The hall of Caelthorne was drowning in eyes.
Spectators packed the chamber, velvet-robed nobles whispering behind jeweled hands, guards stiff as statues, servants straining for a glimpse. Above them, banners of black and gold sagged heavy in the torchlight, as though weighed down by centuries of blood.
All of them watched her. Elaris Caelthorne. Daughter of the mad king. First of her name to wear the crown.
Her steps echoed sharp against the marble as she climbed toward the throne. Each sound ricocheted like judgment.
The throne waited — obsidian carved into jagged fangs, silver veins glimmering faintly as though something inside still lived. Every noble in that room pretended not to fear it. Pretended it was only a chair. But she felt it staring back.
From below, a scream tore through the hush. Chains rattled like thunder.
King Osric — her father, once feared, now broken — was dragged through the hall in shackles. His hair hung wild, his eyes fever-bright. He thrashed against his guards, spit flying as he bellowed:
"Do not sit! Elaris—child—do not touch that throne! She is coming!"
Laughter cracked from the nobles' ranks, cruel and shrill.
"Madness."
"The king raves."
"Crown her quick, before his madness spreads."
But Elaris faltered. Her gaze darted to him—her father's eyes, not mad but sharp for a heartbeat, pleading—before the guards dragged him into shadow.
And then she saw her.
At the dais's edge stood the Queen — Osric's wife, her stepmother — dressed in crimson silk that bled down the stairs. While the nobles scoffed at Elaris, while her father screamed and begged, the Queen only smiled. Cold. Sharp. The smile of someone watching a game she had already won.
Her brothers stood behind that smile.
Alaric, the eldest, lips curling faintly, already imagining the crown stolen.
Darius, the middle, bored eyes but knuckles white with suppressed hunger.
Corven, the youngest, smirk sharp as a blade, delighting in her falter.
And the nobles… their murmurs rose like insects buzzing:
"She is weak."
"A woman cannot rule."
"She will not last the season."
The steps stretched higher. Her breath grew thin. Still—she climbed.
When her hand finally met the black stone, the air cracked. Ice shot through her veins. Voices surged, hundreds, thousands, shrieking, whispering, laughing. She stumbled into the seat, crown slipping onto her brow.
"At last."
A woman's voice, velvet and venom, filled her skull.
Elaris gasped, eyes wide. "Who—?" She turned to the court, searching, desperate. "Did you hear that? The throne—it spoke—"
No one stirred. Only silence. Then cruel laughter.
"Like her father."
"Madness in the blood."
"Unfit to rule."
Her stepmother's smile deepened. Her brothers' smirks sharpened. The nobles sneered.
Only she could hear it.
And the voice whispered again, close as breath on her ear:
"Hush, little queen. Do not be afraid you are one of us now."
Shadows rippled from the throne's base, curling like chains around her feet. She gripped the armrests, trembling, while the court watched with scorn, blind to the darkness licking at her skin.
The reign of House Caelthorne began that night not with triumph, not with mourning—
—but with a crown of whispers that only she could hear.