Dark clouds loomed over the kingdom of Velmira, swallowing the morning sun and casting the empires capital in a muted, gray shadow. The streets lay slick and flooded, drains choked with debris from three days of relentless rain. Water gurgled and spilled into every alley, carrying the scent of mud and decay, while the distant rumble of thunder threatened to shake the city itself.
Far to the north of the capital stood a towering castle, vast and imposing, its cream-colored walls blued from the gloomy grey shadow. Warm-blue rooftops crowned each spire, reflecting the sky above. Surrounding the fortress, massive bushes of sapphire-blue roses stretched in every direction, their petals shimmering in the wind, filling the air with a faint, sweet fragrance that softened the otherwise austere grandeur of the stronghold.
Inside, on the castle's third floor, a young woman stood motionless before a grand oak door. Orbs stuck to the sides of the wall luminating their surrounding in white light flickered across her pale face, revealing the tightness in her jaw. She twisted the fabric of her sleeve between trembling fingers, lips pressed thin as she whispered a quiet countdown.
"...Six, five, four, three, two, one."
A sigh escaped her half resignation, half resolve. She straightened her posture and spoke through the door, her tone practiced yet weary.
"Good morning, Princess Seravyn. Breakfast is ready, and the Queen awaits at the table."
Her voice nearly drowned beneath the rhythmic patter of rain against the castle walls. The echo of her words faded into the corridor, swallowed by the cold, humming silence that seemed to breathe with the stone itself.
Only the pounding of her own heart answered her. Erlene stood rigid before the oak door, half-expecting it to swing open at any moment.
Seconds stretched thin one, two, three until time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the voice.
"Five seconds too late, Erlene. Again."
Sharp yet calm, it cut through the heavy air like a blade through silk. The servant flinched, lowering her head instinctively as the door creaked open.
From within the dimly lit chamber stepped a woman whose presence seemed to command the light itself. Her features were almost unreal in their symmetry cold, beautiful, and precise. Dirt- Blonde hair, tied neatly into a short ponytail, framed a face that might have been carved by divine hands. Her eyes glistened in the light cast by the orb mounted on the wall, cold yet piercing.
"I—I'm sorry, Your Highness. I'll make sure to get it next time," Erlene stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Seravyn spared her not a second glance. With a measured step, she glided past, entering the bright hallway of the castle. The corridor stretched far, its walls a pristine white, punctuated by orbs that glowed softly, bathing the space in ethereal light. Blue tiles patterned the floor, their polished surfaces reflecting the orbs in a muted, watery shimmer, giving the hall an almost otherworldly depth.
Each step Seravyn took resonated faintly against the stone, the quiet echo mingling with the distant hum of the castle. The atmosphere was calm, yet tense like a predator stalking its territory, regal and unyielding.
She turned left and descended the staircase. Gold-adorned handrails gleamed faintly under the soft glow of the wall orbs. Each step was measured, deliberate, echoing softly through the cavernous space.
At the foot of the stairs stood a man in a stark black suit, his shorts leaving his legs exposed to the castle's chill. His hair was grey, and deep lines etched across his face spoke of decades lived under duty and discipline.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," he said, his voice clear and resonant, carrying further than Erlene's ever could.
"Good morning," Seravyn replied curtly, without sparing him a glance, her gaze fixed ahead as she continued down another corridor.
The walls along the hallway were lined with portraits of queens who had ruled the empire over the past century, their painted eyes seeming to follow her as she passed, witnesses to the legacy and the weight she carried.
The sizes of the portraits spoke volumes of the queens' legacies. Some loomed large, commanding the hallway with the weight of their achievements, while others were modest, their faces almost easy to forget.
At the far end of the corridor hung the largest of them all. Queen Althira Velmira Seravyn's mother. Her painted visage radiated authority and grace, a smile so vivid it seemed to breathe life into the canvas. Her blonde hair cascaded perfectly, and her figure lean, regal, and poised embodied the very ideal of a queen.
Her achievements had propelled the empire into an era of unparalleled advancement, far surpassing even the matriarchies of Thar'zan and Kael'rith in the southern continents. The abolition of laws that restricted men from holding multiple positions had proven a resounding success, bringing efficiency and balance to every facet of the realm…although not everyone saw her reforms as progress. Many among the noble women whispered that she had gone mad, claiming her mind had been poisoned by her consort's influence. Some even went as far as to call for her dethronement, rallying behind whispers and daggers alike. Assassination attempts followed on both the Queen and her consort each one bloodier and more desperate than the last.
Walking further down the corridor massive golden door loomed before Seravyn, its intricate engravings catching the dim light from the hallway. Standing beside it was a young man, perhaps her age or slightly younger, his head bowed in deference, eyes carefully avoiding her sharp, commanding gaze.
"Good morning, Princess Seravyn," he stammered, voice barely rising above the echoing halls, as if the weight of her presence threatened to crush him. Without waiting for permission, the young man pushed open the golden doors. The hinges groaned softly, giving way to a grand dining hall that seemed to breathe elegance. A long table, draped in deep blue silk embroidered with silver threads, stretched through the heart of the cream-colored chamber eight spans in length, six in width, and glistening under the gentle shimmer of the crystal orbs above.
At the far end sat the Empress of Velmira, Queen Althira radiant even in stillness. Her crimson gown flowed like liquid fire, the faint light catching on every curve of the fabric. A warm smile touched her lips, softening the commanding aura that filled the room. Her jade-green eyes, the same as Seravyn's, were fixed not on her daughter, but on the man seated beside her a frail figure draped in a loose brown shirt and dark vest. His shoulders slumped slightly, as though burdened by a weight only he could feel, his drity brown hair combed backwards.
Acknowledging her daughter's presence, Queen Althira gently set her cutlery aside, the faint clink echoing through the vast dining hall.
"Well, look who decided to join us for breakfast," she said, her tone soft yet carrying the faint authority of habit. A warm smile curved her lips, though her eyes keen and calculating never truly lost their edge.
Beside her, the man slowly lifted his head. His movements were sluggish, almost hesitant, as if the simple act of looking up required effort. His tired gaze drifted not toward Seravyn, but toward the servant still frozen by the door.
"Good morning, Mother," Seravyn replied flatly. Her voice lacked warmth, stripped of any affection that once might have lived there. She moved with poised precision, taking her seat at the opposite end of the long table deliberately distant, her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to even glance at the man seated beside her mother. Her Father, the queens consort.
With a subtle flick of his wrist, the man gestured toward one of the maids standing at the far right of the table. Dressed in the traditional black gown and white apron of the royal staff, the young woman bowed deeply before gliding across the marble floor in near silence.
She stopped by Seravyn's side and, with practiced grace, placed a pristine white porcelain plate before her. Its edges shimmered faintly with a ring of gold leaf, reflecting the glow of the chandeliers above. Resting neatly atop it was a set of cutlery, elegantly wrapped within a folded white cloth precise, spotless, and cold. Before dishing her a plate.
A slice of soft honeyed bread, golden and steaming, beside thin cuts of smoked fowl glazed with berry wine. A cluster of frostberries rested at the edge of the plate, their pale-blue hue glistening like dew at dawn.
A crystal goblet followed, filled with a faintly glowing liquid sunfruit nectar, freshly pressed and cool enough to mist the glass. The aroma that rose from the spread was sweet, yet refined a fragrance of luxury that belonged to royalty and no one else.
Seravyn merely stared at the meal for a moment, her reflection warping faintly in the polished silver of the knife.
Before picking up her knife, Seravyn paused fingers brushing against the polished silver, cold from the lingering chill that seeped through the castle's air. The blade glistened under the golden light of the chandelier, every cut of gold and crystal above her casting fractured rays across the table.
She held it delicately, as though it might shatter at her touch, before guiding it down into the honeybread. The knife slid through effortlessly the texture so soft it yielded without resistance. A faint hiss escaped as the crust broke, releasing the scent trapped within.
Warm honey and butter rose into the air, a sweet perfume that clashed against the heavy scent of wine and roasted meat lingering from the Queen's end of the table.
Seravyn's movements were poised, unhurried. Yet behind the stillness of her face, a thousand thoughts stirred quiet, sharp, and far from gentle.
Lifting the fork to her lips, Seravyn paused midway eyes half-lidded as she savored the scent rising from the honeybread. The fragrance was soft yet intoxicating, honey and warm spice melting together into something almost nostalgic.
When she finally tasted it, the sweetness burst across her tongue, rich and golden, the kind of flavor that lingered long after the bite was gone.
"How is it?" Queen Althira asked, her voice smooth and melodic, a soft smile never leaving her face.
Seravyn continued to chew slowly, her expression calm, distant almost as if the question hadn't reached her. She swallowed, wiped the corner of her lips with the napkin beside her plate, and only then turned her gaze toward the queen.
"It's good," Seravyn said finally, her tone cool and detached, "but it could use less honey. It's too sweet."
A flicker of confusion crossed Queen Althira's face. "Really? I thought it was wonderful. But why is that?"
Silence fell between them, stretching thin across the grand dining hall. The maids kept their heads bowed, pretending not to notice the subtle tension rising with the scent of warm bread and spice.
It wasn't unusual for the princess to ignore her mother's questions. Everyone at the table knew this routine the Empress's gentle curiosity, and her daughter's cold indifference. Yet this time, Seravyn wasn't ignoring her. She simply couldn't speak.
Her chest tightened. A faint, unbidden warmth rose to her cheeks. Words tangled somewhere between her heart and her tongue.
Across the table, Queen Althira's jade-green eyes glimmered with quiet amusement, as if she already knew what her daughter was struggling to say.
Meanwhile, the man seated beside her Seravyn's father remained motionless. His gaze stayed fixed on the ornate patterns carved into the marble walls, tracing their curves as though they were the only thing worth looking at. It was an old habit one born of long meals, longer silences, and a home where words often carried more weight than swords.
"Because it isn't good for either of you," Seravyn murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to the plate before her, and a faint blush crept across her pale skin, warming her cheeks.
Queen Althira's jade eyes sparkled with amusement, her grin widening as she leaned slightly forward. "Oh? You're going to have to say that out loud, sweetheart. I couldn't quite hear you," she said, her tone teasing and motherly, coaxing Seravyn to voice her thought while keeping the warmth in her voice. Her consort shifted uncomfortably beside her, sensing that the princess's words were pointed in both their directions.
"Because… it isn't good for either of you,"
The queen could no longer hold back her smile, watching her daughter's face burn bright red with embarrassment.
Seravyn had always been a shy child, never able to show her affections especially whenever he was near. She had grown into a strong and beautiful princess, a true figure of grace and poise, yet deep down, she was still the same young girl, tender and hesitant, hiding her heart behind carefully measured composure.
"Well, both of them," she thought, glancing back at her consort. His gaze stayed fixed on the half-empty plate before him, fingers idly tracing its edge as he fought to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. Words could hardly capture what Seravyn's whispered confession had stirred within him.