The morning broke cold and gray, the sky veiled in mist like the kingdom itself was holding its breath.
The courtyard buzzed with quiet urgency. Horses were saddled, cloaks fastened, and guards stood in formation—silent, sharp, and dressed in black. But they weren't all Lucan's men.
A second banner fluttered beside the royal crest: silver antlers on deep green.
Duke Rensic's colors.
He had sent a contingent of soldiers—twenty in total, handpicked and armored in polished steel—to escort His Majesty through the journey. Their presence was a gesture of loyalty. Or surveillance. With Rensic, it was hard to tell.
Lucan mounted his horse with practiced ease, his cloak trailing behind him like storm clouds stitched to his shoulders. He rode tall, commanding, the reins loose in his gloved hands. His gaze swept over the convoy, lingering briefly on Rensic's men with a flicker of disdain.
Elira stood near the carriage, arms crossed, wrapped in a deep blue cloak that had been laid out for her—too fine, too regal, too deliberate.
She hated it.
Lucan guided his horse toward her, stopping just short of the steps.
"You look the part," he said, voice low.
"I look like a hostage dressed for a parade," she muttered.
Lucan's lips twitched. "You'll be more than that soon."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Will I get a matching sword and a throne made of skulls?"
Lucan ignored the jab. "The court will expect you to speak. Say little. Let them wonder."
Elira climbed into the carriage, her boots crunching against the frost-laced stone. "Let them wonder if I'm divine or just dangerously sarcastic?"
Lucan leaned slightly in the saddle, his gaze sharp. "Let them wonder if you're the Saintess who will save them—or the one who will burn them."
The carriage door shut.
Outside, the captain barked orders. The convoy began to move—two banners flying, one kingdom watching.
Lucan rode ahead, flanked by guards, his silhouette cutting through the mist like a blade.
Elira glanced out the window as the fortress faded behind them, swallowed by fog and memory.
She whispered to herself, "Let them wonder. I'll make sure they never forget."
And Lucan, riding in silence at the front, wasn't sure if he was leading a Saintess to the capital—
Or unleashing a storm.
The convoy slithered through the frost-laced countryside like a serpent of steel and silence.
Lucan rode at the head, flanked by Duke Rensic's soldiers and his own royal guard. The two factions didn't speak. Didn't mingle. Their armor gleamed in different shades—one forged in loyalty, the other in watchful doubt.
Elira sat inside the carriage, wrapped in velvet and suspicion. The interior was warm, lined with fur and gold—but it felt like a cage dressed for royalty. Every stitch whispered captivity.
Outside, the world blurred past: skeletal trees, frozen rivers, villages that bowed as the procession passed. She watched it all with narrowed eyes, memorizing the terrain, the faces, the silence.
Lucan hadn't spoken since they left the fortress.
He rode beside the carriage, silent and unreadable, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow stitched to the wind. His posture was regal, but his gaze was a blade—always scanning, always calculating.
Elira leaned back, fingers tapping the window frame in a rhythm only she understood.
He thinks this is control, she thought. But it's just movement. And movement means opportunity.
She studied the guards—Rensic's men. Their eyes were sharp, but not cruel. Not like Lucan's. They didn't look at her like she was a relic. They looked at her like she was a question.
If I speak to the right one… if I plant the right seed…
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road. She steadied herself, then leaned toward the small slit in the door.
"Driver," she said softly. "How long until the capital?"
A pause. Then: "Two days, my lady."
She smirked.
Two days to twist the story. Two days to become the Saintess they didn't expect.
Outside, Lucan turned his head slightly, as if sensing her thoughts.
She met his gaze through the window.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
And for a moment, the road between them felt less like a path—
And more like a battlefield.
*******
The palace gates groaned open as Duke Rensic Albrecht rode through, his cloak soaked in dust and silence. The guards bowed, but their eyes lingered—uncertain, wary. Word hadn't spread yet. Not fully.
Good.
He dismounted, handed the reins to a steward, and strode toward the council wing. Lucan's letter was tucked inside his breastplate, sealed and untouched. It hadn't reached the council. Not yet. And that was the only reason the palace still breathed in order.
The halls were colder than he remembered.
Too many whispers.
Too few answers.
He passed nobles in hushed conversation, their robes trailing behind them like secrets. Some nodded. Others didn't dare.
At the chamber doors, two guards stepped aside.
"Announce me," Rensic said.
The herald cleared his throat, voice echoing through the marble chamber.
"Duke Rensic Albrecht, returned from Berlinton."
The council turned. The doors opened.
Lord Halric stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved from stone. He was already moving pieces. Already playing king.
"You return early," Halric said. "Where is His Majesty?"
Rensic stepped forward, boots striking the floor like war drums. He didn't answer the question.
"I bring word from His Majesty."
Halric's brow lifted. "Is he well?"
Concern flickered across his face—but Rensic knew better. He'd seen Halric's schemes unfold behind Lucan's back for years.
Rensic's voice was steady. "No. He's dead."
Silence fell.
Marquis Emberlain shot to his feet, shattering the stillness. "What do you mean His Majesty is dead?! Do you have proof? Where is his body?!"
Halric's eyes narrowed. "Marquis Emberlain, calm yourself," he said smoothly, then turned back to Rensic. "We need proof."
Rensic reached into his breastplate and withdrew the sealed letter. "His final command. His seal. His words. He was with the Saintess in the Devil's Forest. That's where he was wounded."
Halric took the letter, fingers brushing the wax. He broke the seal and read slowly, carefully, confirming every word.
Then he smiled.
Not with grief.
With calculation.
And then, as if remembering his role, he sobbed—just enough to mask the truth.
Rensic saw it.
He saw the flicker of triumph behind the tears.
And he knew.
Halric had been waiting for this.
The chamber erupted in murmurs. Some nobles wept. Others whispered. A few glanced toward the throne, already imagining it filled.
Halric folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve.
"The kingdom must be informed," he said, voice thick with feigned sorrow. "We must honor His Majesty's legacy—and prepare for transition."
Rensic stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise. "In two days, His Majesty's body will arrive from Berlinton."
A hush fell again.
Marquis Emberlain slumped in his seat, the weight of confirmation sinking into his shoulders.
Rensic scanned the room.
He knew the council was split—half loyal to Lucan, half quietly aligned with Halric's ambitions. He knew the schemes that had slithered through these halls, the whispers that had poisoned the court.
And though his hand itched for the hilt of his blade, he held himself back.
Lucan had given him a final order.
Do not spill blood.
Not yet.
So Rensic stood tall, composed, and silent.
But his eyes burned with warning.
And Halric, watching him closely, knew the Duke was not done.
*****
A loud crash echoed through the grand manor of Marquis Emberlain.
A crystal glass shattered against the marble floor, slipping from Lady Tiana's trembling grip.
"Lady Tiana, your hand is bleeding!" Crosita, her longtime nanny, rushed forward, eyes wide as she saw blood trailing down Tiana's fingers.
Tiana didn't flinch.
"No… no… this can't be…" she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of the news that had just reached her ears.
She staggered back, eyes wild with disbelief.
"Where's my father?" she demanded, breath hitching. "I need to confirm it myself. I need to see His Majesty! I need to speak with Duke Rensic! This is a lie—it has to be!"
She shouted, frantic, her voice echoing through the manor's gilded halls.
Crosita gently took her hand, wrapping it in a cloth. "My lady, please—calm yourself. You're hurt."
"I don't care!" Tiana snapped, pulling away. "They said he's dead. They said Lucan is gone. But I don't believe it. I won't."
She turned toward the door, cloak billowing behind her like a storm.
"I'm going to the palace," she said. "And if they won't let me in, I'll tear the gates down myself."
Crosita hesitated, then bowed her head. "Then I'll prepare your horse."
Tiana didn't respond.
She was already gone.
The palace loomed ahead, its spires piercing the sky like judgment itself.
Lady Tiana's horse galloped through the outer courtyard, hooves striking stone with desperate rhythm. Guards shouted, startled by the sudden arrival, but she didn't slow.
She dismounted in one fluid motion, her cloak whipping behind her like a banner of grief.
"I need to see Duke Rensic!" she cried, storming toward the gates. "Now!"
The guards hesitated. One stepped forward. "My lady, the council is in session—"
"I don't care!" she snapped, eyes blazing. "I need answers. I need to know if it's true!"
Her voice cracked, raw with disbelief.
Crosita followed behind, breathless, trying to keep pace. "Lady Tiana, please—"
But Tiana was already pushing past the guards, storming into the palace halls.
The marble floors echoed beneath her boots. Nobles turned, startled by the intrusion. Whispers followed her like shadows.
She reached the council chamber doors just as they opened.
Duke Rensic stood inside, speaking with a steward. His eyes met hers—and for a moment, everything stilled.
Tiana's voice trembled. "Is he dead?"
Rensic didn't answer immediately.
He stepped forward, solemn, steady.
"Yes," he said. "Lucan is gone."
Tiana staggered, the words hitting her like a blade to the chest.
"No," she whispered. "He promised me—he said he'd return. He said—"
Rensic caught her as she faltered, steadying her.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But there's more you need to know."
She looked up, tears streaking her cheeks.
"What more could there be?"
Rensic glanced toward the council chamber, then leaned in, voice low and steady.
"It's about His Majesty," he whispered. "There's more in the letter. I'll tell you everything—later. But for now, you need to tend to your wound and return home."
He turned to the servant trailing behind her—Crosita, her loyal nanny.
"Take her ladyship back to the manor," he said firmly. "She's bleeding."
Tiana opened her mouth to protest, but Rensic's gaze held hers—not cruel, but resolute.
"This isn't the time," he said. "And you'll need your strength for what's coming."
Crosita gently took Tiana's arm, wrapping it with fresh cloth. "Come, my lady. Let's go."
Tiana hesitated, eyes flicking between Rensic and the council doors.
Then she nodded, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
As she turned to leave, Rensic watched her go—knowing that when she returned, the palace would no longer be the same.
******
The candlelight flickered across the parchment as Duke Rensic Albrecht dipped his quill, the ink dark as the storm brewing in his chest.
He wrote swiftly, each stroke deliberate, each word a blade.
To the true servants of the crown,
His Majesty lives.
The message of his death was a deception—crafted by his own hand, delivered by mine. It was the only way to draw out the traitors who have long conspired against the throne. Lord Halric and his allies have revealed themselves, believing the crown unguarded. They will not see what comes next.
His Majesty is recovering. And he returns not as a grieving king, but as a reckoning.
The Saintess is in our custody. She will be brought into the palace—not as a savior, but as a warning. Let it be known: even prophecy could not destroy him. Even the gods could not claim his life. Her capture is proof that fate bends to his will.
Prepare your men. Ready your steel. The palace will soon become a battlefield, and blood will be shed. Not for conquest—but for justice.
When the signal comes, strike without hesitation. Let no traitor leave the walls alive.
—Duke Rensic Albrecht, Warden of the North
Rensic sealed the letter with Lucan's crest—burned into wax, undeniable.
He handed it to his courier. "Deliver this to every loyal house. No delays. No detours. If you're caught, burn it."
The courier bowed and vanished into the night.
Rensic turned to the courtyard, where the cavalry was already assembling. Horses snorted, armor clinked, and banners bearing Lucan's sigil were quietly unfurled beneath the moonlight.
Sir Alden Greaves stood at attention, his men lined behind him like shadows ready to strike.
"They're ready," Alden said. "Every sword here still answers to Lucan."
Rensic nodded. "Good. His Majesty will arrive within days. When he does, Halric must not see the sunrise."
Alden's jaw tightened. "And the council?"
"Let them tremble," Rensic said. "Let them see what loyalty looks like when it rides with purpose."
He stepped forward, voice low.
"Tonight, we prepare. Tomorrow, we reclaim."
The cavalry bowed.
And in the silence that followed, the palace slept—unaware that war was already galloping toward its gates.