Luis lay sprawled on his bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. Sweat clung to his forehead and soaked the collar of his nightshirt, the damp fabric clinging to his trembling body. His eyelids fluttered, caught in a frantic rhythm as his mind slipped into a dream, dragging him away from the pain wracking his body.

He was a boy again, no older than eight, his small frame propped against the rough bark of a tree. The shade from the towering oaks dappled his skin with shifting patches of sunlight. Above him, the leaves whispered secrets to the breeze, their rustling a gentle, soothing counterpoint to the laughter of the other children. Their carefree voices danced around him, blending with the natural melody of the forest clearing, yet Luis remained apart, cocooned in his own little world.

A heavy book lay open in his lap, its gilded edges catching the sun like treasure. It was a prised relic from his father’s library, the leather cover worn smooth from countless readings. The words pulled him in, their magic transporting him to a faraway realm where brave knights battled impossible odds.

He read of a hero, a warrior of unyielding courage, who stood before a sheer, rousing tower. The princess, delicate and radiant as a moonlit rose, awaited him at the summit, her raven hair flowing like ribbons in the wind. Luis’ heart quickened as he imagined the knight’s gloved hands grasping the rock, his muscles straining with every climb. Above, a shadow loomed—a monstrous, serpent-like beast, its coiled body a terrifying mass of scales and power.

Luis’ small fingers traced the illustration, the dragon’s wings spread wide, casting darkness over the tower where the princess waited. How do they do it? he wondered, his eyes wide with awe. How do knights face so much terror and emerge unscathed?

The answer was always the same. A knight, despite every peril, always triumphed. Every single time.

'What are you reading?'

Luis flinched slightly at the voice, glancing up from his book to find Aurelio standing over him, his green eyes wide with curiosity, reflecting the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Aurelio’s face was flushed from running, a faint sheen of sweat glinting on his brow, but his usual energy radiated from him like a fire that never burned out.

'Just another story about a knight,' Luis said, his voice quiet, almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile tranquillity of the moment.

'A story? Can I look at it?'

Luis nodded, closing the book carefully and handing it over. Aurelio dropped down beside him with unrestrained enthusiasm, the cool shade of the tree wrapping them both in a protective shell. He opened the book to the first page, his finger trailing the lines of text as he read aloud, his words stumbling but determined.

'Do you think we’ll ever be knights one day?' Aurelio asked suddenly, looking up from the page, his voice tinged with wonder. His bright eyes shimmered with unspoken dreams, as though he could already see them both in shining golden armour, swords raised in the air.

'One day, maybe', Luis replied, his tone thoughtful, measured. 'When my sister is queen.'

'When do you think that will be?'

Luis shrugged, glancing down at his hands, where dirt clung to his fingernails from climbing the tree earlier. 'Don’t know. Soon, maybe?'

'I hope not,' Aurelio said, his voice softening. His gaze drifted toward the forest’s edge, where the sunlight sparkled on the grass like spilled gold. 'I like it when we can be like this—when we can read books, leave our problems behind, and live how we want.'

Luis studied Aurelio’s face, seeing the faint shadow of worry tugging at his usually carefree expression. 'You do know, if we become knights, we can never travel anywhere too far from the queen, right? You know that, don’t you?'

Aurelio’s brow furrowed, his cheerful optimism dimming. 'Really?' he asked, his voice almost a whisper, the words laced with disappointment. But after a pause, he grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 'Oh well. I suppose, with you there, it’s not all that bad. Besides, the knight always comes out the other side unharmed.'

Luis opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Something about Aurelio’s certainty felt fragile, as if daring to question it might crack it wide open. The sound of leaves rustling overhead filled the silence between them, mingling with the distant chirping of birds. For a fleeting moment, Luis allowed himself to believe in the promise of the knight’s story, the guarantee of safety, the hope of triumph.

But the memory dissolved. The warmth of the sun faded into a biting chill, the rustling leaves replaced by an oppressive silence. The sprawling tree and Aurelio’s hopeful grin disappeared like smoke, leaving Luis alone in the dark.

His eyes peeled open, and the world came rushing back—cold, heavy, and suffocating. The stale air clung to his lungs, and the pain followed, sharp and relentless, spreading through his leg like a raging fire.

The knight always comes out the other side unharmed.

Luis’ leg was blazing, the searing pain radiating from his thigh like molten iron pressing against his flesh. Each throb felt like torture, and every flicker of movement ignited fresh agony, sharp enough to make him clench his teeth until his jaw ached. Restless torment, as if some demon was digging its claws deeper into his leg with each passing second. When he finally forced himself to pull the duvet back, the sight nearly made him retch. The bandage wrapped around his thigh stained a deep crimson, spreading like a disease.

The air felt colder against his exposed skin, sending a shiver through his trembling body. He realised he was wearing nothing but a thin cloth shirt, its rough fibres chafing his sweat-slicked skin. His golden armour—once gleaming, a symbol of his station—was nowhere in sight, stripped away. Weakness clawed at him, and a flicker of panic stirred in his chest. He reached out, fingers shaking, and grazed the edge of the bandage. The slightest pressure sent a jolt of white-hot pain shooting up his leg, threatening to drag him under.

Memories surged through his mind in jagged, fragmented flashes, each one bringing fresh humiliation and regret. He had been chasing the Galians, desperation driving every step as they tried to escape. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth as he ran, the ache in his arms as he raised his sword. He’d killed one of them—Prince Rickard. The prince’s startled cry echoed in his head, followed by the wet, sickening sound of his blade plunging into Rickard’s back.

Luis’ breath hitched as the memory sharpened. He’d thought of the peace tournament in Galia, of how Rickard had bested him then. He could still see the jeering crowd, still feel the sting of failure burning in his chest as Rickard claimed victory. That shame had fuelled him, made him relentless. Luis had replayed every moment of that loss in his mind, dissecting every mistake, every misstep, until he understood the prince’s every move. And yet...

The image of Sir Theon Balogun loomed large, eclipsing the satisfaction of Rickard’s defeat. Luis clenched his fists as he recalled the clash of steel against steel, the sheer force of Sir Theon’s strikes. The knight was like a storm—unrelenting, powerful, impossible to stop. Luis had tried to anticipate him, to outmanoeuvre him, but he countered everything with crushing precision. Luis barely held his ground before Sir Theon’s blade found its mark.

The memory of that moment—of the sword plunging into his thigh—was vivid, a flash of unbearable pain that turned his legs to stone. He could still hear the hiss of steel slicing through flesh, feel the cold, merciless bite of the blade. His body had betrayed him then, collapsing under the weight of agony. He remembered hitting the ground hard, the taste of dirt mixing with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. The world had blurred, and through the haze of pain, he’d seen Sir Theon vanish, slipping away like a shadow while Luis lay helpless.

Luis groaned, his head pounding as if trying to punish him for dredging up the memory. He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, desperate to push the thoughts away, but they lingered, mocking him.

He was alive, but barely. And despite all his training, his ambition, and his victories, he had been outmatched. The realisation stung almost as much as the wound itself.

The door to his chambers creaked open, the sound like a dagger scraping against stone. A shadow stretched across the dimly lit room, growing longer as the door swung wide. Luis tensed, the pain in his leg clawing at his nerves like a wild beast. For a fleeting moment, his fevered mind conjured the worst—a spectre of death or the devil himself, come to claim his battered soul and drag him to hell.

The figure stepped into the light, dissolving the shadow, and Aurelio’s familiar face emerged, framed by the soft glow of a candle. His comforting smile pushed away the dark thoughts lingering in Luis’ mind. Relief mixed with exhaustion, but when Luis tried to sit up, his body betrayed him. A searing jolt shot through his leg, and he collapsed back onto the mattress, his breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

'Don’t move,' Aurelio said, his voice steady yet tinged with concern. He knelt beside the bed, holding a wooden cup filled to the brim with water. 'I’ve got this. You need to drink.'

Luis blinked, disoriented. 'How… how long has it been?'

'You’ve been out for five days.'

'Five days?' Luis’ voice cracked, disbelief and unease mingling with the rasp of his parched throat. His head swam at the revelation, time feeling like a shapeless void in his mind.

'Here,' Aurelio said gently, guiding the cup to Luis’ lips. The first cool drops of water touched his tongue, and Luis drank greedily, the liquid washing away the dryness that had turned his throat to stone. Relief spread through him like a balm, momentarily dulling the edges of his pain.

Aurelio stayed close, steadying the cup until every drop was gone. 'Slow down,' he murmured, though his tone lacked reproach. He placed a reassuring hand on Luis’ shoulder, his grip warm and grounding.

Luis leaned back, his head pressing into the damp pillow. Even breathing felt like a battle, every inhale tinged with a sharp ache. The throbbing in his leg refused to relent, a cruel reminder of how broken he was.

'I’ll inform the queen you’ve woken up,' Aurelio said, standing. His movements were calm, knightly, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something fragile. As he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his smile faint but genuine. 'I’m glad you’re awake, Luis. I… I thought I’d lost you.'

The raw emotion in Aurelio’s words hung in the air like a confession. Luis wanted to reply, to offer some assurance in return, but his throat clenched, and the words refused to come. All he could do was watch as Aurelio disappeared into the shadows, the soft sound of his retreating footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence.

For a moment, Luis lay still, his chest heaving. The pain in his leg dragged his focus back with a brutal force. He reached for the damp cloth resting on the bedside table, pressing it to his sweat-soaked forehead. His skin burned with fever, and every muscle felt taut, as if stretched to its limit.

He clenched his teeth, biting down against the waves of agony that rippled through him. His thoughts swirled chaotically, flickering between memories of his training and the here and now. He had faced danger before, fought against some of the most skilled warriors the realm had ever seen. But here he was, confined to a bed, fighting a battle against his own broken body.

This is not how I die, he thought, the words more a plea than a declaration. He sucked in a sharp breath and released it slowly, forcing himself to focus. To endure.

The door creaked open, the sound splitting the tense quiet of the room.

Sofia stepped inside, her brow furrowed with worry, the faint lines on her face betraying the weight of recent days. Behind her loomed Serben Diae, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the dimly lit chamber. The two moved forward in tandem, but as Sofia’s eyes landed on Luis, her expression hardened, transforming into the resolute countenance of a queen.

'Close the door, Aurelio,' she commanded, her voice firm and composed.

'As you wish, my queen.' Aurelio bowed deeply, his hand steady as he pulled the door closed behind him. The soft click of the latch echoed through the room, leaving Luis alone with Sofia… and Lord Serben.

The moment the door sealed shut, the mask of royal composure Sofia wore cracked, then shattered entirely. Vulnerability flickered across her face like a fragile flame. Without hesitation, she rushed to Luis, her footsteps light yet urgent, as if afraid even the floor beneath her might slow her pace. She fell to her knees beside his bed, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce, almost desperate embrace. The faint scent of lavender clung to her, a small reminder of their mother.

Luis’ leg flared with crippling pain at her touch, a sharp sting that forced a hiss through his gritted teeth. He stiffened against her hold, his fingers clutching the bed linens. Sofia froze, pulling back immediately as if she’d been burned.

'Sorry,' she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening to fall, though she blinked them away. 'I thought—' Her words caught in her throat. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. 'I thought I’d never see you again.'

Luis swallowed, forcing a faint smile onto his pale, sweat-slicked face. 'I am fine, my queen,' he said, his tone calm despite the inferno blazing in his thigh. 'Give me a few more days, and I’ll be as right as rain.'

Sofia’s brow furrowed, and she let out a sharp exhale, equal parts frustration and affection. 'We’re alone, Luis,' she said softly. 'You don’t have to be so formal.'

Luis attempted a chuckle but winced instead, the motion tugging at his wound. 'I’m just getting my practice in now,' he said, his smile wavering but persistent. 'I’d rather look the fool in private than at court. The captain of the royal guard must act accordingly, after all.'

Sofia and Serben exchanged a troubled glance, their faces shadowed with an unspoken weight. Luis noticed the flicker of hesitation in her eyes and felt an icy dread coil around his chest.

'What is it?' he asked, his voice cracking slightly. The knot in his stomach tightened with every second they stayed silent.

Sofia’s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, her eyes brimmed with tears that clung stubbornly before spilling over, carving shimmering tracks down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away, but it was too late—Luis had seen her unravelling.

'I…' Her voice broke, trembling as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. 'I’m sorry, dear brother.'

A tremor started in Luis’ hands, spreading through his arms like a creeping frost. His heart pounded against his ribs, loud and insistent. 'What’s the matter? Tell me.'

Sofia exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the bed frame to steady herself. Her knuckles turned white. 'After your accident, Doctor Renando examined your leg,' she began, each word slow, as though saying them too quickly might break her. 'She said… she said it will never truly heal. You’ll never move as you once did.'

The world tilted. Luis struggled to sit up, the sheets tangling around his waist. His ears burned, his mind racing to make sense of her words. 'What are you saying?'

Sofia hesitated, glancing at Serben for support. When none came, she pressed on, her voice cracking under the strain. 'I’m saying that you can no longer be the captain of my royal guard.' Her words dropped like an executioner’s axe. 'You’re my brother, and I love you more than anything, but I have to make a choice. After what happened to Father, I can’t take any chances.'

Luis froze, Sofia’s words cutting him deeper than Sir Theon Balogun’s blade ever could. He stared at his sister, wide-eyed, the disbelief etched into his face. 'No,' he whispered, his voice barely audible. 'No, this can’t be true.'

He leaned forward, ignoring the fiery pain that erupted in his leg, and reached for her hand. His grip was trembling, desperate, but he didn’t care. 'We can figure something out. I’m sure Doctor Renando is mistaken. Maybe if she looked at it again—maybe if I explained it to her, she’d see… she’d understand…' His words stumbled over one another, rushed and frantic. 'It… it doesn’t even hurt that much.'

As if in cruel defiance, a sharp, searing pain shot through his injured leg, wrenching a gasp from him. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out, refusing to acknowledge the truth that clawed at the edges of his denial.

'Luis…' Sofia’s voice broke again as she knelt beside him. Tears streamed freely now, her hands trembling as she reached for his. 'I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.'

The strength Luis had mustered to sit up evaporated, leaving his muscles weak and shaking as he collapsed back onto the bed. Tears spilled onto the pillow, warm trails that stung his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. His breath hitched as he choked on the grief welling up inside of him. Sofia’s voice reached him, soft and filled with guilt, her apologies spilling over and over.

But they couldn’t touch him now. The words were hollow, echoes that barely grazed the edges of his despair. This wasn’t just a decision the queen had to make. This was his sister’s decision. This was his life—his work, his pride and joy—torn away in a single, devastating blow.

'Come, my queen,' Serben said gently, his tone careful but firm as he placed a steadying hand on Sofia’s shoulder. 'Let us leave your brother in peace.'

'No!' Sofia’s voice cracked as she yanked her shoulder free, turning to face Serben with fiery defiance. 'I can’t leave him here alone like this!' Her voice was desperate, tinged with an ache that cut through the room like their father’s halberd.

Luis closed his eyes, the faint pressure of tears clinging to his lashes as his jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear this—not his sister’s guilt, not Serben’s reasoning, not the suffocating sympathy in their voices, a tone he’d suffer for the rest of his life. There was nothing anyone could say to him now. He wanted them gone. 'Just go,' he heard himself say, the words dry and rasping, as though dragged up from the depths of his chest.

The silence that followed was deafening. He forced himself to look at Sofia, his gaze locking onto hers. Her face fell, her mouth opening slightly in shock, as though the weight of his words had struck her like a physical blow.

'I… I just…' He swallowed hard, fighting to steady his voice. 'I just can’t look at you at the moment.'

Sofia’s breath caught, and he saw the flicker of devastation that rippled across her features. She blinked quickly, her lashes glistening with tears she was fighting to keep at bay. Her distress was like a storm barely contained within her, her lip trembling as she struggled to speak.

Luis’ heart twisted at the sight, guilt gnawing at him even under the crushing weight of his own despair. He wanted to take it back, to hold her hand and tell her he didn’t mean it—but he couldn’t. The loss of his armour, the very foundation of his identity, was too fresh, too raw. A part of him had been ripped away, leaving only black emptiness where his purpose had been.

'Luis…' Sofia whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her composure. 'Please.'

'Come, my queen,' Serben urged again, his voice a quiet anchor.

Sofia’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her as though Luis’ words had broken something inside her. Sofia turned toward the door, her movements slow and reluctant, as though every step was a battle she didn’t want to fight.

Luis turned his face away, staring at the ceiling, blinking furiously to stop the flood of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t watch them leave. He couldn’t.

His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, each one dragging against the weight of his grief. The pain in his leg pulsed like a cruel heartbeat, but it was nothing compared to the ache deep in his soul. Yesterday, he had been a knight, a captain, a protector of the realm, unbeatable. Now he was just…

Broken.

The silence pressed in around him, cold and unyielding. It was all that remained. That, and the unrelenting pain.

The door to Luis’ chambers closed with a resounding thud, the sound reverberating through the corridor like the toll of a funeral bell. Sofia stood frozen, her trembling hand still clutching the latch, unsure she had the strength to let go. When she finally did, her knees buckled, and she staggered backward, leaning heavily against the cold wall for support.

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, her chest heaving as the weight of what she’d done settled over her. Tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t try to stop them. She couldn’t. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as though the sharp pain might anchor her to reality.

'That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,' she whispered, her voice breaking, the words barely audible over the echo of her own sobs. They hung in the air, brittle and fragile, before completely shattering under the weight of her grief.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Serben moved closer, his shadow falling over her like a shield. 'My queen—' he began, his tone low, steady, yet edged with concern.

Sofia didn’t let him finish. She turned toward him and buried her face in his chest, the soft surface of his green doublet cold against her flushed skin. What strength she’d summoned in Luis’ presence crumbled entirely, leaving her hollow and exposed. Her shoulders shook violently as she wept, her hands clutching Serben, holding on to him for dear life.

Serben’s arms encircled her, though his grip was hesitant—perhaps uncertain of how to comfort his new queen, the daughter of his oldest friend. He steadied her, lowering her gently to the floor, her sobs muffled against him as she clung tighter.

'Your Majesty,' Serben said, his hand stroking the back of Sofia’s head, 'It’s all going to be fine. I will make sure of that.'

'I’ve never…' Sofia’s voice cracked, her words stumbling through the tears that refused to stop. 'I’ve never seen him like that before. So...broken.' Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, tears streaming unchecked down her face. 'I ripped his heart… I crushed it right in front of him.'

Sofia buried her face deeper against Serben’s chest, the faint scent of iron and leather mingling with the salt of her tears.

She closed her eyes for a brief, painful moment, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw him—her brother, lying in his bed, his body curled into itself like a broken toy soldier, his face twisted with sorrow. She could almost hear the soft, trembling sound of his weeping, the kind that came from a place of deep, unspeakable grief. His soul—she imagined it hollowed out, an empty void where all things he had once believed in, the armour he once wore as both protection and purpose, had shattered. The thought of him like that—lost, questioning everything, questioning himself—was unbearable.

Her throat tightened. I can’t leave him in there alone. The words burned in her chest, but they felt like a betrayal, like a cruel denial of everything she was born to be. She could feel the phantom weight of a crown on her brow, heavier than ever before. It seemed to mock her, reminding her that this was the cost of being queen. Her own brother—her only remaining family—had just become another casualty in this game she played.

But then, before she could reach for the door, Serben’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with a force that completely startled her. His fingers dug into her skin, and he yanked her back. She stumbled into him, her pulse quickening as his green eyes—piercing, unwavering—locked onto hers with an intensity that froze her in place.

'No!' Serben said, his voice low, fierce, and firm.

Sofia tried blinking away her tears. She never would’ve expected this—for him to pull her away, as if she were a child running blindly toward danger. His gaze bore into her, his mouth set in a hard line, but there was something else there too, a vulnerability—just a flicker—that softened his expression. 'I understand your pain, truly I do.' His grip on her arm loosened, but he didn’t release her. 'You’ve made a great step today. You’ve made your first choice as queen.' He paused, his gaze never wavering. 'And believe me, it doesn’t get any easier.'

Sofia’s chest tightened at the weight of his words, but the agony of seeing Luis in such torment eclipsed everything else. The image of him, shattered and alone, rattled in her mind, refusing to be silenced. She shook her head, unable to silence the echo of his cries, the raw, fractured look in his eyes she could never erase. How could I leave him now?

Serben’s voice dropped, becoming softer, but no less resolute. 'You do not need to do any of this alone. I will help you in any way I can. But your brother cannot. Not anymore.'

Serben’s words were a bitter reminder. Luis was no longer the man he had been. He was something else now—broken, lost, and clinging to a past that no longer existed. And though it tore her apart to admit it, Serben was right.

I am the queen now, Sofia thought, fighting to banish her brother from her mind. I need to focus.

Sofia wiped away the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks, feeling the sting of their salt against her skin. She looked up at Serben, her gaze unsteady, but determined. She had no choice. She couldn’t afford to falter. Not now. Not when so much was at stake.

'Now, if you feel strong enough,' Serben said, 'Lord Gallo and I would like to discuss something with you in the council chamber.'

Sofia wiped away the tears from her face. 'Lead the way, Lord Serben.'

Serben gave her a nod, his expression softening just slightly, though there was still that unwavering resolve in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and began walking, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. Sofia followed, though each step felt heavier than the last. The further they walked from Luis’ room, the greater the pull in her chest, as though the very air around her was urging her to turn back, to return to him, to fix what she had broken, to undo the damage.

But she forced herself to keep moving, the burden of duty settling on her shoulders like a suffocating cloak. She couldn’t afford to waver now. Her father was dead, her kingdom teetered on the brink of war, her brother was lost in his own despair, and Jacques—Jacques was still out there, free, despite everything he’d promised her, sworn to her. Her kingdom was at the mercy of forces she couldn’t control, and if she was to lead it, she had to rise above personal loss, above everything. She had to bear the weight of the crown.

Sofia and Serben navigated the palace halls in heavy silence, their footsteps echoing like distant drumbeats against the polished wooden floor. The flickering light from mounted torches cast wavering shadows along the walls, lending the corridor an eerie, almost oppressive quality. The faint hum of muffled voices came from somewhere ahead, growing louder as they approached the council chamber.

They entered a narrow passage adorned with stained-glass windows. Moonlight filtered through the coloured panes, painting fractured rainbows on the floor. The effect was hauntingly beautiful, though Sofia barely noticed. Her thoughts were heavy, her chest still tight from the weight of her brother’s anguish.

Serben reached for the council chamber door and pushed it open with deliberate care. The hinges creaked, but something sharper drowned out the sound—a steady, rhythmic thumping.

Sofia froze, her heart pounding as the noise grew louder. She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping past Serben to the source of the sound.

A chair stood in the centre of the chamber, its wooden legs scraping slightly against the stone floor with each impact. Tied to it was Carles, a young servant boy, barely in his adolescence. His head hung low, his face flushed, but the red mark blooming across his cheek told Sofia everything.

Lord Gallo loomed over him, his face twisted in a scowl. His gloved hand swung again with a sickening crack that echoed in the chamber. Carles flinched, his muffled whimper cutting through Sofia’s heart like a blade.

'My Lord!' Sofia shouted, her voice breaking the spell. She thrust herself forward, her eyes wide with shock.

Gallo froze mid-strike, his arm hovering in the air like a predator caught in the act. Slowly, he turned toward her, his breath ragged and his expression cold. 'Your Majesty,' he said, lowering his arm with a reluctant stiffness.

'What is the meaning of this?' Sofia demanded, her voice sharp but tinged with disbelief. She could feel the heat rising to her face, her shock quickly giving way to blazing fury.

'This boy,' Lord Gallo growled, his teeth grinding audibly as he poked a leather-clad finger at Carles, 'has been sending letters to Sir Orchis Vortigon of the Galian royal guard. Every one of our movements—every strategy—was in their hands before we could act!'

The boy raised his head, his face streaked with tears and blood. 'I never, Your Majesty! I never!' he croaked, his voice cracking with desperation.

'Quiet, boy!' Gallo roared, backhanding him across the face with another sickening smack.

‘Stop hitting him!' Sofia’s voice exploded, reverberating off the chamber walls with a force that stunned even her. The fury that surged through her felt volcanic, her body trembling with the effort to restrain herself. She fixed Lord Gallo with a glare so fierce it made even the battle-hardened lord falter.

Gallo took a step back, his jaw clenched so tight it looked as though it might shatter. 'Your Majesty,' he said, his tone dripping with barely concealed venom, 'this little wretch—'

'Is just a boy!' Sofia interrupted, her voice laced with disgust. She stepped closer, her presence filling the room despite her comparatively slight frame. 'I will not stand by and watch you brutalise a child in my hall. Do you understand me? Step. Away.'

For a tense moment, Lord Gallo’s eyes burned into hers, defiance flickering behind them. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned on his heel, stalking a few steps away like a dog reluctantly leaving a bone.

'Thank you, my lord,' Sofia said coldly, though her gaze never left him.

Gallo sneered, his lip curling as he reached into his breast pocket. 'You may want to reconsider your sympathy, Your Majesty,' he said, his voice low and cutting. He withdrew a crumpled piece of parchment and held it out toward her. 'This was found in his quarters.'

Sofia hesitated, her eyes narrowing. She took the note with trembling fingers, her palms damp as she smoothed it out.

Sir Orchis,

I have disposed of Prince Rickard’s body the best I could, but I know it will never compare to the loss Galia has received from his death. I assure you, however, that I will remain your loyal servant and will update you on Queen Sofia’s future plans as soon as I can.

Carles.

Sofia’s vision blurred as a fresh wave of anger surged through her. She lifted her head from the letter, her eyes blazing as they bore into the boy tied to the chair before her.

'Why?' she demanded, her voice cold and cutting, yet trembling with suppressed rage

Carles looked up at her, his face pale and streaked with sweat. His bottom lip trembled so violently he seemed incapable of speaking. His wide, terrified eyes darted between Sofia and Lord Gallo, as though searching for some shred of mercy in either of them.

'I never meant to hurt anyone—'

'Yet you did,' Sofia snapped, stepping closer, the letter trembling in her hands. Her voice rose, each word laced with fury. 'Good men are dead because of you. My brother lies wounded—crippled—because of you. So I ask, for the final time...'

She paused, her voice dropping to a low, icy tone that seemed to drain the air from the room. 'Why did you do it?'

The boy’s sobs shook his thin frame, his words breaking into ragged gasps as he looked up at Sofia with wide, tear-streaked eyes. 'He promised… he promised I’d be a lord one day,' he choked out, his voice trembling. 'A lord of a huge castle, with gold and jewels to last for generations, he did.'

Sofia felt a surge of disbelief and anger welling inside her. The naivety, the blind greed—it was almost too much to bear. Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she stared down at the boy, who seemed so small, so utterly pathetic in the confines of the wooden chair.

'He can’t promise you anything, you idiot,' she snapped. 'He’s a royal guard! Not a king, not a lord. He has nothing to offer you but lies!'

Carles flinched as though she had struck him, his face twisting with fresh fear. 'Please…' he whimpered, his voice barely audible. 'Please, my queen… I beg you. Don’t kill me.'

'He’s committed treason, Your Majesty,' Gallo said, his words heavy with finality. 'The law is clear. There is only one punishment for treason.'

Sofia’s jaw tightened. She could feel Lord Gallo’s eyes on her, as if daring her to waver. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind—calm, resolute, unyielding in matters of justice. For all his wisdom and mercy, King Geraldo II had never hesitated to dispense the ultimate punishment when the crime demanded it. Treason was the highest of crimes. It threatened not just the throne, but the kingdom itself.

And yet…

Her gaze fell on Carles again. He wasn’t a hardened criminal or a calculating traitor. He was just a boy—nowhere near a man—caught in the tangled web of someone else’s deceit. She had heard of Sir Orchis Vortigon, the infamous Hawk Knight. His tongue was as sharp as his blade, a silver instrument capable of weaving lies into promises so enticing that even the strongest minds faltered. Carles would have been no match for him.

He’s no player. He’s just a pawn.

If that were true, then executing Carles would do little to bring her closer to her true enemy. Perhaps, she thought, there’s another way. Could she turn this pawn into a weapon against its master? Could she use Carles to unravel Sir Orchis’ network, to prepare herself for the conflict to come?

Doubt gnawed at her. Is this justice? Am I letting sentiment cloud me, or am I doing the right thing? The weight of the decision pressed down on her, heavier than the crown she wore.

Sofia turned toward Lord Serben, her voice steady but quiet. 'Lord Serben,' she said, her tone carrying a faint edge of hesitation. 'I’d like to discuss something with you… outside this room.'

Lord Serben raised an eyebrow, his gaze searching her face as if questioning why this conversation couldn’t take place in Lord Gallo’s presence. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he gave a curt nod nonetheless. Without a word, Serben stepped forward, his hand gripping the door handle. The hinges creaked, the sound sharp in the heavy silence, as he propped it open and gestured for Sofia to step through.

The air in the hallway was cooler, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat that had seemed to build in the council chamber. Sofia stepped into the corridor, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady her breathing. Behind her, the door shut with a resounding bang, the echo reverberating down the stone walls like the toll of a distant bell.

For a moment, she stood still, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, fingers digging into the fabric of her mother’s gown. The weight of everything threatened to crush her, but she refused to let it show. She straightened her back, forcing herself to stand tall, even as her heart raced.

'The war has already started, hasn’t it?' she asked, her voice quiet but firm, though dread coiled in her stomach like a living thing.

Serben’s face darkened. He reached into his pocket, his movements deliberate, and withdrew a folded scrap of brown parchment. With careful precision, he placed it in her hands.

'A raven came this morning,' he said solemnly.

Sofia unfolded the parchment, her fingers trembling slightly. The ink was dark and hastily scrawled, a message chilling in its simplicity.

The King is on the move.

Her heart sank as she read the words, the ominous weight of their meaning settling heavily on her shoulders. She looked up at Serben, searching his face for any hint of hope, but his expression remained grim.

'King Rickard is moving with his forces,' Serben explained, his voice low, deliberate. 'After the death of his heir, he has declared war on our country. He’s ready to tear us apart, and he won’t stop until he’s satisfied.'

Sofia’s breath hitched. The hall seemed to grow colder, the air thick with the spectre of the coming storm. In her mind, the looming figure of King Rickard took shape, larger than life, his shadow stretching over her kingdom. She had heard the stories—everyone had. King Rickard Rue, the man who had crushed King Jacob Ayasem, one of the most powerful rulers in history. And now Sofia had taken his son from him.

Her stomach twisted with a mix of fear and fury. She wanted to cry out, to curse the Gods for putting her in this impossible position, for setting her kingdom on a collision course with one of the most dangerous men alive. But more than that, she wanted to curse Jacques.

Jacques.

The name sent a surge of boiling anger coursing through her veins, burning away the chill that had settled there moments before. She could still see his face in her mind’s eye, those blue eyes glinting with false innocence as he swore to her—swore—that he hadn’t killed her father. The memory of his lies twisted like a knife in her chest. He had played her, manipulating her grief, her trust, her desperation for answers. And now he was gone, a phantom slipping through the cracks, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake.

She thought of her brother, Luis, lying broken and bloodied after he tried to stop Jacques from escaping. The image burned itself into her mind: the pale, desperate look in his eyes, the crimson spreading across his clothes, his body a shattered remnant of the man he once was.

Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The fury inside her was almost too much to contain.

'I am the blood of the dove,' she whispered under her breath, the words a mantra, a reminder. Her father’s dying words, her legacy. She could feel it coursing through her veins like molten iron.

And the blood of the dove runs thick.

If Galia’s king would strike the first blow, Eastamere’s queen would need to meet it with her own—and strike harder. She would not allow hesitation to undermine her.

'I have an idea,' she said, her voice steady, though the weight of her plan threatened to crush her. 'But I didn’t want to go through with it without consulting you first.'

Lord Serben regarded her with a measured gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he nodded for her to continue.

'I intend to use the boy, Carles, as a ruse,' she began, each word carefully chosen as if they were stepping stones across a monster-infested river. 'I will let him return to his masters, allow him to believe he has escaped justice. From there, we will stage a diversion—make it seem as though our focus is entirely on meeting King Rickard’s forces in the field.' She paused, her heart pounding, before adding, 'But while the royal army holds him there, I will flank his kingdom with a fleet of ships and strike at his capital directly.'

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.

Lord Serben’s expression remained unreadable, his sharp green eyes fixed on her as he considered her proposal. 'And what fleet will we use for this?' he asked, his tone calm but probing.

Sofia hesitated for a fraction of a second, then forced herself to draw upon the endless hours spent poring over the mountains of parchments littering her desk. There, buried in the tedium of debts, taxes, and complaints, she had found her answer.

'Lord Barcen’s fleet,' she said. The memory of the report sprang to mind—Lord Barcen’s colossal debt to the crown, the fortune he owed after years of skimming taxes and hoarding resources. 'It’s said his fleet is one of the finest in the world. If he owes the crown a debt, that debt will be my key to securing his ships.'

Serben’s brows shot up, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual stoicism. 'The Barcen fleet,' he repeated, stroking his pointed chin thoughtfully. His silence stretched for a moment, the faint sound of distant footsteps echoing through the hall.

'So, what do you think?' Sofia asked, her voice steady, though her hands clasped tightly in front of her, betraying her nerves. She hoped for Lord Serben’s approval, yet his silence stretched unbearably long. He kept stroking his chin, the movement slow, as if each passing moment weighed her idea further down into the depths of absurdity.

Finally, he exhaled, breaking the silence. 'I warn you, Your Majesty,' he said, his tone measured, 'the Barcens are not like us. They are shrewd, ruthless, and relentless in their dealings. They drive a hard bargain, and I promise you, they will not treat you with the respect your position warrants. Are you certain you can convince Lord Barcen to give up his fleet? It won’t come cheap, nor without its humiliations.'

The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Sofia’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t certain—far from it. Negotiation wasn’t something she’d been trained for, especially with stakes this high. If Lord Barcen’s fleet was her key to success, what would happen if her crown wasn’t enough to sway him? She had no second option.

The thought was a cold dagger pressing against her confidence.

'What do you suggest?' she asked, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Serben’s lips tightened, his gaze hardening. 'We fight,' he said, his voice like a hammer striking iron. 'You take the royal army to the border. Show King Rickard that Eastamere will not surrender a single inch of its soil. Show him—and your soldiers—that Queen Sofia Paloma is worth fighting for.'

The simplicity of his answer left her breathless. Fight? That was what kings did in times of war, what her father did. He didn’t plead; he didn’t negotiate. He led. But me? The thought of marching to the border with an army at her back, men ready to lay down their lives for her, filled her body with dread. 'But King Rickard has defeated far fiercer enemies than me,' she said, her voice faltering. 'I would be asking men to die for me—for a cause we might not win.'

Serben’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, his words coming with brutal frankness. 'As you should,' he said. 'You’re their queen. They should be honoured to die for you.'

The statement hit her like a slap. Honoured to die for me? The image of her soldiers flashed through her mind—young men in dented armour, fathers leaving crying children behind, boys no older than Carles, who had yet to taste the fullness of life. The idea of their blood staining the battlefield in her name made her stomach churn violently. Would they truly find honour in such a sacrifice? Or will that honour be something I’ll tell myself when I send them to their deaths?

She clenched her fists. If she faltered now, the kingdom would falter with her. Yet doubt gnawed at her. 'The odds are stacked against us, Serben,' she said quietly. 'If I make the wrong choice, the consequences could be catastrophic. I can’t—' She caught herself before saying I can’t do this alone, but the words hung unspoken in her mind, filling the silence like a plea.

Serben’s gaze softened, just slightly. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. 'You’re right to be afraid, Sofia,' he said. 'A leader who isn’t afraid in the face of such odds is either a fool or a tyrant. But fear doesn’t have to paralyse you. It can be a weapon. Let it guide you, sharpen your decisions, and drive you forward. If you lead with conviction, the men will follow, even into the jaws of death.'

Sofia took a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet his piercing gaze. 'Very well,' she said at last, the words leaving her lips like a solemn vow. 'I’ll do it. I’ll join the army at the border. But I’ll need as much support as I can get.'

Serben bowed deeply, his movements deliberate and respectful. 'And you shall have it, Your Majesty,' he said. 'The army will be ready to march at your command.'

'Good.'

If Sofia let Carles go now, the wheels of her plan would be set irreversibly in motion. There would be no second chances, no opportunity to undo the consequences if she was wrong. Her stomach twisted as the weight of the decision bore down on her shoulders, heavy as the crown itself. She forced her trembling fingers to still. The stakes were impossibly high—King Rickard’s reputation as a ruthless warlord the stuff of legends, and every moment they delayed gave him an advantage she could not afford to concede.

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the heavy wooden door open; the hinges groaning like mourners at a funeral. The dim council chamber was still as a tomb, save for the shallow, uneven breaths of Carles, tied to the chair in the centre of the room. The boy’s wide, tear-filled eyes darted toward her as she entered, his trembling body shrinking into itself as if he could disappear into the chair.

Lord Gallo stood a few feet away, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the boy. His lips were pressed into a hard, disapproving line, his hands clasped behind his back, though the tension in his posture betrayed his readiness to act at a moment’s notice. Sofia’s gaze flicked between them, her heart pounding as she forced herself to exude the calm authority she didn’t quite feel.

Behind her, she exchanged one final glance with Lord Serben. His expression was steady, his sharp green eyes meeting hers with unwavering confidence. He gave her a single nod—small, but firm, a silent message: You are the queen.

There was no turning back now.

Sofia stopped just short of Carles, close enough to see the fresh tracks of tears streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks, close enough to hear his shallow, hitching breaths. The boy’s lips quivered, his throat convulsing as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Her voice, when it came, was soft but sharp as a dagger. 'Look at me, Carles.'

The boy flinched, hesitating before lifting his gaze to meet hers. His watery brown eyes were filled with equal parts fear and desperation, his pleas laid bare in his eyes. Sofia leaned in, speaking low enough that only he could hear.

'Please,' the boy wept, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. Tears streaked his dirt-smudged cheeks, falling freely onto his torn tunic. 'Please don’t kill me.'

Sofia stared down at Carles, her chest tightening at the sight of him—a boy so young, so consumed by terror that he could hardly hold himself upright in the chair. But she could not falter. Not now. The Queen’s mask of composure was all she had left to keep her from drowning in the chaos swirling around her. Her jaw tightened as she drew a steadying breath, forcing herself to remember the plan.

'If you were a man,' Sofia began, 'I’d have you executed without a second thought. But you’re not. You’re just a boy—young, foolish, and too easily swayed by the promises of men who see you as nothing more than a tool.'

Carles lifted his head, his tear-filled eyes widening with a spark of hope. It made her sick to see, to know she was about to send him back into the lion’s den, but she kept her composure. She had no choice.

'I do not take pleasure in seeing children’s heads mounted on the gates of my city,' she continued, her tone sharp and deliberate. 'So instead, I will spare you. You will return to your masters in Galia and deliver a message for me.'

Sofia took a moment to let her shadow fall over Carles like a shroud. He flinched as she dropped her voice down to a deadly whisper.

'Tell them this: I will not forget what they did to my father. I will not forget what they did to my brother. And I will never forget what they have done to me.' Her words seethed with quiet rage, each syllable cutting like a blade. 'Tell them I will meet them at the border with twenty thousand men at my back, and I will see if their dog of a king, Rickard Rue, has the teeth to match me. Do you understand?'

Carles nodded frantically, his head bobbing like a puppet on loose strings. 'Y-Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them everything, I swear.'

The sound of boots echoed in the chamber, heavy and deliberate. Lord Gallo’s shadow grew long across the stone floor as he stepped forward.

'My Queen, this is an outrage!' he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. 'This boy is a traitor! A traitor! He deserves a traitor’s death!'

'Lord Gallo,' Sofia said, abruptly turning to face him, 'You will accompany myself and Lord Serben to the border. Your experience and input will be vital in the days to come.' She allowed a small, deliberate pause, her gaze boring into him. 'I trust you will not disappoint me.'

Gallo opened his mouth, his face flushed with indignation, but Sofia had already turned away, dismissing him without a second glance.

'Serben,' she said, her voice lighter now, but no less commanding, 'find Sir Aurelio and instruct him to escort Carles to the city gates. From there, the boy is on his own.'

Serben’s eyes glinted with approval, the faintest hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. He bowed his head. 'As you say, Your Majesty.'

Carles sobbed softly, his shoulders shaking as the reality of his situation must have sank in. Sofia didn’t spare him another glance.

Her heart was a battlefield, torn between the guilt clawing at her chest and the fierce determination to see her kingdom survive. This decision would haunt her—Carles’ fate, the lives that would be lost in the war ahead—but she buried those thoughts deep. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.

As Serben moved to carry out her orders and Gallo muttered curses under his breath, Sofia stood tall, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the chamber’s stained-glass windows. The light streaming through painted her face in hues of red and gold, like a queen built for peace being melted down and forged into something new, into an engine of war.

'May the Gods guide my hand,' she murmured under her breath, her voice a prayer and a curse all at once. Then, with one final glance toward Carles, she turned and strode from the room, the echoes of her footsteps carrying her toward the storm to come.