The palace bells rang at noon.
Not the celebratory kind.
Not the mourning kind.
The ancient kind.
The kind that hadn't been rung in centuries.
Nobles froze mid-step. Servants dropped trays. Scholars spilled ink.
In the throne room, the golden seat pulsed steadily—patient, insistent.
Avelyncè Ryler stood beside Prince Caelan Ardyn, trying very hard not to look like she was about to be blamed for this.
"…Does it always do this?" she whispered.
Caelan didn't take his eyes off the throne.
"No," he said. "It's being dramatic."
---
The High Chancellor approached the dais like a man walking toward his own execution.
"The throne has… issued a demand," he announced, voice trembling.
"A declaration."
Murmurs swept the room.
"The throne," he continued, swallowing, "has recognized two."
Silence.
Then—
"Two what?" "Two rulers?" "Two mistakes?"
The throne pulsed once.
The air pressed downward.
The murmurs died instantly.
---
Caelan stepped forward. His voice carried easily—calm, practiced.
"By ancient law, the throne's will stands above all claims," he said. "Until its choosing is understood, no harm will come to Avelyncè Ryler."
Avelyncè blinked.
"…That was not discussed."
He glanced at her. "You're welcome."
---
A noblewoman scoffed. "This is absurd. The girl has no lineage, no training, no—"
The throne flared.
The noblewoman's words vanished mid-sentence as the floor beneath her chair cracked.
Avelyncè winced. "I feel like I should apologize."
Caelan leaned closer. "Please don't. It likes you."
---
High above the throne room, unseen, a thin crack formed in one of the stained-glass windows.
For just a moment, a shadow passed across it.
Avelyncè's chest tightened.
She turned suddenly.
"…Did you feel that?"
Caelan followed her gaze. "Feel what?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. Just… a chill."
Far below the palace, a shard of gold dimmed.
And somewhere in the dark, someone smiled.