"Blood remembers. Even when thrones forget."— Inscription upon the ruined temple beneath the First Keep
Far to the south, beneath a sun half-veiled by cloud, the corridors of the Crest Keep lay silent.
The air was chill for the season, still as breath held in dread. Along the walls hung faded banners that had once borne the proud sigil of her father's reign — now dulled by neglect and dust.
Princess Saphirra moved swiftly through the passage, her steps echoing against the stone. The hush followed her like a living thing.
Behind came Senoria, her maid, small and pale and shaking. The woman's hands worried at her apron, her eyes red from sleepless nights.
At the end of the hall stood the doors of the throne room — tall, dark, and severe. The guards did not speak. They pushed them open without a word.
Within waited the king.
He sat upon the high seat of gold and obsidian, where once her father had ruled. Every time Saphirra saw him there, she felt her stomach twist. The hall smelled faintly of smoke and old blood.
It was the third summons in as many months. Each left her weaker than the last. Her arms bore faint scars where blood had been drawn before.
"Come forward," the king said.
His voice carried a measured impatience, the tone of a man long denied his desire. His eyes were fever-bright — that same hunger that masked itself as duty. Beneath the throne lay the ancient crest of their bloodline, sealed for generations. Legend said it could awaken the will of gods, though none had ever lived to prove it.
Saphirra stopped at the foot of the dais, the marble cold beneath her bare feet. Senoria lingered near, her breath trembling.
"This time it shall work," said the king.
"My lord," Senoria broke in, her fear bursting forth, "the princess is still frail from the last! She cannot bear another!"
The king's gaze cut to her. His voice was quiet, but the words were iron. "She will do what must be done. There is no other heir."
Senoria bowed her head. Saphirra touched her shoulder lightly, bidding her silence.
The Chandels stepped forward — robed men whose faces were half-hidden by age and unease.
They carried thin knives and bowls of beaten bronze, and upon the marble they traced their circle: no light, no glow, only the scratch of metal against stone. The sound was sharp and slow, each stroke like a breath before confession.
When all was ready, one chandel approached her and took her hand.
A small blade flashed. A shallow cut.
A drop of blood.
It fell into the center of the circle and spread like ink into the grooves the chandels had carved.
They began their low chant, a murmur too old for the tongue to grasp.
The hall grew heavy. The air thickened, pressing down until each breath came like a weight.
At first there was nothing — only stillness. Then Saphirra felt it.
A deep ache in her chest, a pull beneath her skin. Her heart lurched; pain surged through her arms, her throat, her bones. She gasped. No wind stirred, no light changed — only her body breaking under something unseen.
Her knees struck the marble. Blood trailed from her nose, her lips.
The chandels faltered in their chant, their voices thinning in horror.
"Keep her steady!" the King barked.
But no one moved. The chandels stood frozen as her screams filled the hall, raw and piercing, echoing from the vaults like the cry of something damned.
Senoria fell to her knees beside her, sobbing, powerless.
The princess's hands clawed at the floor, leaving streaks of red on white stone. The pain tore through her as if invisible talons were rending her from within.
Then, as sudden as it began, it ceased.
The silence that followed was worse than the screaming.
Saphirra lay trembling, blood streaked across her cheeks, her eyes wide with shock. Senoria gathered her, whispering her name again and again, though the girl scarcely heard.
The chandels dared not speak. One wept softly, another made the sign of the old faith upon his chest.
The King rose. His face was pale with anger.
"Again," he murmured. "Again, it denies you."
There was no pity in his voice, only frustration — the fury of a man who believed the world itself conspired to mock him. His robes swept across the marble as he turned away.
Saphirra met his gaze from the floor, her breath shallow. And there, in his eyes, she saw it plain: her uncle would see her broken before he yielded his desire.
"We must flee," Senoria whispered. "If you stay, he'll try again. He'll kill you, my lady."
Saphirra's voice was faint, barely more than a breath. "Not yet."
The air reeked of iron and blood. Somewhere deep beneath the throne, a low creak stirred — or perhaps it was only her imagination.
And in that stillness, as her blood cooled upon the marble, Saphirra understood one thing with dreadful clarity: whatever darkness her uncle sought to rouse, it was no longer sleeping.