The capital city of Aethelgard was a place of sharp contrasts. While the palace glowed like a fallen star on the hill, the lower districts were a labyrinth of narrow alleys, smelling of damp stone, burnt coal, and the lingering scent of rain-soaked earth. Here, the shadows were longer, and the dreams were smaller.
In a small, cramped apothecary shop tucked between a weaver and a blacksmith, Aara stood over a bubbling ceramic pot. The steam from the boiling herbs—lavender and dried roots—clung to her skin like a warm veil. Her hands, stained slightly green from crushing leaves, were steady, but her mind was elsewhere.She brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead, her eyes reflecting the dim orange glow of the hearth. Outside, the world was in chaos. For three days, the King's heralds had been shouting news of the fallen Queen Lyra. The city was buzzing with fear and excitement, but to Aara, the palace was a different world—a dangerous, golden cage.
"Aara, you need to hide," a voice crackled from the back of the shop.
It was Caleb. He emerged from the shadows, his face lined with the weariness of a man who had spent his life protecting a secret too heavy for his shoulders. He was clutching a tattered shawl in his calloused hands.
"The King's men... they aren't just looking for noblewomen, Aara," Caleb whispered, his voice trembling like a dry leaf. "They are searching every house. Every corner. They want beauty to fill the void Lyra left behind. And you..." He paused, looking at his niece.
In the dim light of the shop, Aara looked like a painting. Her beauty wasn't loud or demanding like the jewels of the court; it was quiet, deep, and haunting. She looked like she belonged to a lineage of queens that the world had tried to forget."I am just a girl from the dust, Uncle," Aara replied, trying to steady her voice. "They won't look at me."
The Shattering of Peace.
The sound came suddenly—the heavy, rhythmic thud of iron-shod boots against the cobblestones. Then, a loud, authoritative bang on the wooden door that made the glass vials on the shelves rattle.
"Open in the name of King Kaelen!"
Caleb's face turned ghostly pale. "Into the cellar. Now!"
But it was too late. There was a loud knock on the door and then the light of spices came in. There was a loud noise as if someone had broken the door forcefully.Two royal guards in polished silver armor stepped in, followed by a man in a velvet tunic—the Royal Scout.
The shop was small, and there was nowhere to run. The Scout's eyes scanned the dusty room, landing on Caleb, who was standing like a shield in front of Aara.
"Step aside, old man," the Scout commanded.
With a rough shove, Caleb was pushed against the shelves. Aara gasped, reaching out for him, and in that movement, her hood fell back. The flickering torchlight hit her face, illuminating her amber eyes and the perfect symmetry of her features.
The Scout froze. He had seen hundreds of women in the last forty-eight hours—duchesses in silk and daughters of wealthy merchants—but none of them had made the air leave his lungs like this.
"My lord..." the guard whispered, equally stunned. "She is... she is the one."
The Forced Ascent
"I am not going," Aara said, her voice small but firm. "I have a family here. I have a life."
The Scout stepped closer, the smell of leather and steel overpowering the scent of lavender in the room. "You don't understand, girl. This isn't an invitation. The King has a hole in his heart and a vacancy on his throne. You are coming to the Citadel."
As the guards moved to grab her arms, Caleb grabbed her hand one last time. His eyes were wet, filled with a terrifying urgency.
"Listen to me," he hissed into her ear as the guards pulled her away. "From this moment, you are not Aara. You are Evelyn. Forget our tribe. Forget our language. If they find out who you really are, they will burn this entire district to find the rest of us. You must survive. You must be his Queen, or you will be our executioner."
The Suspenseful Arrival
Aara—now Evelyn—was thrown into a gilded carriage. The transition from the smelling dust of her shop to the velvet interior of the royal transport was jarring. As the carriage began to climb the hill toward the palace, she looked back through the small window. Her uncle was standing in the middle of the street, looking smaller and more fragile than she had ever seen him.
By the time they reached the palace gates, the sun had died completely. The Citadel of Sun loomed over her like a giant beast made of stone and light.
As she was led through the marble corridors, she passed a dark, secluded hallway. A woman stood there, draped in a tattered but regal gown of black silk. It was Lyra.
The fallen queen's eyes locked onto Evelyn's. There was no sadness in Lyra's gaze—only a cold, calculating hunger. She didn't say a word, but she raised a hand and slowly dragged a finger across her own throat, her lips curling into a ghostly, sickening smile.
Evelyn's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wasn't just in a palace. She was in a war zone.
That night, as the maids prepared her for her first night, one of them whispered, "Drink this tea, My Lady. It will help you sleep. The King will see you in the morning."
Evelyn looked at the steaming cup. She remembered her uncle's apothecary training. The tea smelled of chamomile... but underneath it, there was a faint, bitter scent of hemlock.She hadn't even met the King yet, and someone already wanted her dead.