Kelana's POV
The courtyard rang with the music of flutes and drums, their notes spiraling upward into the blazing desert sun. Voices rose in cheer, weaving into chants that made the marble walls of the palace tremble. Banners of crimson and gold rippled across the great hall, each one stitched with the sigil of Bhenalia—the all-seeing eye crowned with flame. Servants hurried through corridors with garlands of desert lilies, their fragrance thickening the hot air, while outside, fountains bubbled with crystal water drawn from hidden springs that only the Ring of Authority could summon.
But within the inner chamber, where the sun's heat could not reach, there was only silence.
My mother's hands lingered at my waist as she fastened the golden girdle, her touch firm yet trembling. "Remember," she whispered, voice tight with fear, "it must remain a secret." She tugged the belt tighter, as though by binding me she could bind my truth.
The robe of state, woven from red silk and threaded with molten gold, settled heavily upon my shoulders. Its weight was suffocating, not from fabric, but from expectation. I could barely breathe, yet she pressed forward, smoothing the cloth as though it could shield me.
"Never forget—you are watched at all times. Every step, every word. You must be strong. You must be discerning." Her voice faltered, but she steadied herself, her eyes locked on mine. "The fate of Bhenalia rests on this."
Her gaze—those warm, beautiful brown eyes—was not the gaze of a queen's widow. It was a mother's eyes, brimming with love, but veined with terror. She brushed her palms across my low-cut dreads, her touch soft, lingering as if she feared it was the last time. The chamber smelled faintly of myrrh and desert roses, but beneath it, I smelled her fear.
The day outside was sweltering. The robe clung to my skin, sticky with sweat. Yet nothing weighed heavier than the dread pressing into my chest. Because I knew, even then, this was only a dream.
And dreams fade.
I would never see her again.
The sound of her voice echoed as the world dissolved around me. My eyes opened to moonlight spilling across my chamber, painting silver across the carved pillars and arched ceiling. The laughter and music of the courtyard were gone, replaced by the quiet hum of night. I was no longer twelve, trembling under her gaze. I was twenty now, alone in a golden archer bed fit for a king.
The sheets clung to me, drenched in sweat. My ladies-in-waiting lay scattered on the rugs, their breaths soft with sleep, oblivious to my stirring. I raised my right hand, and there it was—the Ring of Authority. Its golden surface pulsed with a light not of this world, a slow heartbeat that matched my own.
The sight of it pulled me backward, deeper into memory.
I was twelve again. A child forced onto a throne meant for men. My father's death had summoned the council, and the scepter, crown, and ring awaited me on the altar of state. The air was thick with incense and suspicion. I could feel the weight of their eyes—the kings of Kronia and Ludemia, their jaws set in stone, the Estanian emissaries glittering in silk and disdain, the Elloians cloaked in shadow. And my people, my Bhenalians, pressing forward with hope that their peace would not shatter.
The scepter was too heavy for my small arms. The crown slid forward on my head. And the ring…
The ring terrified me.
Stories had been whispered into my ears since childhood. How the Ring chose its bearer. How impostors had been turned to ash, their screams echoing through history. As the priest chanted the incantations of binding, the air in the hall grew sharp, electric. My tiny hands trembled as I reached for it.
"Take it," the priest intoned. "No blood but true royal blood may wear it."
I hesitated. The hall seemed to hold its breath. My heart thundered in my chest.
Then I remembered my mother's voice, soft but commanding, telling me I was more than fear.
With a deep breath, I slid the massive band onto my finger.
It burned at first, searing hot against my skin. I braced for death, for fire, for ash. But instead, the metal shrank, molding to me. Its glow burst forth, filling the chamber with golden light. Gasps rippled through the assembly. Some fell to their knees in awe, others in resentment.
And then the roar rose:
"Heil King Kelan of Bhenalia! Heil the Eye of Vallia!"
Their voices filled the air, shaking the very stone. My arms were trembling from the weight of the scepter, my neck aching beneath the crown, but the Ring pulsed steady and sure. It had chosen me.
I stare at it now, years later, gleaming against my dainty hand. The same glow reflects in my eyes, a golden fire staring back at me in the mirror across my chamber. My mother's voice echoes still. Her warning. Her love. Her fear.
Behind me, one of my ladies stirred. Hertha, ever the lightest sleeper, blinked drowsily at me. "Your Majesty?"
"Go back to sleep," I murmured, lowering my hand. "We have a long day tomorrow."
She obeyed without question, curling beneath her blanket. Soon, her breath was even once more.
But I did not sleep.
Instead, I rose from my bed, letting the cool silk of my robe trail along the floor as I crossed to the open balcony. The gardens stretched beneath me, silver under the moonlight. Water trickled through channels of marble, feeding palms and desert flowers that should never have bloomed in such arid soil. This was the Ring's gift—Bhenalia, a kingdom of strategy and strength, made paradise by its bearer.
Yet beyond our borders, Vallia was not paradise. Kronia sharpened its swords, Estania painted its beauty in silk and envy, Ludemia schemed with books and ink, and Elloia whispered spells into the night. And all their eyes turned here, to me—the woman hidden in a man's crown.
Tomorrow, I would no longer hide.
Tomorrow, I would reveal myself.
Let them rage. Let them conspire. The Ring had chosen me, not them.
And I would burn before I yielded.