The air in Iridessa's chambers was still.
Her hands were folded neatly in her lap as she sat by the window, the wind teasing the edge of the velvet drapes. A small tray of untouched bread and fruit rested beside her. She had not touched it. Her thoughts lingered elsewhere—on Aurora's words, her parting, and the quiet promise wrapped in crimson threads.
Then the door burst open.
Magnus stormed in, his boots thundering against the floor. The door slammed into the wall behind it, making Miri flinch from her corner, where she'd been folding clothes.
"I knew it," Magnus snapped. "You have chosen sides."
Iridessa stood slowly. "Magnus—"
"Do not dare," he said, voice sharp. "I saw you. I saw how you looked at her."
He began to pace, his fingers twitching, eyes wild.
"You admired her. You admired that girl—that slave who dares to walk into our court with silk and soldiers, who dares to stand before my mother like she is her equal."
"She is a queen now," Iridessa said softly.
"She is a slave, wearing a crown Velmora gave her!" Magnus snarled. "Did you not see how she spoke to Mother? No reverence. No humility. She thinks she is untouchable."
"And yet," Iridessa said, her tone even, "she bowed. She gave honor to your father. She never raised her voice."
Magnus stopped pacing. "You defend her now?"
"I defend the truth," Iridessa replied. "She came with grace, not pride. You were the ones who expected her to crawl."
He stared at her.
She did not flinch.
"You do not understand," Magnus said, his voice dropping, darker now. "The girl you just praised—she is not your ally. She is not your sister. She is your rival. She is the enemy of this family. And you… are still part of this family."
Iridessa met his gaze, unshaken. "She is not my rival, Magnus. That girl came to mourn a king, not to start a war."
Magnus stepped closer, lowering his voice to a threat. "If you keep playing saint, Dessa, you will end up buried next to my father."
He let the words hang.
Then turned and stormed out, the door swinging behind him.
Iridessa stood still, her breath shallow. Miri approached her carefully.
"My lady…"
But Iridessa's eyes remained on the doorway, calm, unreadable.
"She is not our enemy," she said at last.
-
The mourning veils had barely been lifted when Queen Isadora summoned her children to the council chamber.
The air inside was still draped in quiet shadow, but her tone was brisk, commanding.
"This fuss over Aurora," she said, fingers laced together, eyes sharp as blades, "is becoming a distraction."
Evelyn shifted in her seat. Magnus stood by the window, arms crossed.
"She came and went," Isadora continued. "That is no concern of ours. What must be foremost on our minds now is this—" She turned, her gaze resting on Magnus. "How you, my son, shall take your place upon that throne."
Magnus blinked. "Already?"
"Yes," she said. "Already. The longer we delay, the more we expose Elareth to danger. There are matters that need a king's hand. And you—" she faced both children—"must conduct yourselves with discipline. No outbursts. No missteps. You are being watched."
Evelyn frowned but said nothing. Magnus gave a slow nod, but doubt still lingered in his eyes.
By dawn the next morning, the court was summoned. The great hall thrummed with cloaked lords, their murmurs echoing beneath the marble arches.
Isadora rose, veiled still in black, but her poise crisp, elegant, untouchable.
"My lords," she began, "Elareth grieves. But grief cannot stall duty. Our kingdom must not be left without a king. The longer the throne remains empty, the more we risk chaos—both within and beyond our borders. Enemies are always watching. Waiting."
Some nodded solemnly. Others remained still.
Lord Carron, the eldest of the west, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, with all respect… the king's death is still fresh. Should we not wait—just a little longer—to honor him fully?"
Another lord—a younger one, from the southern coast—spoke sharply. "Wait or not, a new king must still be chosen. We can mourn and move forward at once. Her Majesty is right—we must act fast."
"There are urgent matters," added another. "Trade routes are breaking. The border tribes are restless."
"But is Prince Magnus ready?" asked Lord Hale, brows raised. "The court has seen... tempers. Worries about his steadiness."
A tense silence fell.
Isadora's voice came, smooth as silk but barbed with control. "The prince is young, yes. But he is my son. Trained for this since birth. What king has not been tested? He will grow into the weight of the crown—as all kings must."
Some nodded in agreement. Others exchanged uncertain glances.
"I stand with the Queen," said Lord Therun of the north. "Better a crown on a familiar head than a throne left open for ambition."
Grumbles. Agreements. Silent stares.
At last, a decision rippled through the hall—hesitant, yet binding.
The crown would pass to Magnus.
-
The bells began at dawn—deep, somber tones that rolled over the white-stoned city like thunder over dry earth. Elareth had not heard them in decades, and their sound drew everyone—nobles and beggars alike—out into the sunlit plazas, all facing the great palace where smoke from burning incense curled into the air.
Inside the grand cathedral chamber, where the throne sat beneath the vaulted dome of silver and glass, the court had gathered in silence.
The priests, robed in silver and bone-white linen, chanted low hymns that echoed against the stone. Candles flickered on every ledge, their light reflecting in the marble floor like shards of gold.
Queen Isadora stood tall beside the high altar, wrapped in mourning black but wearing a crown of frost-white pearls. Her face was unreadable. Beside her, Evelyn's hands were folded too tightly. Iridessa, veiled and quiet in her seat behind the royal row, kept her eyes forward—but her mind raced.
And then came Magnus.
He entered through the eastern doors, flanked by twelve guards in polished steel. He wore a ceremonial robe dyed in Elareth's deepest blue, lined with gold. A sword—the blade of King Rael—hung sheathed at his hip, and a golden medallion rested against his chest, the mark of the royal bloodline.
Whispers stirred in the hall as he passed.
Some watched with approval. Others with caution. A few with barely hidden doubt.
At the altar, he knelt.
The High Priest raised his hands. "Who presents this man for the crown?"
"I do," Queen Isadora said clearly. "I present Magnus, son of Elareth, born of the royal line. Let him be crowned king and protector of the realm."
A ceremonial silence fell.
The priest stepped forward, a bowl of sacred water in hand. He dipped a cloth and pressed it to Magnus's brow, whispering words in the old tongue, blessing him with clarity, strength, and loyalty.
Then came the sword.
Isadora lifted it and placed it into the priest's hand. "Let the weapon of the king not bring wrath, but justice."
The priest laid the sword across Magnus's open palms.
"Rise, Your Majesty."
Magnus stood. The priest turned, lifting the crown—a heavy circle of hammered gold and blackened onyx, forged centuries ago when Elareth was young and wild.
As it descended toward Magnus's head, the chamber held its breath.
The crown settled.
A pause. A moment caught in stone.
Then—
"All hail Magnus, King of Elareth."
The hall erupted.
Some stood to clap. Some bowed in silence. Others murmured the words without feeling.
Trumpets blared. Banners unfurled from the ceiling, embroidered with the crest of Elareth—a crowned stag under the sun.
Magnus turned slowly, facing his court. His expression was unreadable—neither smile nor scowl, but something deeper. His gaze swept across the chamber, landing briefly on Evelyn, then Isadora, then Iridessa, whose eyes were lowered, unreadable.
From her high seat, Queen Isadora nodded once. Slow. Satisfied.
At the far edge of the chamber, one of the southern lords whispered under his breath:
"Well. The crown has found its shadow."
-
The grand hall was unrecognizable by nightfall.
Silk drapes of midnight blue and gold hung from the columns. Tables shimmered with silverware and goblets overflowing with foreign wine—much of it gifted by Velmora, to the mild discomfort of a few lords. Platters of roasted lamb, honeyed figs, and baked root vegetables filled the air with rich, warm spice.
Laughter. Music. The clinking of cups.
Magnus sat at the high table beneath the royal crest, a ring of nobles around him, all eager to flatter, to impress, to stake their claim to the new era. His new robe was tailored to perfection, his crown gleaming beneath the chandeliers.
And across the chamber, seated quietly beside a few minor lords, Iridessa drank slowly from her goblet, saying little.
She was not meant to speak tonight—just to smile, to sit, to be seen.
She wore a dark emerald gown, her hair swept into a simple braid, the bangles on her wrist the only trace of her homeland.
And then came Evelyn.
Draped in a gown of violet and black, cut daringly at the shoulder, she swayed over with a goblet in hand and a smirk already curling on her lips.
"Well," she said sweetly, "look at you."
Iridessa did not rise. She simply met Evelyn's eyes.
"I suppose I should curtsy now that you are, in name, a queen," Evelyn went on, voice like silk over thorns. "But let us be clear, shall we? Title or not, you are still not above me."
Iridessa's face remained calm.
"My brother may wear a crown now," Evelyn leaned closer, her tone dropping low and sharp, "but he will always choose me. I have known him all his life. You are just the wife he never wanted."
Still, Iridessa said nothing. She took another slow sip of her wine.
The silence unnerved Evelyn. She let out a breathy, sarcastic laugh, "Hmm. Lost your voice already?"
When Iridessa remained quiet, Evelyn scoffed and turned. She walked off toward a group of southern lords, her laughter growing louder, more performative as she joined their conversation.
Iridessa exhaled.
She turned back to her plate, adjusting her fork.
Then her gaze lifted—toward Magnus.
He was laughing with two northern lords, tossing his head back, his expression relaxed in a way she had not seen in weeks. The crown sat heavy but proud on his head. His hand gestured confidently, already playing the part.
Iridessa stared at him a moment longer.
What fate would Elareth have now…under him?
She remembered the night King Rael had whispered to her in the quiet of the chamber, hand trembling against hers.
Iridessa closed her eyes for just a moment.
Then opened them again.
She straightened her shoulders, swallowed the rest of her wine, and signaled to one of the servants to clear her plate.
The music played on. The court danced and drank.
But she sat still—watching the flames flicker in the grand chandeliers above.
-
The torches outside had burned low. Inside the royal chamber, everything gleamed—golden walls, high windows, the velvet of the new king's cloak thrown carelessly onto the floor.
Iridessa stood near the hearth, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The fire barely warmed her. Behind her, the door slammed.
She flinched.
Magnus strode in, his crown gone, his expression unreadable—too calm to be safe.
"You have been avoiding me all evening," he said, removing his gloves with sharp, deliberate movements.
Iridessa said nothing.
He stepped closer. "Is it the crown that unsettles you now, or the man wearing it?"
"I did not want to ruin your night," she said coldly. "You had lords and women enough for that."
Magnus chuckled under his breath, a sound without warmth.
"You think I care about any of them?" he said. "The courtesies, the toasts, the handshakes—they mean nothing. They all bowed because they had to. Not because they believe I deserve it."
She looked at him then, carefully. "And do you?"
He walked to her slowly. "I earned it. The throne. The power. The right to command."
Iridessa's eyes did not leave his. "And what about respect, Magnus? Compassion? Have you earned those?"
He did not respond. Instead, his gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as he stepped into her path, seizing her wrist.
"You do not address me in that manner. I am your king now."
The words were final. Heavy.
Iridessa held her breath, struggling not to show fear.
"Is that all you want to be?" she asked, voice trembling—but not from fear. "My king? Or my jailer?"
Magnus said nothing. He let go of her wrist, only to take her chin in his hand and tilt her face up to meet his eyes.
"I want obedience. Loyalty. And I will not ask twice."
His touch was not kind. His eyes burned with fury and something darker—possession.
She did not respond. Not with words.
There was no softness in his kiss when it came. No affection. Just claim.
And when he pushed her backward, toward the bed she no longer had a choice in, Iridessa knew what this was.
Power. Punishment. Control.
A crown was not enough for him—he needed her silence too.