find you. The king's command."
Selena's heart skipped. "Arya, summon the guards. And the healers. Now."
Without another word, she turned and began running, her skirts catching in the wind behind her.
⸻
The throne room of Castle Aurion had once been a sanctuary—a place of light and song, of peace wrought from stone and steel. Now it was a tomb.
Bodies littered the marbled floor, crumpled like broken dolls. The great banners of House Aelorian swayed overhead, untouched, while blood crept like a shadow toward the dais where the throne stood.
Markas Silver Hand stood alone among the dead, his broad frame shaking, his silver-plated armor scarred and smeared red. His sword—a relic of kings past—was slick with blood, but his hands gripped it still, as if afraid to let it go.
Twelve assassins. Twelve trained killers.
They had come in silence, slipping past the walls, bypassing the guards with impossible ease. They attacked swiftly, blades coated in poison, their faces hidden behind black veils.
And the king had fought them alone.
It had been years since he dismissed his paladins, even for a moment. But last night, he had granted them rest, against their protests. Just one night. Just a breath of peace.
Now, silence rang louder than battle cries.
Markas took a trembling step forward—then another. Blood dripped from a wound at his side. He staggered toward the fallen door where a glint of steel caught the light.
And that was when he felt it.
The sharp, sudden impact between his shoulder blades. A gasp tore from his throat. His legs buckled.
He didn't fall immediately. Strong hands caught him, lowering him to the ground like a brother would.
Like Mathew would.
Markas's breath hitched as he turned his head. "You…"
Mathew knelt behind him, the bloodied dagger still in hand, his face strangely calm. "I didn't want it this way."
Markas coughed, pain blooming in his chest. "Why…?"
Mathew leaned in close, his voice low and steady. "You were never meant to be king. That was my crown. My throne. But Father chose you—because you were noble, because you played the hero."
The king blinked slowly, the world spinning.
"I stood by your side for ten years," Mathew continued. "I smiled. I served. I waited. But when it became clear you'd never falter, I had to help fate along."
Markas's lips moved. One word. "Selena…"
"You took her," Mathew said softly, like a blade slipping through silk. "Just like you took everything else."
Markas closed his eyes. "She was never… mine to take."
"She loved your light," Mathew murmured. "And I have only ever known the dark."
The king's head tilted, his breath slowing, chest rising shallowly. He was alive—but fading.
Mathew stood slowly, wiping his blade on the cloak of a fallen assassin. For a moment, he looked down at his brother with something that could have been sorrow… or the ghost of it.
Then he turned toward the ruined doors, raised his voice, and shouted, "Guards! Help! Assassins in the throne room!"
He sheathed his dagger.
"The king is wounded!"
Moments later, shouts rang out through the stone corridors as armored boots pounded toward him.
Mathew stepped forward to meet them, the picture of a loyal brother soaked in battle, standing among the slain.
Behind him, the king bled quietly into the floor.