Once they returned to Palomia, Sofia tasted the bitter loneliness of being queen.

Gone were the gentle murmurs of her mother’s guidance, the warmth of her father’s protective shadow. Now, she sat in the silence of her room, the thick night air gusting through her bedroom window, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea and pine that clung to her memories. Above, a full, pale moon hung alone in the night sky, casting a cold, ghostly glow on her bedroom floor.

She sat alone, trying to distract herself from her father’s death and Jacques’ trial by getting started instantly with her responsibilities as queen. Towering stacks of letters and documents crowded her desk—parchment upon parchment from all corners of Eastamere, each bearing the wax seals of many a noble house. Each letter, each demand, carried with it the expectations her father once bore. Sofia traced her fingers over the golden dove adorning the royal seal, her hand lingering for a heartbeat too long. Father made this look effortless.

Sofia picked up the first document, her hand trembling slightly. It was a letter from Lord Vallarez, decrying his neighbour for hunting wild boar on his lands. A trivial squabble, yet it was her duty now to mediate it. Another scroll warned of brigands terrorising the eastern roads, threatening the merchants that kept Eastamere thriving. Sofia could picture her father, The Devil’s Cobra, as his fingers traced a map, his brow furrowed in thought as he planned their capture. The hollow prospect clawed at her heart, and she forced herself to look away, willing herself not to crumble.

Lord Serben had taken charge of arranging the funeral, ensuring that every step of the process would align with her father’s wishes. Sofia’s mouth tightened at the thought of her father’s old friend, his cold efficiency in the face of tragedy. He was loyal, but his composure unnerved her—always prepared.

His eyes will watch my every step now. The shadow on my shoulder.

Sofia’s gaze softened when she found a letter penned in a familiar, looping script. Her aunt Isabela. The news that her mother’s sister was making the journey up from Madriga, home of House Hyana, brought the first spark of relief she’d felt in days. She remembered Aunt Isabela’s fiery laugh, the way she would scold Father, bossing him around like he was a young boy instead of a king. Her mother would roll her eyes and tell Isabela to let him be, but there was always a warmth, a fierce loyalty to her aunt that had comforted Sofia as a child. She clung to the hope that her aunt’s arrival might soften the edges of her grief, if only for a moment.

The reprieve was short-lived. Sofia picked up the next letter, her gaze drifting over the embossed sigil of Lord Barcen—a snarling greyhound, vicious even in ink. The northern lord’s debts to the crown were yet unpaid, as he had weaselled his way around every deadline her father had set. Her heart sank as she realised she could not turn to him for advice, not anymore. How would Father have handled this? Would he have tightened his grip on Lord Barcen, or given him room to pay his debt in his own time?

Sofia sighed, wishing her father were alive to ask him.

By now, she should have been travelling with Fernando and Esme, their laughter and carefree conversations filling her ears as they rode over open fields. She should have been gazing at distant peaks under clear skies, not shut away in a dark room, with the crushing weight of a crown pressing down on her every thought.

And all of it—all of it was because of Jacques. It had been his sword, hadn’t it? She couldn’t ignore the undeniable evidence; she could practically feel its cold steel lying between them. Every time she thought of it, an ugly mix of betrayal and bitterness twisted in her stomach. The simple, stark logic of it pressed against her: his sword meant his guilt. Yet, it wasn’t so simple. If she hadn’t met him, if she had only known him as a monster in the stories, it would be easy to condemn him, to believe he was the man everyone accused him of being. But she had met him. She’d seen the haunted look in his eyes, the genuine tremor in his voice when he spoke of that girl, Aubery, and the heart-wrenching loss he’d borne. It didn’t make sense.

She buried her face in her hands, feeling the weight of uncertainty grind against her heart. Only the trial would reveal the truth, yet every second that passed without answers tore at her patience, her resolve. Her father’s burial loomed over her like a shadow, a reminder of all she had to accomplish while the world spun out of control around her. She wanted justice for him, but she feared what it might cost her if she was wrong about Jacques.

A sharp knock at the door jolted her back to the present, and her quill froze mid-sentence, her eyes lingering over the word leave scrawled on the page. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, each beat seeming to echo in the silence that followed. She heard muffled voices from the other side, tense, hurried whispers that prickled her skin with a terrible sense of foreboding. The letters and documents scattered across her desk were forgotten as she strained to listen, a quiet dread settling over her.

'You need to tell her, Fernando,' Esme’s voice was low but unyielding, carrying the strain of words she’d clearly repeated.

'You know what she’ll say.' Fernando’s whisper wavered, each word catching as though dragged reluctantly from his throat. 'You know she’ll want us to stay. She’ll… she’ll think we’re abandoning her.'

Esme scoffed, her tone laced with an edge of frustration. 'Fine. I’ll tell her myself.'

Sofia paused, the letter slipping from her hand, drifting down onto the stack of correspondence cluttering her desk. The quiet murmur of their voices through the door sent a chill through her, each muffled word unravelling her composure. She took a slow breath, willing her heart to slow its wild thumping against her ribs.

'Come in,' Sofia called, her voice clear, steady—a facade she’d practised. She watched the door, every nerve on edge, as if steeling herself would make her impenetrable. She knew whatever they were about to say would not be easy to hear.

Esme stepped inside first, her face drawn, a packed bag slung over her shoulder. Sofia’s heart gave a painful twist. It was the boots that truly shook her—thick-soled, worn boots she only wore for travel, dust from countless roads clinging to their seams. The sight of them made Sofia’s stomach turn, her breath catching in her throat as the terrible truth sank in before a word was spoken.

Esme looked her in the eye, her expression caught between sympathy and resolve. 'We wanted to tell you in person,' she began, her voice soft but stern. 'Thought it’d be easier for you to hear.'

Sofia’s face hardened instinctively, forming a mask of steel that concealed the turmoil rising inside her. She forced herself to keep her chin high, to swallow down the sharp sting of betrayal that threatened to spill from her lips. This can’t be happening. She clutched the edge of her desk, fingers digging into the wood until her knuckles whitened, a thin veneer of control over the torrent building inside her.

'You can’t,' she said suddenly, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. 'We were going to go together.'

Esme stilled, her jaw clenching as she forced herself to meet Sofia’s pleading gaze. 'I know you’re upset—'

'Upset?' Sofia’s voice tore through the room, the rawness of her fury reverberating off the walls. She vaulted from her seat, fists clenched tightly at her sides. 'We were meant to go together!' Her words hung heavy in the air, thick with accusation. The sound of her own voice, ragged and edged with betrayal, felt foreign—like it belonged to someone else, some other girl who had been left behind.

Esme’s face hardened 'You’re the queen now, Sofia,' she said, her voice mimicking the cold detachment of her own lord father, Lord Gallo. 'Your place is here. And ours…' She trailed off, her eyes flashing with a hint of something Sofia couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps, or regret. 'Our place is not.'

Sofia’s breath came in shallow bursts, her anger simmering dangerously close to the surface. She fought against the urge to scream, to release the storm that raged inside her. Every fibre of her being roared at her to let it out, to rail against them for abandoning her in the darkest hour of her life. These were supposed to be her friends—her friends. The people she could count on when everything else was falling apart, the ones who would stay, no matter the title, no matter the crown. And now they were casting her aside, leaving her shackled to a throne she never asked for, leaving her alone to wear the weight of a kingdom she wasn’t ready to bear.

Esme glanced back at the door. 'Fernando!' she barked, her voice harsh. 'Get in here! If I have to look her in the eye, then you do too!'

She strode over to the door, wrenching it open and reaching into the dim corridor. She pulled Fernando into the room, her grip on his arm unyielding as she dragged him into the light. He stumbled forward, blinking under the candlelight from Sofia’s desk, his green eyes wide with guilt and fear. His gaze flickered up to meet Sofia’s, but he dragged it away, as though her pain were too much for him to bear. His lips trembled, and when he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a broken whisper.

'I’m sorry, Sofia,' he murmured, the shame in his eyes stark against his usual charm. 'We wanted to tell you…'

Sofia looked at the two of them, her pulse pounding in her ears, her heart a tangled mess of anger, hurt, and betrayal. She could barely bring herself to breathe, each inhale feeling like a knife twisting in her chest. These were the people she trusted most in the world. The ones who’d whispered promises of loyalty when they were children, the ones who swore they’d never leave her side. And now, when she needed them more than ever, they were turning their backs.

'Get out,' she hissed, her voice barely more than a whisper, but fierce, filled with a quiet rage that left no room for argument. She nodded stiffly towards the door. 'The pair of you. Just… get out.'

Esme held her gaze for a long, painful moment, something unreadable flashing in her eyes—perhaps a silent plea for Sofia to understand, or an apology she was too proud to voice. But she merely nodded, nudging Fernando towards the door. He shuffled past her, casting one last remorseful look back at Sofia. Sofia clenched her fists tighter, refusing to let him see how broken she was.

The door slammed behind them, a sharp, final sound that echoed through the room, reverberating in the silence they left in their wake. Sofia stood frozen, her vision blurring as the truth crashed over her in a wave of cold realisation. They were gone. She was truly, utterly alone.

The first tear slipped down her cheek, hot and stinging, and before she knew it, her hands flew up to her face, desperate to hold back the flood of emotions she’d been fighting all this time. But it was futile. The grief, the anger, the suffocating loneliness—all of it burst free in broken, shuddering sobs that filled the empty room. She sank onto her bed, shoulders trembling as she buried her face in her hands. The tears fell freely now, and she did not stop them. How can I? How can I be strong, like a queen’s meant to be, when everyone I love is gone?

Her mother, her father… both lost to death. And now Esme and Fernando—lost to their own choices, choosing to walk away when she needed them most. The walls around her blurred as her mind spiralled back to the weight of that crown she’d never wanted, the suffocating duties, that prison of a throne. Everyone was gone. She had no one left.

The next morning, Sofia walked through the streets of Palomia to the steady, haunting beat of a single drum. Each strike resonated in her bones, a mournful cadence matching the dull ache in her heart. Her steps were measured, slow, each one an effort to hold back the tremors threatening to take over her entire body. She wore a dress of the finest black silk, heavy and stifling as it draped her shoulders, trailing like the shadow of her grief. A delicate veil covered her face, blurring the world around her, a thin shield against the wave of sorrow in the streets. She clung to its concealment, grateful for its protection, hiding the rawness in her eyes, the sharp edges of her pain that threatened to shatter her weak facade.

Beside her, Luis walked in the armour of the royal guard, its once-brilliant gold now dull in the sombre light of morning. He looked straight ahead, his face pale and expressionless, his lips pressed into a hard line. The armour, so recently a symbol of family pride, now hung on him like a curse, weighing down his steps, transforming him from a young prince to a stoic sentinel. Sofia glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her heart aching not only for their shared loss but for the boy who had been forced too soon into the harsh roles of manhood, of a soldier and mourner.

Ahead of them, King Geraldo’s coffin rested atop a wooden platform, its dark mahogany gleaming in the morning light. Draped in the royal gold of House Paloma, it lay open, exposing her father’s face to the heavens. His features were stiff and cold, transformed from the warm, familiar expressions she had once known into something remote, distant. The once-commanding lines of his face were softened, smoothed by the silence of death, yet still held the unmistakable gravity of a king. Regal, even now. Sofia’s heart twisted with each reluctant step toward him, the painful truth sinking deeper with every drumbeat.

On either side of the road, the people of Palomia stood in solemn lines, forming a path of silent, grieving witnesses. The streets were unrecognisably quiet, as if the city itself mourned. Merchants who had once haggled with joy, bakers and smiths who filled the air with laughter and song, now stood silent, their eyes glistening with unshed tears, clutching white roses in their hands. The roses were tradition, a symbol of honour and farewell. One by one, they stepped forward, casting their flowers onto the wooden platform.

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Each rose that landed sent a fresh shard of pain through Sofia’s heart, a slow suffocation as the fragrant blossoms piled up. Soon, her father’s figure was almost lost beneath the layers of petals, the delicate blooms encasing him in a final, poetic shroud. She watched as children placed their roses with trembling hands, as old men and women lowered their heads in reverence, whispering prayers and quiet farewells. The sea of white roses grew, spilling over the edges of the platform, until the coffin seemed to be floating atop a field of sorrow, a wave of mourning that would carry him to his final rest.

Sofia’s throat tightened as she forced herself to walk on, the weight of her role pressing down on her with every step. Her fingers curled into fists beneath her veil, fighting against the urge to turn away, to run from the unbearable truth before her. The path was long, each step a painful reminder of the future she could not escape, the crown that would soon settle on her head, the throne that awaited her.

As they reached the cathedral, the heavy oak doors groaned open, their echo reverberating through the stone halls like a mournful wail. Sofia’s heart pounded painfully in her chest, each beat louder than the next. She could barely breathe as she crossed the threshold, the air inside thick with incense and history. Sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns of red and gold across the cold marble floor, lending the sanctuary an eerie, otherworldly glow. The cathedral felt like a place between worlds—where the living came to say goodbye to the dead, and the dead went to rest.

The council members waited, their faces marked with an understanding silence, their hands ready but hesitant. Normally, it was the royal guard who would carry the king inside, their presence a symbol of honour and protection. But after what had happened, after Sir Eduardo’s betrayal, still fresh in her heart, Sofia couldn’t bear the thought of those men—men who wore the same armour, men she could no longer trust—coming anywhere near her father’s body.

Serben stepped forward first, his face stoic and unyielding. His hands, calloused and steady, found their grip on the polished wood of the coffin. Sofia watched as he braced himself under the weight of his old friend, his expression flickering for just a moment—grief flashing in his green eyes before he locked it away behind a mask of iron duty. The rest of the council moved forward, each member mirroring Serben’s reverence, their fingers trembling only slightly as they took their places around the coffin.

The pallbearers heaved together, lifting the coffin as though it held the very heart of the kingdom. Sofia could barely look at it without feeling the prickling, tearing pain in her chest, the sensation of a hollow abyss opening where her father’s presence once was. She forced herself to remain still, to hold her composure, but the urge to scream, to run to the coffin and cling to it, nearly overcame her. Instead, she turned her gaze down, the burn of unfallen tears filling her eyes.

As they moved deeper into the cathedral, the organ’s low, mournful notes filled the space, spilling down from the vaulted ceilings like liquid sorrow. The sound was beautiful, haunting—a cry of despair plunging into her bones. Every chord echoed off the high stone arches, rebounding and swirling around her until the very walls were weeping with her, mourning with her. She had spent many moments of her childhood in this cathedral, back when both of her parents were alive, when it was a place of wonder and quiet joy. Now, the very air felt oppressive, the sanctity that should have brought comfort only intensifying her grief.

She slipped into one of the pews at the front, her brother beside her, his hand trembling as he gripped the edge of the seat. He sat so straight, trying so hard to appear strong, yet Sofia could feel the turmoil inside him. He was barely more than a boy, and here he was, a knight, the captain of the royal guard, forced to bury his father, to watch him disappear into the shadows forever.

As the council bore the coffin forward, Sofia took in the flickering torchlight that lined the walls, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the faces of kings carved in stone. The figures seemed to watch her, hollow eyes following her every breath, a silent jury to her grief. She thought of her father’s face, cold and lifeless beneath that shroud of roses, and she tried to reconcile that image with the memory of him alive—his eyes bright with laughter, his voice steady and full of life. The contrast was too sharp, too cruel, and the thought of him lying here, forever silent beneath those towering walls, felt like a final, brutal twist of fate.

Sofia’s gaze drifted upward, to the impossibly high ceiling where light struggled to reach, swallowed by the darkness. She could not imagine him here, trapped in the stone tomb, but she told herself he would be at peace within these walls, surrounded by the silence he had always respected. As she thought of him resting here, the quiet strength that had defined him forever contained within these stones, she fought to steady her breathing, to keep her hands from shaking. The thought was cold comfort, but it was all she had left.

'Sofia,' a soft voice broke through the haze of her thoughts.

Sofia’s heart lifted at the sound, so familiar yet distant in the wake of her grief. She turned, her breath catching as she beheld a woman in her mid-forties, whose presence felt like a balm in a world now rough and unyielding. She stood there, her long, dark hair flowing over one shoulder, her brown eyes soft and full of the warmth Sofia remembered from her mother.

'Aunt Isabela,' Sofia breathed, a small, fragile smile breaking through the sadness etched into her face.

Isabela’s gaze held her with such tenderness it forced a lump to rise inside Sofia’s throat. 'You look well,' Isabela said, nodding slowly, her tone gentle but knowing. 'As well as one in your position can, I suppose.' There was a deep understanding there, a silent acknowledgement of the burdens Sofia carried. No pity, just the quiet strength of someone who had seen much in life and knew what loss could do to someone.

Sofia looked up at her, and the ache in her chest swelled, her arms longing for an embrace, for the comfort that only family could give. She swallowed, fighting to maintain her composure. Aunt Isabela must have sensed her silent plea because, in an instant, she stepped forward, pulling Sofia close and wrapping her in a tight embrace. Sofia’s cheek pressed against her aunt’s shoulder, and as her aunt’s arms circled around her, she felt as if she were a child again, wrapped in the safety of her mother’s arms.

'I am so sorry, my dear,' Isabela whispered, her voice thick with grief. Sofia felt the faint tremor in her aunt’s hold, the evidence of her own sorrow, and the shared pain brought an unsteady comfort. She bit down on her lip, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She had held them back all morning, but now, in the warmth of her aunt’s embrace, the walls she’d built around herself began to crumble.

Sofia could smell the faint hint of lavender on her aunt’s dress, an echo of her mother’s favourite scent, and it brought with it a flood of memories—memories of long, lazy afternoons with her mother and Aunt Isabela, the sound of their laughter weaving through the air like a melody. Her mother, now only a memory, and her father, lying cold within the cathedral. Her friends, too, had left her alone. Jacques had betrayed her. She fought against the realisation that clutched at her heart: everyone she’d relied on, everyone she had loved, was gone. And yet, here was her aunt, her one remaining anchor.

Isabela tightened her hold and leaned in to speak softly in Sofia’s ear, her voice gentle yet brimming with fierce conviction. 'You will do this, Sofia. I know it in my heart. You were born with your father’s strength and your mother’s kindness. But if you stumble, if you ever need me…' She pulled back slightly, meeting Sofia’s gaze, her eyes warm with promise. 'I am only a raven away.'

A small, shuddering breath escaped Sofia’s lips. Her hands clung to her aunt’s for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. There was a part of her that wanted to stay there, buried in the comfort of her aunt’s arms, safe from the merciless world that waited just beyond. But her father’s coffin lay only a few paces away, and she could no longer run from the burden she’d inherited.

Sofia gave a slight nod, summoning every ounce of strength within her to step back. Isabela’s hand lingered on her shoulder, a grounding presence, before she gently released her, giving her one last look of pride and reassurance before moving down the aisle to join the congregation, her dark form a steady silhouette against the cold stone of the cathedral.

As Sofia watched her take a seat, a strange peace settled over her—a fleeting strength that she held onto, willing herself to remember her aunt’s words, to believe that she was not entirely alone.

As the service began, the bishop’s voice filled the cavernous cathedral, recounting tales of her father’s strength and unwavering dedication.

'He was a rock in the community,' he said, his voice resonating off the high, arched walls. 'A guiding light in our last war with Galia, and a beacon of justice and resilience.'

The words swirled around Sofia, hollow and echoing, filling the space but leaving her heart untouched. They felt like distant echoes, spoken in a language she could no longer understand. She heard the phrases—a rock, a light—but they seemed to bounce off the wall of grief encasing her, muffled, unreachable.

She glanced at Luis. Her brother was trembling, his face blotchy from held-back sobs. He dabbed at his eyes with a white cloth, his fingers shaking. Seeing his pain stirred something deep inside her—protective, fierce. Sofia reached over and took his hand in hers, locking her fingers around his, feeling the strength of his grip as he held on tightly, as if her touch alone could weather him in the storm of their loss. His gaze dropped to their intertwined hands, and he squeezed them even closer, pulling her hand into his lap, clinging to her for comfort. The fragility in his eyes was like a mirror, reflecting her, reflecting her own need to feel normal in this moment where nothing felt real.

'And now,' the bishop’s voice cut through the air, reverent and solemn, 'I’d like to invite Her Majesty, Queen Sofia, and His Highness, Prince Luis, to say their last goodbyes.'

A lump formed in Sofia’s throat, and her breath caught. She felt a slight shiver, her pulse quickening as the reality of it struck her. This was truly the last time she would see her father’s face, the last time she could be close to him, even in death. She glanced over at Luis, whose lip quivered despite the determined set of his jaw. He nodded to her, giving her hand another tight squeeze, a silent promise that he would be strong for her, and she for him. They rose together, and she leaned into him as they stepped forward, an unspoken unity, two shadows cast by the same sorrow.

As they moved closer, Sofia’s heart pounded so hard it felt as though it might shatter her ribs. Each step toward the coffin brought more of her father’s features into focus—his peaceful expression, the quiet dignity in the lines of his face.

Luis sank to one knee before the coffin, his fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the polished wood. His voice wavered, barely audible, as he began to recite the vows of the royal guard—words meant to be strong, proud, yet choked with sorrow as he spoke them over their father’s resting form. Each line was a struggle, his voice catching on the syllables as he made promises of loyalty, of sacrifice, of duty, words that had bound their father as king and protector. But now, spoken over a lifeless body, the vows seemed hollow, a ritual that could not bring him back.

Sofia stood over the coffin, her gaze riveted on her father’s face, her breath shallow and uneven. She tried to steady herself, to banish the image of him lying there, so unnaturally still, but she couldn’t look away. She could barely remember the last words he’d spoken to her, the blood of the dove runs thick, the last moment they’d shared, lost now in a blur of court responsibilities and her last fear-riddled complaint over her readiness for the throne. Not for many years, I hope. Princess will do for now. The people had always called King Geraldo II a good king, a just ruler who had shepherded Eastamere through wars, shortages, and countless struggles. The lords had echoed those sentiments at every council meeting. But none of that mattered now. She was not here to say goodbye to a king; she was here to say goodbye to her father—the man who had always wrapped her in his arms after her nightmares, who had told her stories to fill her heart with hope, who had listened patiently as she presented an idea to the council, no matter how nonsensical, and laughed softly when her nerves got the better of her.

Without saying a word, Sofia leaned down, her lips pressing to his cold forehead. She closed her eyes, trying to feel him there beneath her touch, as if she could summon some last trace of warmth, of life. It might have been seconds, it might have been hours—time had lost all meaning. In that silent, sacred moment, she willed him to stay, to come back. Her heart ached with every beat, each pulse a silent scream, Please, Father, don’t go. I can’t do this without you. I’m not ready. I’m not!

But the world around her remained indifferent, and no answer came from the stillness.

She opened her eyes, her vision blurred with unshed tears. Slowly, she pulled herself back, feeling the weight of each step as though her limbs were stone. She could not linger here—not when the crypt waited to swallow him, not when her people expected her to be strong. The ancestors would claim him now, and her place was among the living.

Taking a deep breath, Sofia moved back toward the pews, her body feeling hollow, emptied by the loss. Beside her, Luis had risen, his face streaked with fresh tears, his cheeks shimmering in the dim torchlight. She reached out and took his hand, feeling the warmth of his small, trembling fingers in hers. He squeezed her hand again, clutching it tightly as though he feared that, in letting go, he too would be lost.

The service stretched on, the delicate hymns and solemn music weaving a soft cocoon around the mourners, muffling the grief that hung thick in the air. Every note seemed to drift up to the cathedral’s high vaulted ceiling before settling heavily back down, blanketing them all in sorrow. Sofia kept her eyes fixed on her father’s coffin, her heart sinking deeper with each passing minute. The memory of his voice whispered through her mind, I’ll be back, my love, I promise. The words seemed to taunt her now, echoing painfully in the cavernous space, as though he might still step forward, smile at her, and pull her into a final embrace.

Finally, the council members moved forward, solemn and precise, each gesture steeped in ritual. They lifted the coffin once more, and with a muffled thud, closed it, sealing her father within. A sense of finality settled over the room, cold and sharp. Sofia’s throat tightened, and she could almost feel the emptiness that would follow—the world without her father, the throne without its king.

In the centre of the cathedral, a trapdoor was opened with a low groan, revealing the staircase descending into the crypt. It yawned open like a mouth, dark and unyielding, the stone steps leading to the resting place of generations past. She imagined her father would join them now, lying in quiet companionship with the ancestors he had spoken of with such reverence. Down there, her mother lay as well, her presence only a memory now, a fading warmth on the edge of Sofia’s heart. The thought of them both, together in that cold, eternal tomb, twisted her grief into something nearly unbearable.

Slowly, the council members began the descent, lowering the coffin down into the dark. She watched it slip away, swallowed inch by inch until only shadows remained, his legacy—their legacy—fading with it. Her father’s words echoed once more: I’ll be back, my love, I promise. But this time, they sounded hollow, a promise he could never keep.

Sofia gripped the edge of the pew, her chest burning with a pain she hadn’t felt even when her mother had passed. She had been a child then, lost and inconsolable. Now, she was grown, the Queen, and though the pain was sharper, more refined, she was no less devastated. She felt as though her heart had been hollowed out, leaving only a fragile shell to carry her forward. Her vision blurred, the walls of the cathedral shifting in waves, and she fought to hold herself together, to keep from shattering completely.

A gentle touch on her shoulder drew her back. She looked up, blinking away her tears, desperate for whoever it was not to see her grief. Serben’s dark silhouette loomed over her, his face etched with urgency. He leaned down, his voice low and urgent.

'Your Majesty,' he whispered.

A chill crept up Sofia’s spine. The cathedral, the funeral, even the crushing weight of her grief seemed to recede, pushed aside by a sudden, tense awareness. Her mind raced as she searched Serben’s face, his grave expression confirming the seriousness of what he was about to tell her.

'What is it, Lord Serben?' she asked.

'There is trouble at the palace. I’m afraid we have company.'