The wooden crate arrived before the sun had properly risen, carried in on shaking hands and the hush of soldiers who knew something sacred had broken.
They left it on the marble steps of Vareen's council hall and waited as if waiting could make the world less obscene. When the lid was eased open, the smell struck first — iron and cold.
Inside lay Corin, Elara's driver. The one who'd taken her to the Alderian Palace the night she vanished.
His face was grey, his jaw slack; his throat showed bruises like a dark ribbon. Folded beside him, stained and heavy with something that looked too much like truth, was a scrap of deep blue velvet: the Alderian insignia threaded in silver.
On his chest lay a folded sheet of parchment, soaked through but legible.
Alden's hand shook as he read.
Your princess is with me, tread carefully,
or the next body you receive will wear a crown.
The words echoed through the marble chamber like gunfire. The Queen gasped and covered her mouth. Guards crossed themselves. Ministers exchanged glances filled with horror and something worse — certainty.
"The prince was the last one seen with her," someone muttered. "The Alderian prince."
"The photos are everywhere," another whispered. "They were seen together. Alone."
King Alden's gaze hardened. "So they think to mock us," he hissed. "Alderia wants war."
"No," said his wife softly. "They want blood."
Outside, the palace bells began to toll, summoning the council. Within the hour, the image of the bloodstained crate was all over the Vareen networks — and the rumors spread like fire across kingdoms.
In Alderia, panic had no voice — only the steady hum of denial.
The morning light fell cold and colorless across the palace courtyard. Queen Isabella Vale sat rigid in the council chamber, staring at the headlines flashing across the holo-screens.
"VAREEN DRIVER FOUND DEAD — BODY RETURNED WITH THREAT NOTE."
"Alderia's Crown Prince Last Seen with Missing Princess."
"Did Love Turn to Murder?"
Every word was poison.
King Edmund slammed his fist on the table. "They're accusing my son of abduction — and now of murder! I'll not have Alderia insulted like this."
"The evidence says otherwise," murmured a councilor. "The images were leaked this morning."
Adrian's photograph flickered across the screen — him and Elara in the palace garden, faces drawn close, words unspoken between them. In the next image, she's leaving alone, cloak drawn tight. The timestamps were clear. The narrative, damning.
Queen Isabella turned her gaze toward her son. "Adrian."
He didn't move.
He sat at the end of the long table, hair disheveled, eyes hollow. The weight of a dying kingdom sat heavy on his shoulders.
"Say something," his mother pressed. "Tell them it isn't true."
"I already did," he said quietly. "No one believes it."
"Then make them believe it." Her tone softened. "If you know something—anything—that can help bring her back, tell us now."
Adrian's hands clenched on the table. "You think I hurt her."
"I think," Isabella said slowly, "that you're not telling me everything."
Silence wrapped around them.
He looked up at her then — eyes glassy, rimmed in exhaustion. "Would it matter if I did?"
The Queen's throat tightened. "It would matter to me."
The King turned away, pacing. "They'll demand her return, whether we have her or not. And if we cannot produce her—"
"They'll come for him," the Queen finished bitterly. "Their lost princess for our fallen prince."
By afternoon, mobs gathered outside both palaces.
Screens replayed the garden footage on endless loops. Commentators dissected every look, every movement, every breath between the missing princess and her disgraced ex-fiancé.
"She went willingly."
"He lured her in."
"The driver tried to intervene."
Rumors, all of them — but no one cared for truth anymore.
Inside his quarters, Adrian stood by the window, watching the crowd below chant his name like a curse. His reflection looked like a stranger's.
"Prince Adrian," his aide whispered, entering hesitantly, "the council… they're demanding an inquiry. Your presence."
"Of course they are." He gave a bitter laugh. "They always come for the crown first."
The aide hesitated, then lowered his voice. "They also say the next threat might not be a bluff. If the note meant what it said—"
Adrian turned, eyes burning. "Then someone else will die before they find the truth."
Across the palace, Queen Isabella stood alone in the chapel, staring at the stained glass image of Saint Arden — the martyr king. Her rosary trembled between her fingers.
"Please, let this be some cruel trick," she whispered. "Not my son. Not again."
Behind her, the candles flickered — once, twice — as if the air itself trembled with unseen movement.
By nightfall, both kingdoms were on the brink.
Vareen demanded answers. Alderia denied guilt.
Armies stirred. Diplomats fled.
And somewhere, in a room no one dared to enter, a single candle burned beside a wall of photographs — of Elara, of Adrian, of Corin, of the two royal crests entangled in blood-red string.
A soft, almost amused voice broke the silence.
"One move closer," it murmured. "And the game begins."
The candlelight flickered, catching on the edge of a silver ring.
And somewhere deep within the Alderian palace, a shadow smiled —
because everything was going exactly as planned.