ALORA
Breakfast in the Sunrise Hall was always a quiet ritual, but this morning it felt like a performance staged solely for her, every dish arranged to perfection, every servant moving with the soft-footed precision of dancers. Silver trays caught the early light, scattering gold across the long table.
The air was thick with aromas: warm honeyed bread, flaky lemon pastries dusted with sugar, roasted beef glazed with berry-wine, spiced pears soaked overnight in mulled syrup, pan fried river trout drizzled with orange butter, soft cheese mixed with herbs, a small steaming golden kettle accompanied by small empty golden cups, and of course, the queen's favoured garlic spinach.
Food is the authentic way to my daughter's heart. Her father used to say. And now, that notion had to be put to the test.
Alora rose only long enough to offer her mother a morning kiss on the cheek before sinking back into her cushioned seat.
"Eat, my sweet," Queen Roselyn urged, her tone as gentle as her hand, which moved in slow circles around her teacup. Her voice was tender, but there was a hint of breathlessness beneath it; the prince inside her womb had softened her rhythm these last months. "Today is the first step toward the rest of your life."
Alora forced a small smile and cut into her pear.
"And the rest of the kingdom's life, I suppose," she murmured.
Her mother's eyes, soft blue and always filled with warmth, dimmed slightly. "You are not wrong. But do not look at it as a burden," she added quickly; "Duty becomes bearable when you understand its purpose."
Alora hesitated, steadying her voice. "Mother… do you ever think it unfair? That I must choose a husband not because I love him, but because the Kingdom of Erddarn needs me to?" Queen Roselyn set her cup down with the faintest clink.
"My darling," she said, "every princess or queen carries both love and duty, but rarely in equal measure." Her voice softened. "And sometimes, the Creator bestows both in a single individual. I pray He does for you."
Alora studied her mother's face as she spoke, the flawless composure, the grace that hid old wounds. She was familiar with the tale of Roselyn of Pennivar's almost marriage to some fat rich lord across the Dreadwake sea, her thoughts of fleeing, and how Prince Arlen's invitation to meet her prevented her doom. Roselyn always repeated the story with pride, but underneath the happiness there was guilt, sorrow for not providing sons, guilt for placing the weight of succession on her daughter's shoulders.
"Mother," Alora said softly, "I am not angry. I only… I wish I could choose, or have a happy ending, the way you did with father."
Roselyn hesitated, then reached across the table and took Alora's hand.
"You will choose," she said firmly. "Your father gave you that sacred right. A princess who selects her own consort in the name of the Creator, wins the love of the realm." Her thumb brushed Alora's hand. "And keep in mind, you are not marrying anyone today." she said with a warm smile on her face.
Alora snorted. "Tell that to the visiting lords, who will be rehearsing their wedding vows in their heads."
Roselyn chuckled despite herself. "Some will be imbeciles, yes. But there will be good men among them. Sons raised with honor. Young lords who want more than your station." "Do they exist?" Alora teased.
"Perhaps one or two," her mother answered with a knowing smile.
A knock interrupted their gentle mood. A servant girl, Mira, Alora's favourite, stepped in, cheeks flushed red and eyes bright with excitement.
"Your Grace, Princess," she curtsied breathlessly, "the Great Road and the Crownway are filling already. Carriages and banners. They say half the realm will arrive by nightfall!"
Alora brightened. "Already? The festivities don't begin until tomorrow."
"Yes, princess. And there are… rumors spreading." Alora exchanged a look with her mother.
"Rumors of what, child?" Queen Roselyn asked.
Mira hesitated. "About the star that fell last night. Some say it was a dragon's egg. Others say the Creator's own flame touched the earth. And some…" She swallowed. "Some say it is an omen of doom."
Roselyn stiffened. "Superstitious drivel. And dangerous drivel." But Alora felt a shiver, one she couldn't explain.
"Where do they say it fell?" she asked.
"Near the Isle of Wisdom, princess."
Roselyn waved a hand. "The scholars will send a message bird soon enough. The truth will come from them, not from roadside gossip."
But Mira had not finished yet.
"There's more," she added. "Lady Tarrek's carriage has been spotted crossing the Creg. They say it's as grand as the king's own."
Alora's lips curved. "Lady Tarrek always did enjoy making an entrance." Roselyn sighed. "That woman will outshine the sun if given the chance." They shared a good laughter.
Alora excused herself shortly after breakfast. She wanted air, wanted space. The Sunrise Hall sat near the highest point of the royal keep, and from the south-facing balcony she could see far beyond the city walls. Tydoria shimmered below, white stone towers rising like spears toward the sky, red-tiled roofs lined up in straight streets, banners of blue and gold flapping in the wind.
The Silverflow River glinted in the bright rays of the morning sun, winding toward the sea. From this height, she could see the open waters- vast, bright, endless. Sunlight danced across the waves like scattered diamonds. And a bit further, she could see ships emerging and vanishing over the horizon, the view was stunning.
It was almost a daily routine that the princess would always find herself at the balcony during sunrise, catching the morning air. She never got enough of it. But she was slowly growing tired of the royal palace, and having to go no further than a mile from the city walls. She longed for an adventure into the woods, or up the Grey mountains, it's not too far, she thought. She remembered when she was nine, when she once snuck out of the city with Mallwin, a boy from the slums of the city. They went no far than the elm trees near the Hyda waterfalls. It was Sir Garion, the king's finest knight, who caught them before they could vanish into the Mistwood. Alora was eighteen now and she knew it would be folly to try and do that again. But at the least, the next two weeks are going to be joyous. The thought brightened up her mood.
She glanced to the south-eastern side of the city, toward the festival grounds- alive with hundreds of workers erecting pavilions, stands, and tall wooden frames for the royal family and the royal banners. Long wooden terraces were being fashioned with flowers and vibrant colours.
Tydoria was alive. And for a moment, she felt alive with it.
Her father found her there.
"Penny for your thoughts?" King Arlen asked, resting a hand on the stone railing beside her.
She turned and smiled at him, the smile she reserved only for him.
"You don't carry pennies, Father."
"That's true," he admitted. "I suppose you'll have to share them for free."
Early silver streaked his dark hair more than the previous year, but his eyes remained warm, steady, and full of the iron that echoed his house's name.
"I heard about the star," she said. "And the rumors."
The king sighed. "I hoped to shield you from that nonsense for at least one morning."
Alora studied his face. "Is it nonsense, father?"
A long silence passed.
"I don't know," he finally said, and the honesty surprised her. "But I've sent Sir Garion and thirty of my finest soldiers to the Isle of Wisdom, as well as scouts to the Creg and Stoneguard. And riders toward the Mistwood. By nightfall, we will know if we're dealing with an omen or a spectacle."
She frowned. "Are you worried?"
"I am a king in a time of peace." He replied with a weary smile. "I am always worried." He touched her cheek briefly.
"Your mother tells me you're nervous."
She groaned softly. "Is everyone in this castle spying on my nerves?"
"I only spy on the important ones," he said. "Alora… you do not need to choose a husband to please me. You choose for the kingdom, yes. But I trust your judgment. I always have."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What if I choose someone unworthy?" "Then I shall send his head back to his father and tell you to try again." She burst out laughing.
"Father!"
He grinned. "What? I said, you may choose. I didn't say I'd accept mediocrity."
She laughed even harder; her father had always known how to make her laugh. Perhaps mediocrity is all I want.
"Your birthday is in two days." She said instead.
He snorted. "I'm getting old, and all these people are here to cheer for it." "And mine is next week," she teased.
"Now that's the one to look forward to," he countered. "Yours have always been splendid. The realm loves you, and I dare say this one will be for the history books."
She smiled against his shoulder; "They love you too, father."
The morning turned into midday, and the festive grounds had transformed entirely. The soft, warm light of the morning had sharpened into a warm, bright sun that bathed the festival tents and garlands in vibrant color. Musicians had taken their places, filling the air with lively trills of pipes and tambourines, and the scent of honey-cakes drifted between the wandering crowds.
Artists from Pennivar, her mother's homeland, raised tall displays of painted glass and windchimes crafted from sea-shells.
Mud brown and deep blue market tents sprang up along the Great Road. Smoky grills roasted Pennivari spiced meats hung in some tents, ready to be devoured by those with enough coin to pay. Venders and merchants from Stonehaven and villages near the city brought crates of salted fish, and hundreds more of various fruits. Blacksmiths were setting up their own tents. Children ran through the crowds, waving wooden swords.
Carriages, grand and small, arrived endlessly. Some lords brought near-armies of retainers. More nobles arrived by the hour, banners embroidered with lions, eagles, serpents, horses, flames, and blooming trees. Tydoria became a tapestry of colours.
The festival grounds outside the city looked like a growing city of their own, scaffolds rising, cooks setting up fire pits, jugglers and dancers rehearsing under colorful awnings.
Alora walked among them with her ladies-in-waiting, though escorted discreetly by knights. People loved her well, they bowed, smiled, offered flowers, some waved, whispering blessings. She returned them all with grace, though her heart thudded with nerves.
Everywhere she went, she heard talk of the fallen star.
"A dragon egg!" one man declared.
"Nonsense! The Creator sent a sign!" another argued.
"A sign of what?" a woman challenged.
"Of doom," an old crone croaked. "The last time a star fell, the rivers bled red for months."
She remembered the stories about her father's wars, how he waged a bloody war against his usurpers after a comet shone across the skies days before the first battle.
Alora tried not to let the words stick.
She left the celebration grounds and started back to the city.
When she returned to the keep, the courtyard was in an uproar.
"She has arrived!" someone shouted.
Lady Tarrek of Greymark.
Her carriage glimmered like a captured moon, white stone panels encrusted with silver vines. Four pale steeds pulled it, hooves striking sparks as they galloped along the stone pavements of the city. Behind it rode knights bearing the heraldries of Greymark.
The lady of Greymark emerged first, tall, ethereal, dressed in silver silks layered with midnight-blue fur. Gemstones braided into her golden hair caught the light like tiny stars. She looked magnificent.
But it was the woman behind her who drew true unease.
The witch.
A slender figure in a deep violet clock, silver-lashed eyes unreadable, presence unsettling.
When her gaze swept across the courtyard, many flinched. The witch of Snowpine Forest had arrived in Tydoria for the first time.
There was a strange closeness between the two women, Lady Tarrek stood nearer to her than etiquette required. The witch's hand brushed the lady's arm when she stepped down. They exchanged a small look, and Lady Tarrek was giving orders to one of her fourteen knights.
Whispers fluttered instantly amongst the people who had gathered to see them arrive.
"Is that her advisor… or a paramor?" one whispered.
"Greymark witches don't travel lightly, and certainly not this far south." another broke in with a low voice.
Alora found herself oddly intrigued. She ignored the murmuring around her. Lady Tarrek approached her last, after greeting her father and the other high nobles with graceful courtesy.
"Princess Alora," she said, bowing perfectly. "The realm has sung of your beauty for years. Today, I see they undersold you."
Alora blushed. "You are very kind, my lady. Tydoria welcomes you."
"Greymark is honored to be here," she replied with a certain smile, "and my compliments to your birthday celebrations." Alora returned the smile.
The maid servants escorted them to the visitor's chambers, but before they went, the king told the lady from the north that he would require her presence in the royal council meeting after dusk.
She glanced toward some of the council members who had gathered near the stairs- Lord Vayn, loyal to a fault; Lord Halden, whose smile never reached his eyes; Lady Merewyn, sharp-tongued but fiercely devoted.
The hour had grown late, and Alora stepped through the palace gates, brushing travel dust from her cloak. She meant to return quietly to her rooms, perhaps steal an hour of sleep before court… but the moment she entered the royal wing, the corridors were a storm.
Servants rushed to and fro with linens, hot water, bandages. Guards stood uselessly at their posts. Someone was crying, and someone else was praying.
The air crackled with fear. Alora caught the sleeve of a chambermaid.
"What's happened?"
"The queen, my princess," the girl whispered breathlessly. "Her pains began before dawn. Early, too early, the master-healer was summoned, but he was at Stoneguard tending Lord Gowen's plague-sick men. They sent a rider for him, but—"
A scream tore down the hall, sharp enough to lift the hairs on Alora's arms.
Alora didn't think; she ran.
She shouldered past veiled attendants and pushed open the carved doors to her mother's chamber. Heat and incense washed over her at once. Someone had drawn the great curtains tight. Candles flickered like a hundred trembling stars around the queen's sweating form.
Queen Roselyn lay propped on pillows, face pale and drenched, breath coming in ragged sobs. Beside her stood Lady Saffina, her longtime companion, perfectly composed despite the chaos, muttering words of encouragement.
The queen seized Alora's wrist as she stepped close.
"My love," the queen gasped. "Stay, stay with me."
"I'm here, mother... I'm here" Alora whispered, brushing damp curls from her mother's brow. "All will be well."
There was a complication, the babe in the queen's womb was in a breech position.
An instant turned into an hour, then grueling hours. The midwives tried everything- herbs, cold cloths, whispered prayers. The queen's cries grew hoarse, her strength leaving her slowly.
"She's weakening," one midwife gasped.
As if summoned by desperation, the door burst open.
Lady Tarrek swept in breathless; and she had changed into a grey gown embroidered with thorn flowers, seemingly ready for the council as the king requested earlier on. Behind her came the witch- calm, and silent. Her dark eyes piercing through the midwives in the room.
The room grew quiet, except for the queen, who was in great pain.
The witch moved not with haste, but with purpose; her measured, almost gentle gestures displayed an authority that made every midwife obey immediately.
"Clear the space," she said softly. The entire room obeyed.
Alora felt a shiver crawl up her spine. She held her mother's hand tightly as if to give her part of her strength. The witch's hands worked with unnerving precision, and she was whispering words no one in the room could expound. Her voice remained low, steady, almost soothing, as she guided the queen through each wave of pain.
Lady Tarrek hardly spoke, standing behind her, watching with an expression Alora couldn't comprehend.
A few moments passed, then the witch leaned forward, tone changing, quiet but certain.
"It is time," she murmured. "He is ready." A final cry tore from the queen's throat.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then, a sharp, fierce wail.
Relief broke over the room like sunlight after a storm.
"A son," the witch announced, lifting the child for all to see. Her smile was faint and enigmatic. "Healthy, strong."
Roselyn collapsed back onto her pillows, sobbing with joy.
Alora pressed a hand to her mouth, laughter and tears tangled in her throat. A son.
A living prince. An heir at last.
The realm would breathe easier now. And so would she.
Her father's line had been secured. The burden that had weighed on her shoulders since girlhood, the constant murmurs of alliances, the pressure to wed for the crown's sake, eased as if someone had finally lifted a stone from her chest.
She could choose now. Choose whom to love, or whether to love at all. She was free.
The witch placed the new-born in Roselyn's arms, then stepped back to stand next to Lady Tarrek, whose face bore teary eyes and a delighted smile.
Alora shivered. She did not know why.
But she turned to her mother and brother, to their soft murmurs and tears of joy, and let herself smile.
Outside the chamber, bells began to ring, slow and triumphant, announcing to the capital that the king had his long-awaited heir.
And far to the north, beyond the Grey Mountains, a pillar of smoke still curled toward the sky.
"Creator guide you, brave Sir Garion," Alora whispered into the wind. "Let it all be nothing more than frightened whispers."