Chapter 15 – The Throne Without a Name
The morning sun bled softly through the silver-draped windows of the palace library, casting long beams across the ancient tomes stacked on every shelf. Dust floated in the golden light, and silence wrapped the room like a velvet coat. Caelum stood near the center aisle, the mysterious drawing still in his hand — the seven thrones, six filled, one empty. The words beneath it repeated in his head like an incantation:
You must choose. Or someone else will.
He'd stared at the image all night, tracing the lines again and again, memorizing each curve, each shadow. There was no name on the empty throne. No emblem. No sigil. Nothing. Just a seat waiting to be filled.
But by whom?
He turned the paper over again, scanning for a mark. A signature. Anything.
Nothing.
The door creaked open behind him, and Caelum turned just as Elira poked her head into the room. Her hair was in messy curls, and she wore a painter's apron covered in ink and glitter.
"There you are," she said, stepping fully inside. "You missed second breakfast. Again."
"I missed the first one too," he replied, pocketing the paper.
"I brought you something," she said, and held up a bundle of folded cloth. "Guess who sewed your new formal outfit for tonight's Royal Gallery showing?"
He blinked. "Wait. You did that yourself?"
"Well, I gave instructions. And pestered the seamstress with impossible demands. Same thing."
He accepted the bundle. It was lighter than expected. The fabric shimmered faintly—deep navy threaded with silver. Embroidered roses marked the cuffs and collar.
"It's… beautiful," he said sincerely.
Elira grinned. "Only the best for our national treasure."
He looked down at her. "Is that what I am?"
Her smile faded just a touch. "To some people, yes. To others… maybe something else."
Before he could ask, she stepped back. "Get dressed, mystery boy. You're about to be introduced to the Royal Gallery. Where paintings matter more than people and every brushstroke is a threat."
That evening, the Grand Hall of the Royal Gallery glittered with low-hanging chandeliers and reflected candlelight. Dozens of nobles and court artists gathered under towering columns of marble, their eyes bright with curiosity and veiled suspicion.
Caelum wore the outfit Elira prepared. It fit perfectly, enhancing his already striking features without appearing flamboyant. He drew stares the moment he entered, not just from the younger courtiers, but from older nobles who whispered behind fans.
The princesses were there too.
Seraphine stood near a sculpture of a shattered swan, speaking to a diplomat in hushed tones. She wore obsidian silk, embroidered with green thorns.
Maribelle laughed with three foreign nobles, her gown a cascade of gold and ivory.
Vianne waved the moment she saw him, nearly knocking over a glass display.
Selene didn't acknowledge him, but her eyes flicked toward him several times.
Lira was absent.
And Elira hovered beside a painting of a rising moon, sipping something fizzy from a silver flute.
He joined her.
"You look edible," she teased.
He arched an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or a threat?"
She smiled. "Yes."
The murmurs rose as the centerpiece was unveiled.
A new painting.
One that hadn't been listed in the program.
The canvas was massive. Nearly three meters tall. Covered until now by a velvet curtain.
The royal curator stepped forward.
"A late addition," he announced. "Commissioned anonymously. Titled The Choice."
Gasps rippled as the curtain dropped.
Caelum's breath caught.
The painting showed a man standing in a garden. Seven paths stretched outward from his feet, each leading to a different palace, each flanked by a princess. But all of their faces were obscured — veiled or turned away.
Only the man's face was visible.
It was him.
An exact likeness.
The whispers exploded.
"Elira," he hissed, "did you—"
"I swear it wasn't me."
Maribelle's eyes narrowed.
Seraphine tilted her head thoughtfully.
Vianne clapped. "Ooooh, mysterious!"
But Selene stepped forward, brushing past him, and examined the painting closely.
Then she turned back, her voice quiet.
"This wasn't painted recently. Look at the technique. The colors. This is old."
"How old?" Caelum asked.
"Decades," she said. "Maybe a century."
His skin went cold.
How could it be?
Then something clicked.
The fifth petal. The empty throne. The prophecy Rhiannon mentioned once in passing. The old story of a boy born in peace, caught in war. Of seven choices. One truth.
He looked back at the painting.
There, in the bottom corner.
A single, barely visible rose.
Petalborn.
That night, he met Ardyn on the moonlit balcony outside the guest quarters.
She leaned on the railing, arms crossed, watching the stars.
"You saw it?" he asked.
"Hard to miss."
"Selene said it's old. Decades. How is that possible?"
Ardyn didn't look at him. "The prophecy has always existed. Passed down through whispers, hidden in art, buried in songs. Most people think it's a myth. A story to make nobles feel important."
"But it's not, is it?"
She finally turned.
"No, Caelum. It's not."
A long silence passed between them.
Then he asked, "Who painted it?"
Ardyn looked back at the stars. "Someone who knew. Someone who saw you coming."
He stepped beside her.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
She glanced at him. "Good. Means you're still human."
He took a breath. "What if I choose wrong?"
She gave a small, bitter smile. "You think there's a right choice?"
Then she walked away.
Caelum returned to his room, thoughts spinning like a storm. The image of the empty throne. The mysterious fifth girl. The prophecy echoing in his mind.
But when he opened his door, someone was already inside.
Sitting by the fire.
Lira.
She didn't look up.
"I wasn't supposed to show her to you," she said softly.
He closed the door.
"But you did."
"I thought you deserved the truth. Even if it hurts."
He sat across from her.
"Who is she?"
Lira didn't answer immediately. Then, "A shadow. A memory. A possible future."
He frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
They sat in silence.
The fire crackled softly.
Then she whispered, "You'll have to choose, Caelum. Not just who to love. But who to trust. Who to fight for. Who to forgive."
He looked at the gray petal resting on the mantle.
And wondered how many more truths would come with the sixth.