The great hall of Asteria trembled with the roar of voices. Sunlight spilled through high-arched windows, striking the marble pillars carved with the emblems of long-dead kings. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, nobles in crimson and sable stood in restless clusters, their jeweled hands gesturing like blades, arguments flashing between them with the heat of battle.
King Thorne sat upon the Lion Throne, shoulders broad yet bowed beneath the weight of duty. The years had turned his beard silver, but his steel-gray eyes still held the storm of a man who refused to bend to despair. Beside him on the dais stood Queen Venice, poised, graceful, her dark hair coiled in a crown of braids, and their son, Prince Ryker, young yet composed, his blue eyes clear and piercing as ice.
"Peace?" thundered Lord Alaric Venyar, his voice booming over the din. "You would speak of peace with Varcia while their banners darken our borders? You call it prudence, I call it weakness!" His storm-gray eyes flicked toward the throne. "We must meet force with resolve, or lose all we are."
From among the ranks, General Valtor stepped forward, broad and calm, his armor catching the sun in quiet gleams. "Lord Alaric," he said, his tone measured, respectful, "our walls stand strong and our soldiers ready. But haste invites folly. Asteria has not yet fallen, nor will she, if wisdom guides her hand."
A low murmur spread across the chamber. Some nodded to Valtor's restraint, others to Alaric's fire.
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Wisdom? Or hesitation? Every hour we wait, King Bani's armies tighten their noose. The Ulvakhan sentries are already at Riversdale. Do we wait until their shadows touch these very walls?"
Before Thorne could answer, Queen Venice's voice rose, calm but firm as tempered steel. "Enough. Your passion does you credit, but it blinds you. Varcia's cruelty is known, but so is its cunning. We cannot strike blindly into the jaws of a power that waits for us to lose composure."
Prince Ryker stepped forward beside her, his hands clasping lightly behind him. "My mother, the Queen speaks truly," he said, his tone clear, steady. "Our strength lies not in who shouts the loudest, but in who endures longest. The Varcians march beneath a single banner, King Bani's. Yet we quarrel beneath our own roof."
Alaric bowed his head slightly, though his words carried weight. "Your Highness, my heart beats only for Asteria. If you believe patience is our sword, I pray it strikes true."
The King's hand struck the armrest with a sharp crack. The hall froze.
"Enough," Thorne growled, his voice deep as thunder. "You speak of banners, but none of you can see the storm gathering. Varcia's strength grows while we drown in talk. Our enemies need not breach our gates, they will let our pride do the work for them."
The nobles fell silent, the echo of his voice rolling through the marble vaults like distant thunder.
Then, slowly, the murmuring began again, soft, uneasy, rising to discord.
Thorne rose, his mantle sweeping behind him, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "If unity cannot be found within these walls," he roared, "then Asteria will fall not by Bani's sword, but by our own division."
The hall erupted anew, voices clashing like steel. And as Thorne's gaze swept over the chaos, a cold certainty settled in his chest, this was how kingdoms began to die.
The uproar thundered through the hall, and outside, the city bells tolled, three slow, ominous chimes.
The great hall's uproar still echoed down the marble corridors as the towering doors closed behind King Thorne. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the residue of pride and fear. Sunlight poured through the high windows, catching in motes of dust that swirled like ghosts of the argument left behind.
Queen Venice followed a few steps behind, her gown whispering against the stone. Regal and composed, she carried herself with the effortless grace of command, though her eyes, clear and sharp as polished glass, betrayed unrest. Prince Ryker strode beside her, tall and lean, his short dark hair neatly styled, every line of his posture measured and composed, his expression tight with thought.
Thorne's boots struck the floor like hammers. "They quarrel while our borders tremble," he said darkly. "Men sworn to defend the crown now hide behind their pride."
"Your Majesty," Venice said softly, her voice as controlled as a drawn bowstring, "the lords are frightened. The beacon burns, and fear blinds more swiftly than any sword."
He turned to her, gray eyes glinting beneath his heavy brow. "Fear is a poor excuse for cowardice."
Venice inclined her head, her tone still formal, deliberate. "Then you must turn their fear into purpose, Your Majesty. A king's wrath can drive men, but his calm steadies them. If you thunder, they will scatter. If you command, they will obey."
Thorne's gaze softened for the briefest heartbeat, but pride quickly hardened it again. "You think I've forgotten how to command?"
"Never, my king," she replied. "But even command must listen before it speaks."
Ryker stepped forward, his voice measured but sure. "Mother is right, Father. The court divides because no one knows what happens beyond the Nagi river. The beacon burns, but no rider has returned. Riversdale could already have fallen."
The King's hands clenched over the carved map table. "Joan holds it," he said. "He'll hold until I say otherwise."
Venice's tone sharpened. "And if the city has fallen, Your Majesty?"
Thorne's jaw tensed. He said nothing.
Ryker moved closer to the table, eyes tracing the inked ridges of Asteria's western borders. "King Bani does not light fires without reason. The Ulvakhan sentries don't move unless Boyar commands. If the beacon burns, it means Varcia is already advancing. We can't wait for a second fire to confirm the first."
Thorne looked at his son, the faintest flicker of reluctant admiration crossing his stern face. "You speak as though you've worn a crown."
Ryker met his gaze evenly. "I speak as a soldier who's seen what hesitation costs."
Venice glanced between them, father and son, pride and resolve in the same flame. "Then what will you do, Your Majesty?" she asked quietly.
Thorne drew a long breath. "I will call the banners."
A knock shattered the tense silence. A courtier stepped inside, bowing low, his face ashen. "Your Majesty," he said, voice trembling, "word from the southern front, Varcia's forces press deeper. Riversdale holds no longer. The outer cities have fallen."
King Thorne's eyes turned to ice. "So," he said quietly, the words edged with fury, "the serpent does not wait at our gates, it coils within our lands already."
And the chamber fell deathly still, as if even the walls dared not breathe.
The garden lay hushed beneath the pale morning sun, its vines curling over the stone arches like quiet witnesses. Aria's steps slowed as she slipped through the old gate. She didn't need to look around, Franz was already there, waiting in the small clearing where the lilacs grew thick, just as he always did.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come," he said softly, turning toward her with that same half-smile that undid her resolve.
"You make it sound as though I ever miss," she murmured, brushing a petal from her sleeve to hide her unease.
Their gazes met, and for a heartbeat, the world shrank to the fragile space between them. Franz's eyes, bright and searching, held no trace of the fear that plagued the city beyond the palace walls. He reached for her hand, tentative but certain, as though the act itself could steady the world.
"Riversdale has fallen," Aria said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "The council will not say it, but I heard my father speaking with the generals."
Franz's fingers tightened around hers. "Then all the more reason to hold on to what still lives." His voice trembled between conviction and tenderness. "If peace is dying, Aria, then let us at least keep the truth of what we feel alive."
Her throat tightened. "You speak as if feelings could mend kingdoms."
"Perhaps they can't," he said, leaning closer, "but they might mend us."
For a fleeting moment, she laughed, a soft, trembling sound that barely reached the hedges around them. Franz echoed her, his laughter just as fragile, just as desperate to pretend that nothing outside those walls existed.
Then it came, a long, distant horn, echoing over the gardens. The sound made the doves take flight. Aria froze, her hand still in his.
Franz's smile faltered. "That wasn't part of the morning drills."
Before either could speak again, a rider's cry carried faintly from the palace courtyard, urgent, breaking t
hrough the stillness.
The world they had built in secret began to crumble, one breath at a time.