Elareth had begun to bloom once more. The drought had passed, yet even as life returned to the land, death hovered stubbornly over its throne.
King Rael had taken ill shortly after the rains came. A slow sickness that dulled his voice and twisted his once-sharp mind. At first, his decline was kept from the court—Isadora insisted it was exhaustion. But weeks passed, and the king stopped attending council. Then, he stopped rising altogether.
Now, the royal physicians whispered among themselves. The servants walked softly in the halls. And in the great chamber, the scent of old lavender and fever medicines clung to the air like ghostly perfume.
Iridessa was often there—the only one who stayed by the king's side. From morning until deep into the night, she fed him broth spoon by spoon, wiped the sweat from his brow, and rubbed healing salves into his legs as the physicians ordered. Every morning, Miri helped her wash his linens and air out the chamber.
Queen Isadora visited once in a while—but never for long. "He does not know who is in the chamber anymore," she would mutter coldly. "What is the use?"
Princess Evelyn had not visited at all. "The smell makes me sick," she had told the courtier in charge of her perfumed robes.
Prince Magnus, on the other hand, now sat at the head of every court meeting. He wore his father's signet ring even though Rael still breathed. And beside him, Queen Isadora whispered into his ear, shaping the kingdom's decisions in sharp, gilded words.
One morning, a peasant girl was brought to the throne chamber, accused of stealing a loaf of bread from the palace kitchens.
"I did not steal," she insisted tearfully, falling to her knees. "I was delivering herbs to the cooks. They had not paid me, and my brother was starving—"
"And so you helped yourself?" Isadora's voice rang out, icy and clipped. "That is theft, no matter how you twist it."
Prince Magnus leaned back lazily. "A thief with good intentions is still a thief. One finger," he said.
The girl gasped. "Please, no—!"
But the guards moved without hesitation. One of them gripped her arm and began dragging her away. The court murmured, some shocked, others too frightened to intervene.
In the tower chamber, the king's skin had gone translucent with age and illness. His once-strong voice had dwindled to a whisper, but his eyes still saw.
As the dusk turned Elareth's skies violet, Iridessa sat at his side with a bowl of lukewarm broth in her lap. She had hardly touched it—her gaze fixed on the king's labored breathing.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, brushing back the silver strands on his damp forehead.
He stirred faintly. Then, to her surprise, his eyes opened fully for the first time in days.
"Iridessa," he murmured, his voice brittle like the edge of broken glass.
She leaned closer, taking his hand gently. "I am here."
His gaze searched hers for a long moment, as if memorizing her face. Then, with a soft exhale, he smiled.
"Swear it to me... you will hold this kingdom... together."
Tears brimmed in Iridessa's eyes instantly. "No. Please do not say that Your Majesty."
Rael's fingers curled weakly around hers. "You see them. You see what they are becoming."
She swallowed hard, unable to deny it.
He managed another faint smile. "You were always... the one. The only one who saw this place not as a crown, but as a people."
Miri, standing behind them, was already weeping into her hands.
"I failed in my duty as a father," he said softly, "and now I suffer the consequence." A single tear slipped from his eye.
Iridessa leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching the king's. "I do not want to lose you."
"You must not fear… not anymore," he said, each word slower than the last. "You are the light they will never see coming."
Then, one final breath. Gentle. Deep. And still.
His hand fell limp in hers.
The great black trumpet sounded, slow and mournful, its sound rolling across the kingdom like thunder. People stopped in the streets. Palace bells tolled. And in the king's chamber, Iridessa wept openly, her sobs muffled in the folds of the bedsheets.
Miri came and wrapped her arms around her.
In the hall below, Queen Isadora heard the trumpet and folded her hands. "It is time," she said to Magnus.
Magnus nodded, already preparing to call the lords.
-
The Grand Hall of Elareth was cloaked in silence.
Heavy black velvet drapes had been drawn across the high arched windows, muting the summer sun. Every chandelier in the hall had been dimmed, their golden candles replaced with silver tapers that cast a cold, funereal glow across the hall. The lords and ladies of the realm—draped in mourning black, veils and signet pins gleaming—had gathered in solemn expectation.
At the far end of the chamber, upon the dais, Queen Isadora stood dressed in full widow's regalia: a silk gown of obsidian hue with long sleeves, her head wrapped in a dramatic veil that trailed down her back. Her pale hands were folded at her waist, a single black napkin clutched tightly in one fist.
Prince Magnus sat beside her, draped in formal robes, his jaw clean-shaven and stiff, his eyes cold but cleverly rimmed with red, as though he had shed tears before appearing. Beside him, Princess Evelyn lounged on her carved throne in a glittering midnight-blue gown with beaded sleeves, as if she had simply ignored the dress code for mourning. She twirled a lock of her hair and looked immensely bored.
When the last of the lords had entered and the trumpet fell silent, Queen Isadora took one long breath and stepped forward.
"My lords of Elareth," she said, voice trembling—just enough to be convincing. "It is with... with the heaviest sorrow a heart can bear, that I stand before you today."
A pause. She blinked dramatically, pressing the black napkin to her cheek. "Our beloved king—your sovereign, my husband—His Majesty Rael of Elareth, passed from this world in the late hour of last night."
Gasps and low murmurs rippled through the gathered court. Some heads bowed.
Magnus leaned forward, hands clasped as if in grief. "He fought bravely," he said, low and rehearsed. "Till the very end."
Isadora nodded stiffly. "His final days were filled with prayers, peace... and the comfort of knowing his kingdom stood strong, thanks to the loyal council he entrusted." Her voice tightened slightly, almost an accusation. "We will mourn him with honor. And we will carry on with strength."
"And now," Isadora continued, "as tradition dictates, the mourning period will begin at dawn. All trade and celebration shall cease. Black banners will be hung across the capital. The king's body shall lie in state for three days, before his entombment beneath the Halls of Sovereigns."
A lord from the southern provinces rose. "Will there be a state procession, Your Grace?"
Isadora placed a hand to her chest. "Yes. It is what the king would have wanted."
Magnus lowered his head. "We grieve... but we must also lead. That was my father's greatest teaching."
Evelyn yawned.
One of the elder nobles frowned in her direction, but Evelyn simply rolled her eyes and inspected her nails. "Well, someone had to say it—we all knew this day was coming. He was fading for weeks."
Isadora shot her daughter a sharp glance, but said nothing. It would not do to quarrel in front of the court.
Instead, she turned again to the lords, voice rising in artificial reverence. "Let Elareth weep today. Let her bells toll not only for a king—but for an era. We now prepare for what is to come."
The lords stood, bowing with murmured prayers and half-believed condolences. But beneath their cloaks and veils, many eyes flicked to the empty seat near the queen's side—the one meant for Princess Iridessa.
"She is not here?" one lady whispered.
"Strange, is it not?" another murmured. "She was closest to the king in the end."
"Hmph. Perhaps she was not summoned," a third said under her breath.
Far above, in the king's quiet chamber, Iridessa sat alone on the now-empty bed, folding the last of his linens. Miri was at her side, packing away the old water basins and salves. There were no trumpets up here. Just memory, silence, and a promise.
The halls of Elareth were silent in the hours following the court's disbandment, cloaked not just in ceremonial mourning, but in a strange, brittle tension. The velvet banners had already begun to fall over the marble columns, black as ink and twice as heavy. Yet inside the queen's drawing chamber, voices clashed behind shut doors.
"You humiliated us," Isadora said coldly, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. She stood at the long window, one hand braced against the sill, the other gripping the edge of her shawl. "In front of the court. In front of the lords."
Evelyn lounged on the chaise, her mourning gown draped over her like a costume she had no intention of wearing properly. Jewels still glittered at her ears, and her hair was untouched by ash. She raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I did not cry, if that is what you mean. Why should I?"
Magnus stood by the hearth, stiff-backed, arms crossed. His voice was tight with frustration.
"It is not about grief, Evelyn. It is about what it looks like. The lords were watching us today. Every blink. Every whisper. We need them on our side. They must approve my succession before anything is made official."
"And you think a tear from me would change their minds?" Evelyn scoffed. "They know you are next. That is the law."
"Laws can bend in Elareth," Isadora murmured without turning. "Especially when the throne is weak. And make no mistake—your brother stands on a ledge right now. Your behavior today did not help."
Evelyn rolled her eyes and rose to her feet. "Spare me the teaching, Mother. You did not cry either."
"I performed my role," Isadora snapped, turning sharply now. "You were not even pretending. You sat there like a glittering statue while the kingdom mourned its king."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed, her temper flaring. "You want performance? Why not send in Iridessa? She has been playing grieving saint ever since Father fell ill."
"She is still in his chambers," Magnus said under his breath, his voice softer now. "She would not come out. She barely speaks to anyone."
That drew a sharp, bitter laugh from Evelyn. "Of course she will not. She knows her shield is gone. What is a foreign girl to do now that the old king is dead?"
A pause stretched, then Isadora chuckled—quiet and deliberate. "Perhaps she will pack her things and leave before the lords ask her to."
"One can hope," Evelyn said, tossing her curls over her shoulder. "But something tells me she will linger like a weed."
Silence followed.
"You need to fix your attitude. This is a fragile time for all of us," Magnus broke the silence,his tone clipped as he turned and walked out.
Evelyn merely rolled her eyes, unbothered.
-
Night crept across the palace in slow waves, casting long shadows across the corridors. Servants moved in hushed steps, lighting fewer torches than usual.
Evelyn's chambers were unusually still until, with sudden purpose, she rose from her vanity, her reflection still half-dressed in black. Something had lit behind her eyes. She grabbed her cloak and slipped from her chamber in haste, her steps echoing faintly down the eastern wing.
She did not bother to knock when she reached her mother's quarters.
"I have an idea," she said breathlessly, pushing open the door.
Isadora looked up from her seat near the fire. She was draped in shadow, her face pale and thoughtful in the low light. "It is late, Evelyn."
"Listen Mother," Evelyn urged, stepping closer. "We write to Velmora. We tell them Father is dead. Invite Aurora to come pay her last respects."
There was a beat of silence.
"Why?" Isadora asked carefully. "Why would we do that?"
Evelyn smirked. "Because I wish to know whether she still draws breath. If she is dead, then good riddance. But if she lives—and I believe she does—she will come. She always longed to be seen by Father, yet never was. And when she hears of his death, she will crawl out from whatever hole she has been buried in, desperate and pitiful. Unwashed. Perhaps even in chains."
Isadora blinked once, then slowly set her wineglass aside.
"And what would that achieve?"
"It would grant me the one pleasure I have always savored," Evelyn whispered, her voice turning keen. "I want her to step into Elareth and remember what she once was. I want the court to laugh when they behold her. I want to laugh."
Isadora studied her for a long moment, then a slow, cold smile curved her lips. "So this is the truth of it. Humiliation."
Evelyn offered no denial.
"I thought as much," Isadora said, rising and moving toward the writing desk. "Very well. We shall send word to Velmora. If King Aldric permits her to receive it, then we shall see what follows."
Evelyn's face lit up like a flame. She followed her mother to the writing table and watched as ink touched parchment.
By midnight, the letter bore the seal of Elareth. It was handed to the palace's swiftest rider before dawn, his horse already saddled and stamping in the courtyard.
As he rode into the darkness, thunder growled faintly in the sky—though no storm had been forecast.