The Emperor's gaze didn't ease. The court remained heavy.
Murmurs didn't even have the strength to rise. One question weighed on every mind present:
*Is the killer still here?*
The silence of the closed book had just begun to press when the doors of the throne hall slammed open.
Ana, betrothed of the fallen Fifth Prince, stumbled across the threshold. Her cheeks were pale, her breath ragged, silk hems muddied from her haste. She dropped into a hurried curtsy, but her trembling knees betrayed her.
"May the spirit, light, and nature guide you! I greet the Emperor!"
The Emperor's brow furrowed at the young princess's entrance.
"Speak, child."
"Your Majesties—" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as though holding her heart inside. "The First Princess—"
Her voice broke, choked by terror and breath.
Every eye sharpened. The courtiers leaned forward; the hush in the hall was so deep the torches themselves seemed to still.
But before Ana could finish, a chair scraped back with startling force.
The Crown Prince rose in one swift motion, cloak flaring like wings. His face betrayed nothing — no fear, no question, only cold purpose.
And in the heartbeat it took the court to register his movement, he was gone. His valet followed without hesitation, footsteps echoing in perfect rhythm.
He limped past her with such force that her skirts snapped in his wake, the draft nearly knocking her from her knees.
Her eyes widened, head whipping around just in time to see him vanish through the great doors — his silent valet at his heels.
The heavy doors slammed in their wake, the thunderclap rolling through the hall like judgment itself.
A tremor passed through the gathered court. Gasps, then rising voices:
"What did she mean?"
"The First Princess—what of her?"
"Why does the heir run before she speaks?"
But Ana could only stare at the doors, chest heaving, as though the truth itself had been dragged out with him.
---
Chamber of the Dead
Concubine Auren staggered through the dim corridor, her steps uneven, her veil torn loose from her frantic flight out of the court. No guards stopped her, no hand dared reach to steady her — not when grief had carved her face into something unrecognizable.
The chamber of the dead was heavy with incense, though no smoke could blot out the stench beneath. Rows of bodies lay shrouded in linen, the silence thicker than any prayer.
She pushed past the attendants, her hands clawing at the sheets until she found him.
Her son.
The Fourth Prince, Aiden.
The cloth slipped from his face, and the world fell apart.
His skull was split where it had struck the marble. Dried blood traced down his temple like rust. His eyes—were gone, gouged out, leaving only hollow pits that no crown, no vow, no prayer could ever fill again.
Auren crumpled. Her knees struck the cold floor as a sound tore from her throat, jagged and animal. Not a wail fit for courtly ears — but the cry of a mother who had carried life in her belly, only to kneel now before the husk of it.
She touched his hair with shaking fingers, brushing back strands as though he were still the child she once rocked to sleep. Her sobs shook her thin frame, breaking into laughter that bordered on madness.
"I took you away," she gasped. "I kept you safe… you were never meant to fight them, never meant to—" Her voice cracked, lips trembling as if each word cut her. "How could they touch you? How could they take you?"
Her forehead pressed to his chest, her tears soaking the blood-stained cloth. For a moment, she stayed like that, as if willing her warmth into the cold body.
Then she pulled back, eyes wild, broken light glinting in them.
"I'll join you, soon."
---
East Wing — First Princess Chamber
Lyra crouched by the doorframe, clutching the last prince tight against her chest. The boy sobbed into her collar, his small fists trembling, while her own tears slipped soundless down her cheeks.
She and Ana had met the last prince racing out of the first princess's chamber in tears, almost tripping over his little feet.
Inside, the First Princess writhed upon the bed, gagging, choking, her cries torn between shrieks and strangled gasps. Her limbs beat against the sheets in violent spasms. Her eyes — gone milk-white — rolled back until only the whites showed, and foam touched her lips. She choked, her body jerking with each convulsion.
As her screams cracked across the hallway, the little prince's tears heightened.
As Lyra held him tighter, the door crashed open.
The Crown Prince burst into view, cloak a blur, presence like a storm. He halted at the doorway. Time seemed to slow. His gaze collided with Lyra's. She flinched as if struck, clutching the child tighter. In that instant, the chamber became a painting: the trembling betrothed, the sobbing boy, the broken princess writhing on the bed.
The last prince gasped in recognition.
"Elder brother!"
Kaelin tore his gaze from the princess to the last prince — seeing him for the second time ever. The little prince, breathing stress and horror into just four years of life.
He moved again. Past Lyra. Past the boy. Into the storm. The door shuddered with the force of his passage, and in three strides he was at his sister's side. His palm closed over her thrashing head, hoping her stillness remained despite her waddle.
For a breath, nothing. Just the ragged sound of her choking.
The last prince's tears subsided; he gazed hopefully at the scene.
Then — silence. Her body slackened beneath his touch, eyelids fluttering shut. Unconscious.
The door creaked again; his valet slipped into the chamber, bowing his head, waiting.
The prince did not bother to catch his sister as she slid from his grasp, her form collapsing against the linens. He only straightened, turning slowly toward his shadow-servant.
"Ryker,"
And on his face — an expression not of relief, nor grief, but something far darker. A grin twisted with pain and delight both, teeth bared like he'd swallowed fire and welcomed the burn.
His voice, low and razor-edged, filled the chamber.
"I've found the bastard."
TBC…