[Imperial Chapel]
In the Imperial Chapel, Alden stood beneath the vaulted arches, firmly planted on the stone floor.
His knees throbbed, but he kept his eyes locked on the space ahead. Threads of conversation drifted through the low hum of the crowd, and he picked them apart one by one.
"...swordmaster or not, he's just a boy."
"… The Empress's seat is finally empty."
"... won't stay empty for long. This time the Emperor must name someone before long."
"Shh. He might hear."
The words washed over him as he watched the priests chant. If anything, they were quite true.
Behind him, the Four Dukes stood as pillars of the realm. He didn't need to turn around to know they were exchanging glances, competing against each other over who would control the next reign.
Further back, the rustle of fabric announced the arrival of his half-siblings, Jeremy and Jenna. They had come at the last possible minute, performed their grief for the court, and only then prepared to leave.
"Now that she's dead, shouldn't Father name a new Empress already?" Jeremy's voice carried an edge of excitement he barely suppressed.
Alden stared at the silver handle of the coffin and the priest's golden brush as it swung. Droplets of holy water hit the dark wood—tap, tap, tap.
"Patience, brother. Not here." Jenna's tone was ice-cold.
Jeremy snorted, his voice dropping lower. But Alden could hear every word without much effort.
"That one over there, sister..." Jeremy spat. "Alden hasn't spared him a single glance all day..."
Mocking laughter threaded through his voice. "Aran. That parasite."
Alden's heart began beating faster. He clenched his gloved hands and kept his face forward.
Jenna's voice drifted back. "Pay him no mind. He is just Alden's lackey after all. Not a threat to us."
Ah, that was his image at this point. There was still time.
Also Aran was still useful.
The chant swelled. The casket began its descent. Alden forced his gaze ahead.
Footsteps approached from behind—quick and unsteady.
'To think, he is coming here with his own two feet.' A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. He covered it with both hands.
"Brother—Alden—"
Arms locked around him from behind.
Alden's fingers slightly dug into his own face. One heartbeat was enough. Aran's throat was only a foot away. One turn, one grip, and it would be over.
Thump-thump
Silence, he ordered his heart. It was loud. Too loud.
Aran's chest pressed against him. Warm. Trembling. Alden could feel Aran's heart beating against his back. He counted the beats — backward. Ten. Nine. Eight…
"I'm here," Aran whispered. "You're not alone, Alden. I'll help you build whatever comes next."
Alden's vision blurred. He closed his eyes once. Then opened them.
The chapel flickered before his sight.
The statue stood before him, mocking his oaths, his life, and his faith all at once. Her face and body were carved from stone with cruel precision.
Alden's fingertips trembled. He couldn't breathe. The air was too thick.
"I built her for you, brother. The real one took too long to break." Aran's cackle rang again in his memory. "She was so proud, wasn't she—"
Three. Two…
Alden's hand drifted toward the arm around him.
"Your mother adored you, brother." Aran's real voice pulled him back to the funeral. "She wouldn't wish for you to suffer like this."
Snap. A sharp sting pierced his palm. His leather glove had split, and another drop of blood dripped onto his skin, leaving a sticky residue. Alden lowered his gaze.
Right. His mother was dead. This was her funeral.
Alden's stomach turned. Bile rose in his throat.
Thud. The casket hit bottom.
Alden's nails bit deeper into his palms. Blood welled beneath the wet leather.
"Thank you," he forced out, choked.
Aran pulled back—just enough to look at him. His hands slid to Alden's shoulders, gripping, holding him in place.
Golden eyes searched his face. Desperate. Tender. Repulsive.
"You do not need to stand so strong right now," Aran said softly. "Cry out if you want."
Alden stared ahead. The vision felt red-tinted, like blood.
He shook off the hands and turned away.
"Brother?" The sorrowful voice came from behind.
Alden couldn't trust his own body. The court was watching. More importantly, he would not stain his mother's funeral with blood.
Pausing once, he whispered, "Goodbye, Mother."
But he didn't turn back.
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Bedchamber]
The palace was quiet. Alden sprawled across the duvet. Mud from his boots—still on—smeared brown streaks across the fabric. His coat hung open. One arm was flung over his face.
His chest moved too fast. Uneven. At his throat, the Ichor pulsed. Red, then not. Red, then not. A heartbeat that wasn't his own. He tried to speak. His lips moved, but nothing came. He ground his teeth together until his jaw ached, forcing the words up through a throat that didn't want to let them pass.
"It was a long day." His voice shook. "My mother died today."
He dropped his arm. Stared at the ceiling. Blank plaster stared back, offering exactly as much comfort as he'd expected. His pulse beat against the pillow—slow now, steady.
"She was kind," he said to the empty room. "Told me stories. Angels. How they grant wishes to good children."
'Will my wish be fulfilled if I'm good?'
The question hung there, rotting in the silence. He decided he didn't want to ask. Some doors you don't open. Some answers you don't ask for. And some... you know too much to bother asking.
Another question slipped out before he could stop it.
"Do you truly exist... in this reality?"
His jaw locked. Cords of tension pulled tight down his neck.
The silence remained.
He swallowed the pain, closing his eyes. With a mirthless smile on his lips, he began the lie.
"There's a boy. Finn Rivers. Lives by a river where the water runs so clear you can count every stone on the bottom." He shifted, mud flaking onto sheets that would be burned tomorrow. "Every morning he sits there with muddy knees, skipping stones. Laughing with the other children. Like laughter's something that comes easy."
His voice steadied as he built the story, brick by brick.
"When the sun sets, Finn runs into the village. He wants to be a guard someday. Watch over streets where lanterns drift up like captive stars. You can smell the rain on cobbles there. Warm bread. No one's ever truly alone."
The words tasted like ash, but he kept going.
"Whenever Finn passes the old porch on the corner, he brings a newspaper for Granny Willow. She reaches into her apron, presses candy into his palm." He paused. "In that place, there's no sorrow. No starvation. No war. Just wind chimes made from old armor and the taste of fruit from the hidden garden."
Alden leaned back. His voice dropped lower.
"And you know what else they're waiting for?" The tremor in his voice cracked through. "You. Their angel."
He looked down at his chest.
The Ichor pulsed red. Steady. Patient.
Waiting.
Early morning light leaked into the bathing chamber. Alden got up from his bed, then sank into the porcelain tub. The water lapped at his chest, steam rising.
He leaned his head back. Closed his eyes.
The luxury dissolved. The warmth of the steam became smoke and the stink of rot.
Memories of the ruin resurfaced. Surrounded by survivors—starving, broken like mad avengers. They didn't want his help. They wanted his blood.
He thought of the guards who bowed low yesterday. The nobles who whispered behind jeweled fans. The commoners who cheered his name in the streets.
Under his gaze, they morphed. Became the monsters of his future. The ones who killed him. Again and again.
He'd accepted their hatred. Made peace with it. But the moment he tried to save them, the curse awoke.
He'd become their executioner.
The roar in his skull cut out. Replaced by the rhythmic plink of water hitting porcelain.
Alden's eyes snapped open. He stood, water sluicing off skin that was red from heat.
Beyond the archway, servants waited in neat rows. Clutching towels and fresh silks. Before they could step forward, Alden flicked his hand. They left, bowing.
He dried himself in silence. Ignored the gold-threaded doublet on the vanity—the one that screamed prince loud enough to wake the dead. Instead, he chose a rough russet tunic. Stiff leather breeches. No jewels. No ring. No crown.
Just the red pendant hidden beneath his collar.
A tremor ran through him. He covered his face with one hand, breathed, then grabbed the glove from the table and pulled it on.
He exhaled sharply and marched to the threshold.
"From this moment," he said, voice dropping to a whisper, "entry to my private chambers is forbidden. No one enters except Elara, Limon, or those I summon myself."
The guards stiffened, bowing low. "Understood, Your Highness."
Alden didn't acknowledge them. He swept past, leaving the order hanging in the air.
[Imperial Court]
The great doors swung open.
At the far end, Emperor Caelus IV sat on his golden throne. Hands resting on the rails. His eyes widened when Alden entered—just a flicker, then darted away.
Alden dismissed his father with a single glance.
As he crossed the threshold, every noble in the hall bowed their heads. Unified mourning. Unified, pretentious schemers. The Prince replied with a polite bow toward the throne, a sharp acknowledging nod to the assembled lords.
He matched his steps to the rhythm of stone beneath boot heels.
Taking the dais, he claimed the space beside the golden throne and the Empress's vacant seat. No chair waited for him.
So he stood on bare stone. A silent pillar of black against his father's gold.
The court session opened. Duke Ashvale lowered his head, donning a solemnity that fit him like ill-tailored clothes.
"Your Majesty, it is a matter of immense sorrow that we lost our Empress so early. My heartfelt condolences."
A pause. Then the pivot. Eyes fixed on Alden now. "The court cannot remain without an Empress for long. Stability must be restored."
The words came smooth as a courtesan's wine, with a grin on his lips. "Therefore, I propose Consort Miriam be elevated to Empress."
Alden kept his face calm.
"Your Majesty." Duke Varik stood. "If we are discussing qualifications, let us be honest. Consort Olivia is the only one with the blood and breeding for it. Not merely... placement."
"You mention Olivia because she is your daughter, Lord Varik." Ashvale didn't even bother to stand. He flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Don't let familial bonds cloud your judgment. If we speak of stability, Consort Miriam—mother to an Imperial Prince—holds the rightful claim."
Then Duke Viremont moved. He didn't bark or shout. Just smoothed his purple doublet before opening his mouth.
"Someone of noble blood, and proven closeness to His Majesty, to assume the late Empress's ceremonial duties..."
Alden's mind finished the sentence.
'Cordelia. And Rosa.'
"...Consort Cordelia," Viremont announced, bowing deep enough to sweep the floor. "And Consort Rosa."
He rose, smoothing his doublet, looking directly at the throne. "I believe both have proven themselves worthy. To choose either is to secure the Empire's future."
The Emperor's hand jerked against the armrest.
Alden's eyes flicked down. He leaned forward—a fraction of an inch—and watched the knuckles turn white.
Cordelia, the youngest.
Rosa, daughter of Marquis Ashford. Mother of two.
A faint, fleeting smile flickered at the corner of Alden's mouth.
'This choice, Father... can you make it?'
His eyes drifted to the stained glass above. He watched the light filter down, counting the seconds.
Right on cue.
"Absurd!" Duke Helbart—Warden of the North—bellowed. "Cordelia entered the inner court less than a decade ago! She lacks experience! And Rosa has nowhere near the gravitas required for the throne!"
"Gravity is learned," Marquis Blackwood countered, hands wringing together. "But why refuse youth? Youth brings vitality to a mourning court."
Alden didn't blink. His focus locked on the high clock, watching the hands creep toward midday.
"Vitality?" Ashvale curled his lip. "She is your niece, Blackwood. Spare us the pretense." He lowered his voice, ensuring it carried. "The throne is not a goblet to be filled with the youngest vintage."
A cold smirk touched Alden's lips, then vanished like smoke. He scanned the court one last time. Then looked up at the clock.
'A grandfather clock obeys whoever winds it.'
It was long overdue for the gears to be replaced. He tightened the strap of his leather glove.
Above, the hands aligned. Midday.
Alden's breath steadied.
Three... two... one.
He took one step forward, letting his boot strike the stone hard enough to turn every head.
"The Empress has only just passed. Such talk insults her spirit."
Alden's gaze swept the room. First the Dukes. Then the Marquises. Finally the Counts and the others.
"Duke Viremont, I suggest we wait. I request the same of every lord present." His voice was cold and level. "Let her soul find peace before we speak of a successor. We can revisit this later."
He watched Viremont stiffen. Ashvale exchanged a guarded look with Blackwood. Their eyes darted toward the empty seat beside the Emperor.
Alden kept his expression serene. Empty. The face of a grieving son who'd just delivered a simple, reasonable request.
The Emperor sat like a statue. But the stone cracked at his hands; he gripped the gold armrests tight enough to strain the leather of his gloves.
Alden didn't wait for a dismissal. He checked the clock one last time and left the chamber.
His pace was steady.
The heavy doors sealed behind him. Cut off the noise from the court like a blade through a neck.
From the alcove, Limon Haylos emerged. Chestnut hair, bright eyes, a few inches shorter than the Prince. He swept into a bow, arm tracing a wide arc.
"Your Highness, I found a secluded lodge while I was out west. Overlooking Lake Valen. The water's still. The woods are quiet."
Mid-bow, his gaze flicked upward, scanning Alden's face from jaw to eye.
"Why not take a rest? Just for a few weeks. I've already arranged the security."
He held the pose. Waiting.
Alden stopped near the stone arch and studied the man before him. A faint smile touched his lips, lingering for a second before vanishing completely.
"Limon."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Prepare a sealed missive. For Aethelgard."
Limon's grin died. He straightened, the cheerful mask slipping just enough to show the sharp mind beneath.
"Aethelgard?" he sighed quietly. "The Closed Kingdom of elves?"
"Yes." Alden began to walk. Limon fell into step beside him, hands tucked into his sleeves. "And state clearly that the Crown Prince of Leonhelm demands a private audience."
He listed the next part without pausing for breath.
"Visit every major Alchemy Tower. Verdant Sanctum. Silver Star. The Red Atelier. Green Spire. Arcanum."
Limon faltered. His relaxed posture vanished, and he had to scramble to match Alden's sudden, clipped pace.
"Inquire into every compound capable of inducing long-term paralysis. Causes. Symptoms. Treatments. Obscure variants." Alden's voice was flat. Clinical. "Everything."
Limon's boots scuffed against marble as he lengthened his stride. He lowered his voice.
"Paralysis? Your Highness... do you suspect—"
"I suspect nothing." Alden cut him off. Stopped. Turned just enough to fix Limon with a stare cold enough to freeze blood. "I'm merely curious."
Limon's mouth opened. Clicked shut. He looked at his prince and met no warmth. No explanation. No comfort.
Just ice.
"After your inquiries," Alden continued, turning back to the empty hall, "send letters to each Tower Lord. Tell them I expect to meet them. In person."
Limon gave a sharp, professional nod, even as his eyes flicked down, narrowing at the empty air.
"I'll make the arrangements immediately."
He turned toward the archway.
Before he reached the threshold, soft footsteps echoed from the hall.
Lady Emmelyne, daughter of Duke Viremont, stepped into view. Both men stopped, and Alden's gaze sharpened.