"When the Crest is touched by hands unready, the blood of the heir shall cry before the gods.
For balance does not bend — it takes its price, and the flesh it chooses will not be spared."
— The Book of Eternal Balance, Fragment XIX
The day did go by gently at Crest Keep that day. It was like the hour drew longer and the skies didn't move at all. Shadows clung to the corridors like old fears refusing to scatter, and every breath inside those stone walls carried the taste of dread.
The princess was carried back to her chambers long after the hall had emptied. The chandels walked in silence, their faces drawn, their hands still trembling from what they had seen. No one spoke of what had happened, and none dared meet the king's eye as he descended from his throne.
Saphirra drifted in and out of waking. The corridors passed her like dreams — grey arches, the faint flicker of torches, the smell of smoke and sweat. When at last she was laid upon her bed, the weight of the pain settled over her like a cloak.
Senoria sat at her side, whispering prayers. Her hands shook as she crushed the herbs that the chandel had given her. The bitter scent of them filled the room.
"Drink, my princess," she said softly. "It will ease the hurt."
Saphirra obeyed. The taste was foul, the warmth of it running down her throat like ash. Her body ached in places she could not name.
Outside the chamber, she heard voices.
"Yes, Your Grace. She is resting," came Ser Rodric's voice, low and respectful.
The door opened, and the air changed.
Queen Naerya entered — tall, veiled, and still in her mourning black. Time had gentled her beauty, but grief had sharpened it. Her eyes found her daughter at once, and for a moment, the mask of royalty broke.
"He made you do it again, didn't he?"
Her voice quivered. Not with rage, but with something far deeper — the fear only a mother knows.
Saphirra tried to rise, but the queen pressed her gently back.
"You should not have gone, not while you still bore the marks of the last."
"It is my duty, Mother," Saphirra said. Her voice was thin, each word measured to hide the tremor beneath. "The crest must answer our blood, for the sake of the realm—"
"The realm can rot!" Naerya's voice cracked, sharp as a whip. She caught herself, drawing a long, steadying breath. "Those rites are killing you, Saphirra. You bleed for his vanity, not the realm's salvation."
"He is the king," Saphirra murmured.
"And I was queen before him," Naerya replied, her gaze hard as carved glass.
"That title means little when ambition wears a crown."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with what neither dared to say.
Senoria turned away, pretending to busy herself with the herbs.
"I won't let him break you," the queen said at last. "I swear on it."
Saphirra smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. "Mother, you cannot fight him. Let it go. It's nothing I cannot bear."
"Nothing?" Naerya's tone softened, but her eyes did not. "Child, you can scarcely stand."
"It is for the good of the realm," Saphirra whispered, though the words felt hollow in her mouth.
Naerya's gaze lingered on her daughter's bandaged arms, the dried blood upon her gown. "You sound like him," she said. "That frightens me most of all."
Saphirra looked away. "You taught me to be strong."
"Strength is not silence," said the queen. "It is knowing when to defy."
She rose then, gathering her mantle around her. "Rest now. I'll speak to your uncle myself."
"Mother, please—"
But the queen was already at the door. Ser Rodric opened it for her, and the sound of her departing footsteps faded down the corridor like the tolling of a distant bell.