The royal carriage rolled through the capital of Avalon, bound for the royal palace. Mounted guards rode in disciplined formation at its front and rear, their horses' measured pace the only rhythm to break the silence.
The city, usually vibrant with life, had fallen eerily still.
Only a handful of people lingered along the streets, quietly purchasing white flowers. The marketplace stood deserted, its stalls abandoned and its shops shuttered. Save for a few flower vendors, not a single merchant remained. White flags hung from balconies and rooftops, swaying gently in the breeze, while fresh white blossoms adorned doorways throughout the city.
The beautiful city of Avalon now lay as silent as a corpse.
The soft rustle of leaves stirred by the wind, the distant chirping of birds, and the faint whisper of the breeze were all that filled the air. As the carriage crossed the stone bridge, the clear river murmured beneath it, while the steady hoofbeats echoed through the nearly empty streets.
Every face it passed bore the same expression—quiet grief.
At last, the carriage reached the palace grounds. Numerous carriages had already arrived before it, forming an orderly procession through the outer court and toward the inner palace.
It finally came to a halt before the main palace, where dozens of royal coaches and noble carriages stood waiting.
The carriage door opened.
A man, stepped onto the stone pavement. His minister followed closely behind as the two made their way toward the palace entrance.
The palace felt different that day—quiet, suffocatingly so.
The grand hall, once filled with warmth and laughter, was veiled in mourning cloth and shadow. The air was heavy with the scent of white lilies and candle smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a quartet of violins played a slow, mournful melody, each lingering note fading like a weary sigh. Courtiers, servants, sovereigns from neighboring kingdoms, and the officials of Elenor stood in solemn rows, their heads bowed, their hushed whispers swallowed by the oppressive silence.
The hall was awash in white.
Every mourner wore white, including Welfred. Only Grace, Ray, and little Rui remained clad in black.
Grace stood motionless beside two caskets.
Her parents'.
One hand held the trembling fingers of five-year-old Ray. Though still a child, he understood enough to grieve. His eyes were swollen and red from endless tears, no different from Welfred's. Barely a year old, Rui rested quietly in Welfred's arms, her tiny fingers curled around his collar, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had befallen her family.
Grace could neither move nor think.
Everything felt distant, as though she were watching the world through a pane of glass.
Faint footsteps echoed through the hall, drawing curious glances from those in mourning.
They came to a stop beside her.
A hand reached out and settled gently upon her shoulder.
Grace turned.
An unfamiliar man stood before her, dressed entirely in black.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.
{ According to the customs of the Kingdom of Elenor, only the immediate family of the deceased—and members of their parental bloodlines—are permitted to wear black during the funeral rites. This includes the deceased's parents, children, siblings, grandparents, and other close blood relatives. All other mourners must wear white.
For anyone outside the family to appear in black is considered deeply insensitive and even insolent. In Elenorian tradition, black is reserved for those who bear the weight of personal loss, while white symbolizes the prayers and blessings offered by everyone else for the departed's peaceful journey into the afterlife.
Exceptions are rare. A non-family member may wear black only if it was the deceased's explicit wish, or if they were regarded as family in all but blood—particularly in cases where the deceased left behind no surviving relatives. }
She simply stared at him with blank, cold eyes.
Though she had never seen him before, something about him felt strangely familiar. Perhaps it was the resemblance he bore to her father.
After a long silence, she found her voice.
"...Who are you?"
A gentle smile crossed the man's face.
"I am your uncle."
For the briefest moment, the emptiness in her eyes softened.
"My..."
.
.
.
"Uncle," Grace whispered, a genuine smile briefly lighting her face as she looked at Dasmon.
The warmth in her expression faded almost as quickly as it had appeared when she remembered what had just happened.
She turned, her lips parting to say something, but stopped when she realized Corvin was nowhere to be seen.
Her brows furrowed.
(That guy.)
Turning toward the two boys, she said, "I'll make him apologize to you the next time he steps into this palace."
"Your Majesty," the younger boy murmured, "there's no need—"
Arno lightly pinched his back.
The boy flinched.
"As you say, Your Majesty," Arno replied.
"Then you may take your leave," Grace said.
The two boys bowed and departed.
Grace then glanced toward the gathered nobles. Understanding the dismissal, they quietly dispersed throughout the hall.
She turned back to Dasmon, her earlier warmth gone. "Where have you been?"
Her gaze sharpened. "You do realize you are the second minister of the realm?"
"You were expected to attend the coronation ceremony."
Dasmon fell silent for a moment, then lowered his gaze. "I... apologise, dear. I had no intention of missing such an occasion. Something came up in the palace that required my immediate attention, so I couldn't arrive in time."
Some of the sternness left Grace's expression. "I see."
Her eyes narrowed again. "Then what of your absence these past three months?"
"But I did tell you I would be away," he protested.
"You never said it would be for three whole months."
Dasmon's shoulders sank. After a brief silence, he bowed his head. "Yes... my apologies," he said quietly.
Grace sighed, deciding not to press the matter further.
Instead, her attention shifted to the servant standing silently beside him. In his hands rested a large, exquisitely crafted box upon a cushion of black velvet.
"What's this?" she asked, her curiosity gently steering the conversation elsewhere.
A hint of amusement glimmered in Dasmon's eyes.
"This," he said, unable to hide the note of pride in his voice, "is the reason it took me so long to return."
He rested a hand atop the ornate box.
"Your birthday gift is inside. Would you like to see it?"
Grace arched a brow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Dasmon let out a quiet laugh.
"Fair enough. My mistake."
Yet despite his smile, there was an unmistakable tension about him. It lingered in the slight stiffness of his posture and the careful way he held the box, as though he were concealing something.
Grace noticed.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly before settling on the box as Dasmon slowly lifted the lid.
Her breath caught.
"A... weapon?" she whispered in astonishment.
Dasmon smiled.
"Yes."
Grace's gaze remained fixed on it, wonder flickering across her face.
"I've never seen anything like this before."
"You haven't," Dasmon replied, a quiet satisfaction warming his tone. "It's one of a kind in the entire continent—crafted exclusively for you."
Grace leaned in, her eyes following the intricate engravings etched along the barrel.
"The craftsmanship..." she murmured. "Is it from Tharwyn?"
A pleased smile spread across Dasmon's face.
"You have sharp eyes. It is. After all, what other city could produce a masterpiece like this besides Tharwyn—the weapon capital of Elenor?"
A faint smile curved Grace's lips.
"Naturally," she said, clearly pleased.
"So," she asked, "how does it work?"
He carefully lifted the gun from its velvet-lined case, the polished metal catching the light as he turned it in his hands.
"It's built for precision," he said, a quiet confidence settling into his tone. "Every detail was meticulously refined—the weight, the balance, even the trigger. Everything was designed to work in perfect harmony, so each shot remains smooth and unwavering."
His gaze lingered on the weapon, as though admiring a long-awaited masterpiece.
"It took months of planning and the finest craftsmen in Tharwyn to bring it to life," he said. "But in the end... it became exactly what I envisioned."
Grace paused, her nose catching a faint scent.
"...This smell ...Is that black powder?"
For the briefest moment, Dasmon stiffened, though his expression remained carefully composed.
He let out a quiet chuckle.
"You really could sniff out secrets at this rate."
"That's right," he said. "It's the core component of this weapon."
Grace glanced back at the firearm and gave a quiet hum.
The faintest trace of understanding settled in her eyes.