{ The Kingdom of Elenor was the oldest and most prestigious realm on the continent, its name was drawn from its first ruler, the legendary founder 'Daenric Elenor', whose reign laid the foundations of empire.
Unlike other powers that rose through conquest, Elenor expanded through soft power, offering guidance, wealth, and stability. They built new kingdoms and nurtured others, sometimes ruling directly with their own governors, and at other times entrusting the native rulers to govern under Elenor's protection and influence.
This balance of dominance and diplomacy made Elenor the center of the continent, a realm respected as much as it was feared. Its monarchs held such authority that if a king or queen so willed, they could seize any neighboring land with ease. For Elenor commanded the largest army ever assembled, unmatched in both size and discipline.
Yet their power was not only military. Elenor's lands brimmed with resources, fertile fields, and rich mines. Its cities stood as the trade capital of the continent, drawing merchants from every corner of the known world. Wealth flowed endlessly through its markets, making Elenor the richest and most influential kingdom of all.
To rule Elenor was to rule the continent itself. Its throne was the ultimate prize, so coveted that bloodlines turned against themselves, and rival nations plotted ceaselessly to place their claimant upon it. The Crown of Elenor was both a blessing and a curse— uniting the continent under a single power, yet forever tempting ambition, betrayal and bloodshed. }
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Grace sat upon the throne, her back straight but her expression betraying the truth— she was far from invested in the ceremony unfolding before her. The golden crown above her head glittered in the light of the chandelier, yet her eyes seemed dull, as though the weight of the moment pressed down heavier than the crown itself. She tried to mask her disinterest, but her gaze wandered across the hall, slipping past the finely dressed lords and ladies, the endless droning voices, and the rigid formality of it all.
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People approached her one after another, bearing gifts wrapped in silk and words coated in honey. Yet Grace could sense the hollowness in their gestures. None of it was genuine— it wasn't loyalty or affection that bought them forward, but calculation. Each offering was carefully chosen not to honor her, but to secure a place in her good graces now that she wore the crown. Behind every bow and every smile lurked ambition, self-interest, or secrets best left hidden.
She watched their expressions very closely, those ever-smiling faces that seemed almost rehearsed. The glint in their eyes wasn't admiration, but hunger— the hunger for power, influence, or favors they hoped to extract from her reign. Grace could feel it, the false warmth in their voices, the weight of pretended devotion pressing down on her. It was like standing in a room full of masks, each one polished to perfection, yet none revealing the truth.
Inside, she fought back a sigh. Those gifts were not treasures but tokens of manipulation, wrapped in deceit. What unsettled her most was not the pretense itself, but the realization that such falseness was expected— that this, perhaps was what being queen truly meant; navigating a sea of smiling liars and never letting them see her doubt.
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"(So boring...)" she groaned inwardly, her thoughts dripping with frustration.
"Welfred, is there any sense in holding this ceremony before courtiers instead of the very people we are meant to serve?"
"It is an ancient custom, Your Majesty. We may not like it, but tradition leaves us little choice."
Grace muttered under her breath, "These traditions."
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"Grace, my dear! How have you been?" a woman called out, her voice dripping with sweetness so thick it almost made Grace wince.
She turned her gaze toward the woman, her lips parting into a polished smile that never quite reached her eyes. "Elder Mother, Patricia," she answered in a velvet tone, each word dipped in courtesy but laced with the faintest edge of mockery. The title rolled off her tongue like a practiced ritual, yet her thoughts hissed otherwise.
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{ Patricia Darkbane, elder sister of Rosemary Elenhart, Grace's grandmother, was a woman whose life had been defined by quiet envy and unfulfilled desire. From the earliest days, she harbored resentment toward Rosemary— not only because her younger sister was chosen to marry into the great Elenhart family, but because Patricia herself had long nurtured a quiet affection for Morrigan Elenhart, Grace's grandfather. In her mind he was hers, and their future seemed all but destined. But fate was unkind. Morrigan and Rosemary met, and what began as courtesy soon bloomed into love. Patricia could never accept it. To her, Rosemary was not the woman Morrigan should have chosen, she was the obstacle who had stolen away the life Patricia believed was rightfully hers.
Though Patricia eventually married into another wealthy household, her husband's lineage while rich, never matched the prestige or influence of the Elenharts. The sting lingered, festering into bitterness over the years.
Grace, young and radiant on the throne, is to Patricia not a symbol of hope but a living reminder of everything she lost: Morrigan's love, Elenhart's glory, and the crown that should have carried her bloodline, not Rosemary's. }
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She wore a long golden gown, the silk hugging her frame with a fitted bodice and sweetheart neckline veiled in black lace embroidered with golden blossoms. Her sleeves billowed in sheer yellow fabric, white tassels hung gracefully at her sides. A grand phoenix glimmered in gold thread across her skirt, its feathers flowing downward into blossoms that bloomed along the hem and into the sheer embroidered train that trailed behind her.
Her hair gleamed white, revealing her age, yet her skin held a deceptive smoothness, unlined, luminous, almost too carefully preserved to be natural; beneath her graceful poise lay a quiet menace, like a snake concealed beneath silk.
"Look at you, all grown now; the last time I saw you, you were still just a little girl."
"But you haven't changed at all," Grace replied, her gaze sharp enough to make clear she wasn't speaking only of age.
"By the way, I expected you to arrive in something far more regal— surely a gown that proclaimed your place. But I see you've gone with a... simpler elegance," Patricia remarked, her words laced with mockery.
"Cloth does not make one regal, character does. And I value comfort over spectacle."
"Your words echo your mother's... and your face as well," she muttered, her expression slipping from pleasant to stern. Her eyes narrowed on Grace. "Even your ey—"
"Lady Patricia, how was your journey? I trust it was uneventful and that you encountered no trouble reaching the palace," Welfred cut in swiftly, his tone polite but firm. The glance he cast her carried a quiet warning, as though urging her to hold her tongue.
"The journey was smooth, and we faced no trouble arriving here," she said calmly, her voice serene, giving nothing away of the annoyance simmering beneath.
She took a moment before speaking again, her tone calm yet sharp, "I must say, your climb has been extraordinary— from a mere butler to the queen's right hand."
"Isn't an aide supposed to be someone you can rely on?" Grace interrupted, her tone protective of Welfred.
A flicker of surprise crossed Welfred's face, his expression softening at her remark.
"Well now, let's not darken the air any further," Patricia said with exaggerated lightness, her tone masking how the argument had pressed on her. "See the present I have bought along."
She signaled to her maid, who stepped to her side holding the gift. With a smooth motion, the maid removed the cloth, revealing a finely crafted jewellery box. Patricia took the box from her maid and set it into Grace's hands. "Inside lies the secret of my beauty— a treasure I pass on to you," she declared, before drifting into a flood of praise for her own unaging charm and the miraculous cream within.
Grace endured Patricia's endless ramblings with practiced composure. Though her mind drifted from the self-praise, her lips carried a mild, gracious smile, a mask that hid her lack of interest. By contrast, Welfred seemed utterly captivated. His eyes gleamed with curiosity as they lingered on the jeweled box, drinking in Patricia's every word about the secret of everlasting youth. Watching him, Grace's composure faltered just enough for a faint, amused laugh to slip past her lips— so soft it vanished into the air before anyone could notice.
Patricia's eyes shifted, and with a graceful motion of her hand, she summoned another maid who carried two boxes. "And these are for Rui and Ray," she said smoothly, taking the boxes one at a time. She placed the first in Rui's hands, then offered the second to Ray. Each of them inclined their heads politely and received the gifts with faint smiles— smiles that, though proper, carried little warmth, betraying their indifference beneath the veneer of manners.
While Patricia busied herself in polite talk with Rui and Ray, Grace's thoughts drifted. "(Elder Mother Patricia... the first time I saw her was at our grandparents' funeral, and the last was our parents'. Like a crow that only circles when death is near, she always seems to appear at the most ominous of times. It's almost startling that she has shown herself here— and even greater surprise that she would part with her so-called beauty secret, something she would never have entrusted even to her own children." Grace paused for a moment, her expression steady though her thoughts sharpened. "(What is she plotting? What favors will she try to wrest from me in exchange)?"
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The moment Patricia withdrew, they each exhaled softly, as though a weight had lifted. Their gifts were soon entrusted to the servants, who bore them off to the rightful chambers, in the same manner as the others before.
"Another 'dear Grace' and I might actually fall asleep," she muttered under her breath as she shifted upon the throne, one leg crossing lazily over the other while her head leaned against her hand in quiet indifference. The royal sceptre rested loosely in her grasp, not raised in command but held with the ease of someone who needed no gesture to remind others of her authority. Every line of her posture spoke of power that was effortless, inevitable, and absolute— she was not striving to rule, she simply was the rule. Draped in poise and crowned in silent dominance, she carried the air of a sovereign to whom the world bent unbidden.
Both kids copied her style of sitting, though theirs looked more comical than elegant.
The guests were clearly unsettled by her casual demeanor, their disapproval confined to silent glances and unspoken judgements, for none dared voice it under her gaze.
She surveyed the crowd with a sharp glint in her eye and asked, "Welfred, should I concern myself with the opinions of others?"
"As long as you stand firm in yourself, their judgements mean nothing."
"And that right there is why you're my favorite," she said with a grin.
"Oh, and you can keep that miracle cream," she added offhandedly.
"But how could I madam? It was given to you," Welfred replied, though a flicker of want betrayed him.
"It's yours, don't fuss. Just make sure to patch-test on your hand before your face. I doubt our 'elder mother' tampered with it, yet precaution is the wiser path."
"You do have a flair for style, don't you? a woman called out.
The moment her eyes fell on the women, they lit up with joy. "Aunt Sera!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet and wrapping her in a tight hug. Sera embraced her just as warmly.
Straightening after the hug, Sera smiled and said, "How have you been?"
"I've been good. How about you—"
"Aunt Sera! we missed you so much!" Rui and Ray cried out together, rushing into her arms. Grace smiled softly and moved back to make space for them.
"I missed you too," Sera said, her smile carrying both warmth and longing.