Morning arrived in the royal capital, but it brought no warmth.
Dark clouds covered the sky like a heavy curtain, turning the golden towers of the palace into silent silhouettes. The bells that had rung all night finally fell quiet, leaving behind an uneasy stillness that spread through the streets.
People were waiting.
Waiting for an announcement.
Waiting for hope.
Rumors had already begun to move like shadows between market stalls and tavern doors. Some spoke of a brilliant hero who had descended in divine light. Others whispered of disaster inside the palace walls.
No one knew the truth.
Inside the royal court, the truth was being buried.
King Rodem sat upon his throne, his posture rigid as iron. Around him, ministers and nobles argued in low, urgent voices. Scrolls filled with emergency plans lay scattered across the marble floor like fallen leaves.
"We must control the narrative," one minister insisted.
"If the citizens learn that the summoning failed, panic will spread."
"It did not fail," another corrected nervously.
"It succeeded… in the worst possible way."
A wave of uncomfortable silence followed.
The High Priest stood near the hall's massive stained-glass windows, staring out at the city below. He could see people gathering in the plazas, praying toward the palace as if salvation would soon step onto the balcony.
He felt the weight of their faith like chains around his heart.
"They deserve the truth," he said quietly.
King Rodem did not respond immediately.
He had not slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of the old man collapsing onto the summoning circle. He heard again the divine crystal's declaration — absolute confirmation that the frail stranger had been chosen by the gods themselves.
Yet reality refused to bend to divine intention.
"A kingdom cannot survive on truth alone," the king finally replied.
"It survives on strength."
Princess Elmia stood near the foot of the throne, her hands clasped tightly before her. She had spent the early hours of the morning visiting the city gates, listening to soldiers describe the approaching demon forces.
The world outside was falling apart.
And somewhere beyond the frontier, the man they had summoned was facing death alone.
"Father," she said softly, "what will we tell the people?"
King Rodem exhaled slowly.
"We will tell them the hero is undergoing sacred preparation," he answered.
"That he has been chosen and will soon appear."
A murmur of agreement spread through the nobles. It was a lie, but it was a necessary one — a fragile wall against the tide of despair.
The High Priest turned sharply.
"Your Majesty, deception will only deepen our sin. The divine law—"
"The divine law does not defend our borders," the king interrupted.
"Our soldiers do."
The argument ended there.
Outside the palace, royal messengers were already being dispatched. Their voices carried across the plazas like proclamations of destiny.
"The hero has been summoned!
He prepares even now to lead us to victory!"
Cheers erupted among the crowds.
Mothers embraced their children. Merchants reopened their shops. Soldiers lifted their heads with renewed determination.
Hope returned.
But inside the palace, it felt like a funeral.
Princess Elmia watched the celebration from a high balcony. The wind tugged at her silver hair as she gazed toward the distant northern horizon.
"I hope… he is still alive," she whispered.
Below her, the kingdom rejoiced in a miracle that had already been cast aside.
Far beyond the city walls, snow continued to fall upon a silent wasteland stained red.
The shame of the kingdom had only just begun.