A bag of golden apples lay on top of a barrel below deck, the rich, dappled glow of their skin shimmering in the faint light filtering down from above. Sofia reached out, taking one in her hand. She felt the weight of it, the firm roundness of the fruit pressing against her palm, and ran her thumb along the waxy surface. A frown creased her brow as she noticed one half of the apple had decayed—its once-lustrous skin mottled with patches of rot, black and withered, the pristine gold giving way to the corruption that seemed to creep all over it.

She thought of Jacques sitting alone on the deck, eyes dark with concentration, his fingers smudged with charcoal, absorbed in his art as if he could somehow disappear into each line and shade, retreating from everything around him. The prince’s face was often unreadable, a mix of blithe indifference and devilish charm that masked any real feeling—a mask she’d never dared to challenge until tonight. But after he had told her of Aubery, of the love and loss that had haunted him for so many years, she saw through him. Beneath the beautifully practised wit and careless smirk, Jacques Rue was fragile, just like the apple in her hand. Tarnished. Hurt. Trying to keep the rot from spreading, as though sheer will could preserve what remained of his heart.

Her fingers tightened around the apple. As queen, she would have to guard herself as well, to hide the softest part of her personality, like armour against the world. If the queen was weak, so would be her country. She glanced around the dimly lit storage room, the scent of salted wood and sea air heavy around her, and saw herself reflected in that single, imperfect fruit: half bright, half ruined.

A small, chipped piece of charcoal lay on the floorboards nearby, its edge still sharp, as if freshly used. Jacques must have dropped it when he’d come below deck, unthinkingly casting it aside once it served its purpose.

Kneeling, she picked up the charcoal. It was rough in her fingers, leaving streaks on her skin, faint and smudged. She clenched it tightly, a sense of determination hardening within her. She wanted to understand what Jacques found there, in those stark, black lines that captured so much. Perhaps it could be her refuge, too. Maybe if she put herself into the drawing, she would find a way through the fears crowning her heart.

Stepping onto the deck of their ship, Sunrise, Sofia felt the familiar, rhythmic sway of the ship beneath her, each subtle tilt pulling her in time with the ocean. The air was sharp with salt, cold enough that it stung her cheeks and sent a prickle along her arms. She inhaled deeply, the night breeze filling her lungs, mingling with the faint, musky scent of wood and rope. Above her, stars blanketed the sky, speckles of light stretching endlessly, while the calm, frothing waves whispered against the ship’s sides, filling the silence with a soft, steady rhythm.

Setting the apple onto a nearby wooden barrel, she paused, watching as the flickering torchlight caught the dappled gold and black of the skin. The light cast dancing shadows on the deck, catching on the edges of barrels and rigging, lending a strange, fragile life to the apple’s rotting half, as if it pulsed faintly with each sway of the ship.

She raised her charcoal, hovering over the blank paper she’d smoothed out on a crate, her gaze narrowing in focus. The night, the ship, the sea, all faded, her vision narrowing to the golden apple.

Where do I start?

Her hand tightened around the charcoal as she thought of the man sleeping just below deck—the man she would soon call her husband. Only the Gods knew what hour it was, and she could just imagine his face if she woke him. She could almost hear Jacques’ groggy, grumbling voice, could picture the flicker of annoyance in his half-lidded blue eyes as he tried to shield them from her torch’s glow. A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and soft, and she held it for a moment, savouring the thought of his sleepy irritation. She longed to ask him about all this, to pull herself into his world, to feel the weight of his presence next to her as she began. But her hand froze, and the smile faded.

The apple seemed to grow under her gaze, the mottled skin taking on an almost visceral quality. She traced the line of its shape in her mind, imagining each curve, each blemish, each shade. Her fingers hovered, reluctant and cautious, over the blank sheet, the tip of the charcoal suspended in midair.

Work your way up, she thought, willing herself to begin.

'What are you doing up, Sofia?'

Sofia spun towards the voice, her pulse quickening in the quiet darkness. Her father stepped into the torchlight, his figure tall and unguarded. He wore a rumpled golden shirt and brown trousers, the fabric catching faint glimmers from the flames. The ocean breeze tousled his black hair, lifting loose strands that framed his face, casting shadows over his worn features.

'I wanted to try drawing,' she replied, her voice brightening despite the odd hour. She clutched the charcoal, its roughness grounding her as she met her father’s gaze.

'Drawing.' Her father chuckled softly, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Lines of sleepless nights etched his brow. 'I didn’t think you had much interest in drawing.'

'I… didn’t. Jacques-'

'Prince Jacques…' Father continued to chuckle. 'I should’ve known.'

A sudden gust of wind cut between them, strong and bracing, swirled around the deck like a warning. Sofia shivered, holding her shawl tighter, and watched her father’s hair lift in the breeze, exposing the deep shadows under his eyes, shadows he so often kept hidden. She noticed the slight slump of his shoulders as he wandered forward, each step echoing in the quiet, the worn wood creaking beneath his weight. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the faint tremble in his hands before he clasped them together tightly, trying to mask it.

Around his councillors, around the court, he was always the strong, resolute man, the image of unshakeable resolve. Yet here, in the thin hours of the night, he seemed almost fragile, stripped of his defences. His eyes met hers, and in that moment, she saw something raw, something she hadn’t been prepared for—a flicker of pain, so deeply buried that it broke her heart to witness it surface.

His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, now held something softer, something tinged with regret. And in the press of the silence, she could feel it, almost as if he were trying to say something he hadn’t dared to say before. An apology lingered in his gaze, raw and unspoken.

'I am sorry, Sofia,' he said, 'This peace we have established with Galia is beyond anything our family has achieved over the last centuries. I have you to thank you for that.'

Sofia felt her lips curve into a smile. 'Did you… did you think it wouldn’t work?'

King Geraldo shrugged as a rueful chuckle escaped him. 'I didn’t know what to expect,' he admitted, the candour surprising her. 'Truthfully, I still don’t.'

For a moment, silence swallowed the words between them, and he turned away, his gaze pulled toward the horizon. The wind swept over the deck, filling the quiet with the haunting whispers of the ocean, as if nature itself sensed the tension lingering in the air. Sofia shivered and clasped her hands together, searching her father’s face for some reassurance, some sign of satisfaction or relief. But his expression was distant, his face set in the hardened lines of a man used to bearing the burdens of a king.

They will be my burdens soon, Sofia thought, fighting to expel the fear from her mind.

'Everything is going to plan, isn’t it?' she ventured, her voice barely a whisper.

Father nodded slowly, almost mechanically. 'Yes. For the first time, everything is going exactly to plan.'

'Then why do you look so worried?'

Father swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he leaned against the side of the ship, bracing himself against the dark, endless ocean stretching out before them. For a heartbeat, he was quiet, just staring out at the inky waves, as if searching for answers in their depths. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower, as if he were confessing secrets to the Gods themselves. 'Any ruler, man or woman, must assess every variable, every outcome, every scenario, and expect the worst. That is the nature of our duty, the essence of this game we all must play. We make choices—hard, often cruel choices—for the good of the realm.'

His gaze drifted from the ocean back to her, his dark eyes filled with something she hadn’t seen in them before—a strange, deep regret, almost pleading. 'I’m sorry, my love, but I’ve been keeping things from you.'

Sofia’s heart thumped in her chest. She put down her charcoal. 'What are you talking about?'

'You remember what I said about King Rickard?'

'That he’s dangerous.'

Father nodded, his expression grim. 'He’s dangerous. A man who remembers every slight, every betrayal. He will do anything to get what he wants, and he does not forget old wounds. He’s already declared war on us once. Your marriage to Prince Jacques… that is the only reason he’s kept his sword sheathed. But if he ever makes that move…'

A flicker of fear twisted through Sofia as a terrifying image flashed through her mind—her father, halberd raised, driving it down with a single swing to take Jacques’s head. Her stomach tightened, and she fought back a shudder. 'You’re going to kill him?'

Father’s gaze snapped back to her, his eyes dull with a weight she’d only seen in her brother. He nodded, his face tight with a terrible determination. 'If it comes to that, yes. My duty is clear, Sofia, as is yours.'

His words sent a chill through her, one colder than the ocean breeze. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that if we are to secure this peace, you cannot allow him to slip through your fingers. I need you to keep a close eye on him in the coming months. Never let him out of your sight. Use whatever means necessary to ensure he’s not hiding any intentions of his own.' His voice dropped to a near growl. 'Can I count on you to do that?'

The question lingered, hanging in the air between them, suffocating in its simplicity. Sofia swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand. She’d known that this marriage came with responsibility, that it was more than a promise to one man; it was a promise to Galia that they’d made peace. But this? To become a spy in her own home, to betray the trust of the man she was supposed to build a life with?

The night breeze, once refreshing, felt sharp as it scraped against her skin, pricking her with an aching sense of dread. Is this what it meant to do her duty? To feign loyalty and affection only to watch his every move with suspicion? She could still see the look in Jacques’s eyes when he spoke of Aubery’s betrayal, the wound that still lay fresh beneath his carefully composed exterior. Would he ever recover from this, from her betrayal?

It would shatter him like glass.

'But Father, you don’t understand-'

'I understand everything I need to about Rickard Rue.' His voice wavered for a brief second, betraying the fear simmering beneath his composure. 'I don’t want to frighten you, but you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen, heard the things I’ve heard.' He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to keep his voice steady. 'Do you remember the rebellion in Galia’s northern isles? What King Rickard did to the lords there… to their children?'

A gust of wind howled across the deck, slicing through the darkness and bringing with it a biting chill. Sofia shivered, an involuntary reaction as the stories from the northern isles filled her mind, each one a ghostly whisper of terror. Tales of entire families erased, of children taken from their homes, of blood running thick through once-peaceful streets. A scream seemed to echo in her ears, distant yet vivid, and she wrapped her arms around herself, nodding slowly.

'As long as I have breath in my body, he will never get within an inch of you, or Luis.' Her father’s voice grew steely, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 'I will not allow us to be another page in his bloody history book.'

'I’ll make you proud, Father,' Sofia said, forcing herself to believe the words, even as they tasted hollow on her tongue.

Her father’s face softened, his stern expression giving way to the faintest of smiles. 'You needn’t worry about that, Sofia. You make me proud every day.' His voice held a warmth that almost chased away the cold. 'I know you will become a great queen.'

'Not for many years, I hope.' Sofia’s attempt at humour felt brittle, but she clung to it, hoping it might hold back the dread creeping over her. She let herself smile, though her heart weighed heavy in her chest. 'Just ‘princess’ will do for now,' she said, and meant every word.

As Father’s warm smile lingered, Sofia’s chest swelled with gratitude. She was a princess with a father who loved her, a brother who would face any enemy at her side, and Jacques, her betrothed, who—despite her initial doubts—seemed to be a good man. For the first time, she felt the faint glimmer of confidence that perhaps she could be a queen, could live up to the trust her father placed in her. Almost.

'Your Majesty!' A shout cut through the night, laced with urgency.

Sofia turned, squinting against the shadows, and made out the glint of golden armour in the moonlight. Sir Eduardo Jeffro emerged on deck, his solid frame unmistakable, the edges of his plate gleaming like liquid fire in the torchlight. Sofia’s heart dropped. Something was terribly wrong.

Sofia reached for her father’s hand. 'Father-'

'Eduardo,' King Geraldo said, brow furrowing. 'What is it? Do you know what time it is?'

Sir Eduardo’s armour clanked as he approached, his movements deliberate, the hand on his sword unwavering. 'I have an urgent message… from Galia.'

Father stepped away from Sofia, hands resting on his hips, his posture open but intent, giving the knight his full attention. 'Alright, tell me.'

A scream of steel shattered the night. Sofia blinked, as if the scene before her were a trick of the darkness, but there it was—her father’s back arched, his mouth open in shock, and the sharp, bloody tip of a sword gleaming grotesquely from his chest.

Sofia’s world went silent.

'Father!' Sofia's scream pierced the night, raw and broken, as if her voice itself had shattered. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry, but the taste of salt and iron filled her senses. She watched, helpless, as Sir Eduardo yanked the blood-soaked blade from her father’s side. A sickening sound tore through the silence, and Father crumpled to the deck, his hand twitching weakly. Dark red blood pooled around him, spreading in rivulets across the wood, staining it with her father’s lifeblood.

Sofia’s body trembled, her feet frozen to the spot as if held by a weight or some invisible chain. Every muscle screamed at her to move, to run, but shock held her firmly in its grip. Sir Eduardo straightened, his face cast in shadow, but the torchlight caught the glint of steel in his eyes, cold and unfeeling. He took a deliberate step forward, the blade in his hand dripping.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

'Sofia, get out of the way!' Luis’s voice, sharp with urgency, sliced through the fog of Sofia’s shock. She turned toward the sound, disoriented, struggling to locate her brother in the shadows. Suddenly, she saw him sprinting toward her, his sword gripped tightly in his hand, eyes blazing. With a gasp, Sofia threw herself to the side, landing hard against the deck as Luis charged past her, his gaze locked onto their father’s blood-streaked form sprawled across the wooden planks.

'Luis…' she managed, her voice breaking, but her brother didn’t turn. His attention had zeroed in on Father.

Luis barely glanced her way as he barked, 'Sofia, get the physician.'

The words hit her like a slap, jolting her out of her daze. But her feet wouldn’t obey, rooted to the deck as her mind reeled, unable to look away from the crimson stain widening beneath her father, soaking into the wood, dark and terrible. The world around her blurred, the sounds of Luis’s commands muffled as if she were deep underwater.

'NOW, Sofia!' Luis’s shout broke through, shattering her paralysis. Her legs kicked into motion, nearly tripping over themselves as she turned and dashed across the deck. Her heart hammered violently in her chest, each beat pounding in her ears as she raced down the narrow, dimly lit corridor below deck, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as rings of steel sounded behind her. She dare not look back.

The hall stretched endlessly before her, lined with doors marked by golden plaques, each one labelled with titles and roles she couldn’t read fast enough. One door after another, the names blurring past her until finally—Doctor Elia Renando. She stumbled to a halt; her knuckles rapping against the door, each knock echoing like fireworks in the silence.

'Doctor!' she gasped, slamming her fist harder against the wood, not daring to stop, her other hand pressed against the door frame to keep herself upright. She felt as though her heart might break free of her chest with every hammering beat. Open. Please, open.

At last, the door creaked open, revealing Doctor Renando, her eyes bleary and her hair tousled from sleep. She blinked at Sofia, struggling to focus, as though trying to make sense of the wild-eyed princess standing breathless at her door.

'You must come to the deck, quickly,' Sofia panted, barely able to find the words. 'My father… he’s hurt. Badly.'

Without a word, Doctor Renando’s hand flew to her bag, snatching it up with swift, practised precision, her face a mask of determination as she charged toward the deck. Sofia bolted to keep pace, her heart hammering against her ribs as she trailed the doctor’s silhouette, barely a shadow in the night.

The metallic clang of swords grew louder, sharper, as Sofia emerged back onto the deck, her stomach twisting at the sight. Steel met steel in a furious clash as Luis battled Sir Eduardo, their movements relentless and savage, the rhythmic ring of their blades punctuating the silence. Sofia’s eyes flicked from their brutal exchange to the figure lying motionless on the blood-slick deck. Her father—so still, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight. A chill gripped her chest, but she forced herself to breathe, to stay steady.

Doctor Renando had already knelt beside him, focused solely on her task, seemingly impervious to the chaos around her. She wrenched the king’s shirt open, revealing the wound—a jagged, brutal tear that oozed blood. Sofia’s stomach twisted, the coppery scent filling the air and sending a wave of nausea through her. He’s lost so much blood. The thought gripped her, cold and suffocating, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to hold on.

'Sofia, come here!' Doctor Renando’s sharp voice cut through Sofia’s resolve, the authority in her tone leaving no room for hesitation. She motioned with an impatient flick of her hand, her eyes never leaving the wound, her expression so intensely focused that, in that moment, Sofia didn’t care about hierarchy or titles. She only cared that this woman—who could save her father—needed her.

Sofia stumbled forward, dropping to her knees beside the doctor, the rough deck scraping her skin, but she barely noticed. She would have done anything, sacrificed anything to keep her father alive, to not lose him here, tonight. Doctor Renando didn’t look up, just shoved a roll of clean cloth into Sofia’s hands. 'Hold pressure here. Firmly.'

Sofia’s hands trembled as she pressed the cloth against the wound, feeling the warmth of her father’s blood seep through. She swallowed back her fear, pressing harder, her fingers slipping on the damp fabric as she tried to keep steady. Her father’s eyes flickered open, glazed with pain, barely recognising her. His lips parted, as though to speak, but only a faint, rasping breath escaped.

'Stay with us, Father,' Sofia whispered, her voice breaking as she leaned closer. 'Please… don’t leave us.'

Beside her, Doctor Renando worked with swift, confident movements, her fingers skilled as they worked to slow the bleeding. Her expression was a blend of urgency and calm—a stark contrast to Sofia’s panic. She pulled out more supplies, her every movement precise and deliberate, even as her voice dropped to a murmur. 'We are not losing you, Geraldo. Not tonight.'

Sofia’s hands pressed down harder, trying to stanch the relentless flow of blood. Each second felt like an eternity. In the background, the sounds of Luis and Sir Eduardo’s duel raged on, the clash of their swords like thunder in her ears.

The two fighters closed in near the port side, their footsteps pounding against the deck with every vicious strike. Luis’s face was a mask of rage, his jaw clenched as he advanced, forcing Eduardo back with unrelenting blows. Eduardo’s feet stumbled against the wooden planks, his balance faltering. With a swift arc of his sword, Luis caught the edge of Eduardo’s helmet, sending it clattering to the deck with a hollow clang. Eduardo’s face, exposed and panicked, gleamed with sweat, eyes wild as he scrambled backward.

Luis didn’t hesitate. With a fierce, controlled thrust, he drove his blade through Eduardo’s throat. The knight’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a silent, gurgling scream as blood spurted in a dark spray, splattering across the deck. Crimson droplets caught the moonlight as Eduardo staggered, clutching at his throat. The gurgling choked out as he staggered backward, his legs giving way. For a moment, he teetered on the edge before his body toppled over the railing, disappearing with a heavy splash into the inky sea below.

'Sofia! Don’t get distracted!' Doctor Renando’s voice cut through the silence that followed, sharp and commanding. Sofia jolted, torn from the horror unfolding at the ship’s edge.

Her father’s blood, thick and warm, seeped over her fingers as she held the cloth to his wound, her hands trembling. She cursed herself, her chest tightening with each shaky breath as his life ebbed away beneath her touch. The blood slipped past her fingers, pooling on the deck, and the warmth of it against her skin only intensified her fear. She pressed harder, her heart pounding with a desperate plea: Hold on. Please, Father, hold on.

His breathing was shallow, each breath more laboured than the last. She glanced at his face, at the grey pallor settling over his features, his eyes unfocused, slipping in and out of awareness. A quiet, strangled noise escaped her, a sound she hardly recognised as her own. He was slipping away. No, I can’t lose him. Not like this.

'Focus, Sofia!' Doctor Renando barked, her voice fierce. She didn’t look up, her hands working furiously over the wound, blood staining her fingers as she pulled out a second cloth to stem the relentless flow. Her eyes were hard, her focus unbreakable, yet Sofia saw a glint of urgency, a recognition of how precarious her father’s life truly was.

Sofia pressed down as hard as she could, but her hands were slick with blood, the fabric sodden and growing heavier with every passing second. She felt herself slipping into a numb panic, her mind spinning as she struggled to hold onto hope, to believe he could still survive. She looked at Doctor Renando, a wild plea in her eyes, and found herself whispering, 'Tell me he’ll be okay… please…'

Father’s lips moved faintly, but no sound escaped them. His gaze was distant, flickering between worlds as Sofia pressed down on the wound with all her might, her hands slippery and trembling. She leaned in closer, desperate to catch his words, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.

'Sofia,' he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, wavering like a faint breeze, 'I thought I’d have more… t-t-time.' His eyes, once so full of wisdom and strength, were now glassy, filled with a haunting resignation that pierced her soul.

'Father… it’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be alright.'

His gaze drifted down to the blood staining her hands, his expression distant, as if seeing something beyond. 'The blood…' he murmured, his voice hollow, each word fading like the last traces of a dream. 'The blood of the dove runs thick.'

Before Sofia could comprehend her father’s words, his body fell limp as Sofia’s pressure weakened, the blood pouring out of his body and trickling along the deck. His head lay to the side, his eyes staring blankly at the starry sky, ready to join them.

'Father?' Sofia’s voice trembled as she shook him, disbelief clawing its way through her chest. 'No… no, please…'

Sofia knelt there, her knees submerged in the spreading pool of his blood, her hands shaking as she hovered over him, desperate to undo this, to wake him. 'Father, please, just… come back. Just… come back to us,' she whimpered, but the only response was the whisper of the wind over the waves.

Luis approached, his face pale, his lips parted in shock. He staggered as if drunk, his jaw slack as he took in their father’s lifeless body. He dropped to his knees with a loud clang beside her, his breath shallow and unsteady. For a moment, they were just two lost children, huddled together in a world that had suddenly turned cold and unrecognisable.

Doctor Renando stood by, her own shoulders sagging, a weary sigh escaping her as she dragged a hand over her face, smearing a dark line of blood across her brow. She placed a hand on Sofia’s shoulder, her touch gentle but laden with an unspoken sorrow. 'I’m so sorry, Sofia,' she whispered, her voice quiet, yet resonant with finality.

Sofia’s grief surged from the depths of her soul, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat, the kind of scream she had buried long ago when her mother died. And there it was, the same crushing weight, the same hollow ache that threatened to consume her. The Gods had turned back time, forcing her to relive the agony she thought she’d buried. Now, they had taken both of them. Her hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she hunched over her father’s body, clutching him to her as if her warmth could somehow restore him.

The body of King Geraldo II lay on his bed, motionless beneath the weight of the linen sheet covering him up to his chin. Only his face was exposed, a face she had known in countless expressions: the stern, kingly mask he wore for court; the warm, crinkled eyes of a father lost in laughter; the quiet, pensive gaze when he thought no one was looking. Now, his features were unnervingly still, his skin pale against the stark white sheet.

Sofia’s eyes traced his features, clinging to each detail as if committing them to memory might somehow pull him back to her. His dark hair was still unruly at the fringe, the way it had always been despite his endless attempts to tame it. She could almost believe he was just resting, that any moment now, he’d sigh deeply, stretch, and blink open his eyes. His beard was neatly groomed, perfectly combed, as though he had readied himself for one last grand event. He looked peaceful, too peaceful—more peaceful than he had ever looked in life, weighed as he was by the kingdom’s burdens.

A chill ran down Sofia’s spine. This is exactly how Mother looked, she thought, the realisation washing over her like icy water. The same serene face, the same tidy repose, as though some final act of care had been taken to send them to the afterlife in dignity and honour. But the stillness was nothing but an insult, a lie painted on a canvas that should have been alive with breath and warmth. Her heart hammered, rejecting the scene before her, denying the cruel familiarity that gripped her chest like a vise.

'What will happen now?' Sofia’s voice trembled as she tore her gaze from her father’s lifeless face, shifting her focus to Luis on the other side of the bed. His eyes were red and glazed, fixed on the floor as if searching for answers in the rich carpets that lay beneath the weight of grief.

Luis sniffed, swiping a hand across his face. 'I don’t know... I’m not entirely sure how all of this is supposed to work.'

'We can’t exactly just sit here and stare at him, can we?'

Luis pressed his trembling lips together, his shoulders rising and falling in strained breaths. For a moment, it seemed as though he might gather himself, offer some reassuring words. But then his composure broke. His neck tensed, his face crumpling as he buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with the weight of his sorrow. A faint whimper slipped through his fingers, ragged and unguarded.

'This is all my fault.'

'It’s not your fault.'

'It is!' Luis jerked his head up, his tear-streaked face twisting in anguish. The dim candlelight illuminated the lines where his tears had traced paths down his cheeks, as though carving his pain into his skin. 'I’m the captain of the royal guard! I was supposed to be guarding the king, and I’ve not only let him die… it was one of my own who did it!' His voice broke with a rawness that made Sofia’s heart twist.

She wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her brother that he couldn’t have known, couldn’t have predicted such a betrayal. But her own mind betrayed her, flashing images of Sir Eduardo’s stoic face, his iron oath to defend the king at all costs. Sir Eduardo was supposed to be a wall, a line of defence against any threat to the king’s life, one of the few trusted without question. He had turned his blade on the very man he’d vowed to protect, shattering their trust with a single, fatal blow. The betrayal echoed through her mind, casting a dark shadow over everything she thought she knew.

The walls of the king’s chambers seemed to close in, the once-familiar room now suffocating and alien. Richly adorned draperies, polished wood, the dove insignias of her family’s long reign—all of it felt like a cruel reminder of what they’d lost and what she struggled to keep believing in. The kingdom that had once felt like her foundation seemed to sway beneath her, cracking with doubt and fear. Who’s left? Who can I possibly trust now?

A knock on the door jolted Sofia out of her spiral of panic, her heart hammering as she called for the person to enter.

The heavy door creaked open, and Lord Serben Diae stepped through, uncharacteristically hesitant. Gone was the proud lord who usually glided into a room with a self-assured presence; instead, the death of his old friend made him seem smaller, his shoulders hunched, his arms held close to his body like the fragile wings of an injured bird. Even his clothes, typically pristine and adorned with gold threads, appeared crumpled, almost as if his very confidence had taken a blow.

'Your Majesty,' he began, voice barely audible. 'I am aware this is a bad time—'

'What is it, My Lord?' Sofia snapped, unable to mask the edge in her voice. She felt a prickling sensation in her stomach, a strange blend of fury and disbelief. Your Majesty. The title struck her like a slap. It felt too soon, too presumptive. Her father’s body lay just a few feet away, and already he addressed her as if the crown had settled upon her head, as though her father was just a memory now.

The look in Serben’s eyes didn’t help, either—a strange, calculating glint beneath his downcast gaze. Has he already moved on, already begun to tally his own gains and losses in the aftermath of my father, his friend’s, death? The very thought made her pulse spike, filling her with a surge of anger so sudden and fierce she could hardly contain it.

Serben visibly flinched, his lips parting slightly as he adjusted his stance, attempting to steady himself. 'The ravens are ready to deliver the news,' he said. 'Is there anyone you would like informed first?'

Sofia opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Her throat felt dry and tight, her mind clouded with the weight of grief and exhaustion. 'I... I don’t know,' she managed, her voice wavering. Her vision blurred slightly from the pressure behind her eyes. Aunt Isabela. Of course, she’d be the one to know first; she was family, the closest tie she had left. 'I suppose my Aunt Isabela should be told immediately. Send a raven to Madriga and make sure Lady Hyana receives it herself,' she finally said, each word feeling like a heavy stone on her tongue.

'Very well,' Serben replied with a slight bow. His tone was professional, almost mechanical, as if her loss was just another task on a list. 'There is also the matter of the funeral. I believe your father wrote something specific about his arrangements in his will.'

Sofia’s gaze dropped to the floor. The word funeral echoed hollowly in her mind, a concept she could barely grasp. Planning my father’s funeral? Her hand gripped the armrest of the chair, the reality settling in yet feeling insubstantial. 'My father… he must have known this day would come,' she said softly, almost to herself. 'Whatever he wrote, I want it carried out exactly as he wished. To the letter. No deviations, Serben, is that clear?'

'Very good, Your Majesty.' Serben’s voice sounded respectful, yet she sensed something more beneath it—a slight hesitation, almost as if he were testing her patience. He cleared his throat and added, 'I am grateful that both of you are seated. The third matter may be… distressing.'

Sofia’s frown deepened. 'What is it?'

Without a word, Serben turned toward the door and motioned to a servant, presumably waiting just outside. Sofia tensed, gripping the armrests as the servant stepped in, clutching an object wrapped in thick cloth. The servant’s eyes darted nervously between Sofia and Luis, his expression a silent apology for what he was about to reveal. As they approached, they slowly unfolded the cloth, exposing a long, gleaming blade.

Sofia’s heart plummeted. It was the blade, the one Sir Eduardo had used to kill her father. Its steel edge, once tainted with blood, was now polished to a cold gleam, looking as if it had never touched a soul, let alone taken a life. The moonlight caught its surface as if caressing it, casting a thin, silver line along its point—a point that gleamed like a needle, so deceptively innocent in its deadly elegance.

'I had the blade analysed as best I could,' Serben murmured, his voice low and sombre. 'It was undoubtedly crafted by the Galian royal smith, Brandy Shore. Here…' He held the blade out for Sofia, pointing to a delicate etching near the hilt—a tiny crown insignia, almost invisible in the dim light. The sight of it made Sofia’s stomach churn. She leaned in, her breath catching, eyes tracing every stroke of the emblem.

Serben’s hand shifted along the blade’s edge. 'I think I know who it belongs to. Look at the initials here.' His finger moved up, brushing over two finely engraved letters, only visible in the light from the flickering lamps around them. J.R.

Sofia’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. The air in the room felt thick and oppressive, pressing down on her, making it hard to think. 'Only the royal family of Galia could afford craftsmanship like this,' Serben went on, his voice grave. 'And there’s only one member of the Galian royal family who bears these initials: Jacques Rue.'

Her vision blurred, and for a moment, all she could see was Jacques. She pictured him lounging on deck, his relaxed smile and artist’s hands moving gracefully as he sketched. His charming laughter echoed in her memory—warm, unassuming, disarming. It felt like the distant echo of a dream, one shattered by the horror before her. Did he know? she wondered, her thoughts frantically connecting threads. Did he learn of my father’s plans somehow? Did he— She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

A bitter realisation clawed its way into her heart, as unrelenting as the initials glaring back at her. She had thought Jacques charming, almost boyish in his pursuit of art and beauty, as if his interests lay in simpler things than the struggles of kingdoms. She had even, to her shame, found herself smiling at his jokes and humouring his stories of Galian court life. He’d told her a secret he’d never told anyone. And yet, here was the blade, pristine and ruthless, marked by his name as though proudly announcing his involvement in her father’s death.

Her pulse quickened, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. It didn’t matter if Jacques had charmed everyone around him, including her; the evidence was damning. There was nowhere for him to run now. Her gaze locked onto the blade, the initials J R gleaming.