The morning rose pale and cold, its light spilling across the long dining table where a sealed letter awaited. Francis broke the wax and read aloud:
Colden's brothers would arrive at the castle by nightfall. The words carried weight, heavier than the frost that clung to the windows.
Preparations began at once. New glasses were polished until they gleamed, winery bottles were brought out from the cellars, and the kitchens roared with activity. Glinda, her rough and fragile hands moving tirelessly, worked to complete the main course.
She moved with precision, her scars catching the light as she chopped, stirred, and plated. The day was hectic, every servant pulled into the storm of readiness.
Carmine longed to check on Elaine, but the demands of the palace left her no time. The girl's silence weighed on her mind, yet duty chained her to Isabelle's endless rituals and the brothers' impending arrival.
Colden, meanwhile, stood on the brink of collapse. His mind spun with questions. Should he accept the crown and rule, stepping into the role his mother demanded? Or should he ask for more time, to think, to breathe, perhaps even to speak with Marco?
But Marco was beyond reach, locked away in the town's disdain, and Colden could not leave the castle walls.
The tension pressed against him until memory broke through. He saw himself as a child, running through the palace halls, waiting for his father to call him to bed.
He remembered the king's voice, elusive and enchanting, weaving bedtime stories that carried him into sleep. And always, at the end, his father would say: "Whatever you do, son, just remember that I will always be proud of you."
The words echoed now, stronger than Isabelle's commands, stronger than the whispers of doubt. Colden's chest tightened, but clarity followed. His decision was made.
By nightfall, when his brothers arrived, he would have his answer.
To be continued…