The world around Era dissolved into shadow, the ruined throne room unravelling like smoke in the wind. A sudden pull, like the hands of time itself, wrenched her backward. The decay and silence of the present gave way to the vibrancy of a court in its prime—alive with splender and motion. Marble walls gleamed under the flickering light of golden chandeliers, and richly clad nobles moved with purpose across the polished floors.
Era found herself a mere observer, powerless within this fixed timeline. The voice of Lysara resonated within her mind, both haunting and wistful, guiding her through the unfolding tableau.
"This," Lysara's voice echoed, laced with bitter reflection, "is the day my father condemned us all."
The throne room bristled with tension. The aged king sat slumped on his seat of power, the weight of years and illness etched deeply into his hollowed features. His breaths came slow and laboured, a sound that underscored the charged atmosphere. Before him stood two figures, each embodying opposing visions of the kingdom's future.
"Behold, Ragar, " Lysara murmured.
Ragar, the king's trusted advisor, stood to his right, his stooped figure clad in the rich, somber robes of tradition. Though his form was withered with age, his sharp gaze revealed a mind honed like tempered steel. Beside him was his antithesis, Cassian, the foreigner—young, tall, and commanding. His dark eyes burned with quiet intensity, and his presence exuded the magnetic confidence of one born to lead.
"Two paths," Lysara continued, her tone laced with disdain. " One mirred in the chains of the past; the other an uncertain leap into the future. My father, too weak to choose, sought instead to delay the inevitable."
The king's voice broke through the whispers of the court, frail but resolute. "Let the court decide," he declared, his words wheezing from his lips like a dying wind. "The crown shall pass to the worthiest."
Era frowned. "Not to his heirs?"
Lysara's bitter laughter rippled through the air. " My father feared his own daughters more than the wolves circling his throne. He would not trust me or my sisters , believing us to be too disisive, too ambitious or too weak. So, he cast the fate of the Kingdom into the hand's of his court - a coward's decision, veiled as wisdom."
The scene burst into a cacophony of arguments. Nobles shouted over one another, their loyalties splitting sharply.
"The old families rallied behind Ragar" Lysara explained. "To them, he was a bulwark of tradition, a nole who upheld their power. The new families, those hungering for reform, championed Cassian, a charasmatic outsider who promised reward for merit over birthright. But neither side could muster a majority. The court teetered on the brink of schism."
It was then that Ragar's quiet voice cleaved through the chaos. "Your Majesty," he intoned, his words deliberate and calm. "I withdraw my candidacy."
A ripple of shock swept through the chamber.
"I am an old man," Ragar continued, his silvered head bowed humbly. "Though my service to the crown is unwavering, I am not what this kingdom needs. Instead, I nominate another—a man untainted by ambition, whose spirit unites us all."
His words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation.
"I nominate Marlo, the jester."
An eruption of laughter rolled through the court like a sudden storm.
Era's confusion mirrored the nobles' disbelief. "Marlo? The Jester? This was how he joined the story" This was a shock, and nothing like the fable. So it had all begun as a succession war, and Marlo wasn't fighting for the right to marry Lysara, but was nominated?
Lysara's voice was icy, her tone sharpened by years of reflection. " A materstroke of manipulation. My father's decree allowed anyone in the court to ascend the throne, and while he wasn't a politician, that included Marlo. Ragar knew his age was an issue, and that his heirs ( his sons) had not taken after their father and were unfavoured. So, he crafted the perfect puppet. Marlo's harmlessness meant Ragar could rule through him freely, while Marlo's unmarried status attracted the noble houses. Instead of the throne passing to Ragar's sons, it would pass to Marlo's heirs, which if the noble families married Marlo to their daughters, would unite their family and the throne forever. Ragar offered a solution to his age and sons, and alliances through Marlo's cadidancy and marriage. Marlo was now the safer option. Cassian while a great man, was foreign, his past shrouded in mystery and until now famously unambitious. His motives couldn't be trusted"
The result was not shown, but the conclusion was clear. Cassian was beat.
The scene shifted abruptly, the grandeur of the throne room replaced by the soft hues of twilight in the palace gardens. Era's breath caught as she saw Marlo, seated cross-legged on the grass, cradling a lute. Across from him sat a woman on a stone bench, her features as cold and refined as carved marble.
"Sara of Dale, Ragar's youngest daughter," Lysara murmured.
Marlo plucked a playful melody, his voice light and lilting. "Lady Sara," he teased, his grin softening into something sincere, "you sit there as though you were a statue. But statues do not laugh, and I am determined to remedy that."
He wove words and music together, the tune soaring with whimsy, his eyes never leaving her face. Though she remained still, the faintest flicker of a smile touched her lips.
Era watched, her heart sinking. "He loved her."
"Deeply," Lysara replied. "Ragar promised Sara's hand to Marlo, knowing the jester's loyalty would be unshakable. Marlo would rule in name, but Ragar would wield the power—and all for the love of a woman who barely looked his way."
Era's heart sent out to Marlo, who unlike the fable suggested was not the main character of this story but an aimless puppet dragged into all this mess by the raging ambition of one man and his stupid affection. Ragar's intelligence was truly unmatched. To Marlo he promised Sara, and to the noble fathers with unamarried daughters he had offered Marlo. He had manipulated them all, to get what he wanted- the throne.
The memory shifted once more, now bathed in the silvery light of the moon. Cassian and Lysara stood together on a balcony.
"You could take the throne," Lysara whispered fiercely, her hands gripping his. "We could take it together. Break tradition, cast off these chains."
Cassian's jaw tightened, his dark eyes shadowed with doubt. "Your father would never allow it."
"Then defy him!" Lysara's voice trembled, her ambition burning bright. "You are stronger than they know. Fight for me—for us. Promise me, Cassian."
His hesitation broke like a dam, and he nodded solemnly. "For you," he murmured, his hands curling around hers.
The memory fractured. Era recoiled, her mind spinning. Cassian had volunteerd for the throne for Lysara. It was her wish, her ambition.
But why show Era this memory now, after Cassian had lost the throne?
The story was already so complex, so intertwined, Era was struggling to keep up.
The scene switched once more to a dim corridor, Ragar standing before Cassian, his voice low and calculated. His eyes narrowed, but his tone was measured, almost cordial. "You've built quite a reputation, Cassian," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "The king's golden prodigy. The people adore you, and even the old families—begrudgingly—respect your intellect."
Cassian inclined his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips. "Your words are generous, Lord Ragar, but I am merely a servant of the crown. My loyalty lies with the kingdom, as does yours."
Ragar's lip twitched, a faint smirk betraying his thoughts. "Indeed. Which is why I've sought you out tonight, away from prying eyes and meddling ears." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The old families… they see you as a threat. A foreigner, unrooted in our traditions, yet you hold sway in the court."
Cassian's smile didn't falter. "A threat? I am but an advisor, nothing more."
Ragar chuckled darkly. "Come now, let's not insult each other's intelligence. The court is a battlefield, Cassian, and you've proven yourself a capable general. But even the finest soldier needs allies. Despite my victory tonight, I wish to have you as an ally. My daughter, Sara, is promised to Marlo, but I'd rather she marry you. Let our friendship be solidified with a blessed union."
The memory ended in a burst of red. Era was left shocked by Ragar's cunning, for such an old man, he sure kept his wits about him. She pitied Marlo, Cassian and Lysara, all three in varying degrees victims to Ragar's greed. Lysara had pushed Cassian to fight for the throne, but by Ragar nominating Marlo they lost. Marlo was swayed by the promise of Sara's hand, but just moments after they had won, Ragar was offering her away to Cassian to create an ally. The web of lies was immense.
But it mattered not- from what Era had seen of the man, Cassian would refuse. Surely? He loved Lysara, didn't he?
Era turned to Lysara.
The edges of Lysara's ghostly form flickered like dying embers, her once-brilliant light dimming with every memory unearthed. Her ethereal visage, once composed and regal, now bore cracks of anguish and fatigue. Her eyes, luminous pools of sorrow, seemed to shift in color—sometimes a deep, mournful blue, other times blazing with an angry red glow, as though her emotions could no longer be contained.
Her voice, which had begun the journey steady and haunting, now wavered and trembled, breaking under the weight of her pain. It was no longer a steady stream but a torrent, each word rushing out as though she feared losing the strength to speak entirely.
"It was all for nothing," she hissed suddenly, her tone sharp and venomous, only to soften moments later into a whimper. "Everything I fought for, everything I believed in..." Her translucent hands clawed at the air as if trying to grasp something slipping through her fingers.
Her form rippled erratically, fading at the edges, as if the weight of her despair was unravelling her existence. Her hair, an otherworldly cascade of spectral light, frayed and darkened, strands dissipating into the ether. When she turned to Era, her expression teetered between pleading and fury, her fractured emotions colliding like waves in a storm.
"Do you see it now?" she demanded, her voice rising with a manic edge, her spectral figure flaring like a flame about to extinguish. "The lies, the betrayal—they hollowed me, Era. Hollowed everything."
She seemed possessed, as if her nature was being corrupted. Something was not right. Lysara's story had no end, it didn't explain the kingdom's ruin, why the crown was cursed and the pact with Phoros was yet to be made. She was hiding something, the full truth was not revealed.
"Show me the rest, Lysara" Era commanded.
"You dare command me?" the spirit spat, her words laced with venom. Her shadowed figure loomed larger, her form expanding and darkening, as if she were a storm cloud ready to consume everything in her path. Her movements were erratic, each step causing the air to vibrate with raw, unbridled energy.
Era held her ground, her voice steady despite the chill creeping into her bones.
"You brought me here to see this, Lysara. Finish what you started. Show me the truth." Era pressed on, hiding her terror.
It took everything to stop her pee leaking out.
The words seemed to cut through the storm of Lysara's fury, her monstrous form halting as if caught mid-attack. For a moment, the red glow in her eyes flickered, and her shadowy tendrils recoiled, curling inward like a beast licking its wounds.
Her voice returned, though fractured and tinged with bitterness. "The truth?" she hissed, her form trembling. "Do you truly wish to see it? To feel the weight of it? To know what it means to be me?"
At Era's nod, Lysara's spectral body convulsed again, the darkness within her battling against the remnants of her former self. Her figure flickered violently, her glowing hair whipping around her like flames caught in a tempest. She let out a scream, guttural and unearthly, that reverberated through the chamber. The shadows enveloping her writhed, threatening to devour her entirely—until, at last, she stilled, and the scene shifted.
Lysara stood before the crashing waves. Her once-pristine gown was torn and soiled, her hair wild and unkempt. She looked small and fragile amidst the desolation, but her eyes burned with an intensity that defied her disheveled state. Her hands were clenched into fists, her knuckles white, her jaw set in defiance even as her chest heaved with ragged breaths. This was a women scorned, seeking revenge.
Era knew it. It wasn't Marlo who had made the pact with the Phoros as the fable said, it was Lysara.
Lysara bellowed into the sea, offering her soul in return for a God's favour. As, Era expected, a figure emerged from the ocean. His body flickered between shapes, humanoid one moment and monstrous the next. His eyes glowed like molten lava, and his voice, when he spoke, was a terrible melody of heat and hunger.
But, the God that stood before them was not Phoros, the God of Greed and Ambition. No. Era's heart froze over. It couldn't be-
It was Kaelith.
"You called, little princess," he purred, his voice wrapping around Lysara like smoke.
What. The. Fuck.