That day passed under uneasy skies. Word of Queen Isabella's death spread across the kingdoms like wildfire. Courtiers whispered in corners, servants carried rumors through halls, and messengers rode day and night between castles.
Some called it divine justice. Others whispered that it was a curse — that anyone who touched the Crimson Kira would meet the same fate.
By evening, the royal family gathered for supper in the Great Hall. The long oak table glittered with golden dishes, but no one had any appetite.
King Francis sat at the head, his face pale under the candlelight. "There will be no celebrations tonight," he said. "Her death does not mean victory. It only means that the game has changed."
Prince Charles leaned forward. "Do you think her court will fall apart now that she's gone?"
Francis shook his head slowly. "Power doesn't die, Charles. It merely shifts. Someone else will rise to claim it."
As he spoke, the doors opened. Famoura entered, dressed in white silk, her long hair loose over her shoulders. She looked fragile but composed — like a ghost of the woman she'd been before the war. Every head turned toward her.
Henry rose halfway from his seat. "You should still be resting," he said softly.
Famoura smiled faintly. "I've rested enough."
She took her seat beside her mother, lowering her eyes to her plate though she barely touched her food. No one noticed how her fingers brushed lightly over the silver pendant at her neck — the one that once bore the seal of the Crimson Kira.
---
Later that night, the castle lay silent. The torches along the courtyard flickered in the wind. Prince Henry wandered alone through the moonlight, his thoughts heavy.
He stopped before the old well, staring down into its dark depths. The water below glimmered faintly, still and cold.
"I know you're hiding something, Famoura," he whispered into the night. "I can see it in your eyes. What did you really do with that book?"
The wind stirred softly, and for a moment, he thought he heard a whisper — a woman's voice, faint and echoing through the air:
The curse mirrors truth… but truth always demands its price.
Henry shuddered. He turned away from the well, his cloak sweeping the ground. Deep inside, he knew — the war was not over. The enemy might be gone, but something darker lingered… something born not of politics, but of blood.