The great hall of Elthara's palace shimmered like a dream. Golden chandeliers cast warm light across the expanse, their brilliance reflected in the polished marble floors. Nobles draped in opulent silks and glittering jewels stood in clusters, their voices a symphony of laughter and conversation. At the center of it all, seated atop the ivory throne, was Princess Lyanna Ardelean, the heir to the kingdom.
Her ceremonial gown, woven with threads of gold and midnight blue, clung to her as though it, too, bore the weight of the occasion. A crown rested on her head—not yet the royal crown, but the ceremonial circlet that marked her as a princess on the brink of ascension.
Her chest felt tight beneath the heavy fabric. The grandeur was a mask, a hollow display that did little to calm the storm raging within her.
"Smile, Lyanna," her closest advisor, Lady Celeste, whispered as she adjusted the folds of Lyanna's gown. "A ruler must never show weakness, especially not today."
Lyanna nodded, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her hands clenched the armrests of the throne. Today was the day fate had written for her—her coronation, the moment she would become queen of Elthara. The High Priest stood at the altar before her, the sacred pendant of Ardelean hanging from his hands, glowing faintly with ancient power. It symbolized not just her bloodline, but the weight of the kingdom itself.
But the unease that had dogged her all morning would not subside.
Her gaze swept across the hall, past the ornate columns and fluttering banners. Amid the sea of familiar faces, one figure stood out.
A man dressed in the black garb of the royal guard leaned against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadow. His posture was relaxed, almost too casual for the solemnity of the occasion. His hood concealed most of his features, but his eyes—icy blue, sharp as daggers—cut through the crowd and locked onto hers.
For a moment, the noise of the hall faded. There was something about him—something unsettling. She couldn't place it, but a quiet warning prickled at the edges of her consciousness.
"Who is that?" she murmured to Celeste.
Her advisor frowned, following Lyanna's gaze. "I'm not sure. Likely one of the new recruits to the royal guard. Pay it no mind."
But Lyanna couldn't look away.
The High Priest's voice rang out, pulling her attention back to the altar. His chants filled the hall, weaving the ancient words of the kingdom's blessing. The pendant in his hands glowed brighter, its light casting strange patterns on the walls. The nobles fell silent, their gazes fixed on the ceremony.
Lyanna's pulse quickened. This was it. The moment her soul would be bound to Elthara, as the prophecy foretold. She rose from the throne and stepped forward, her movements measured and deliberate, though her legs felt like lead.
The High Priest lifted the pendant, his voice growing louder. "With this, the kingdom shall know its queen. With this, the bloodline endures."
The crowd erupted into applause. But as Lyanna reached for the pendant, a sound shattered the ceremony—a deafening crash that shook the hall.
The great doors exploded inward, splinters of wood flying like shrapnel.
For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then came the chaos.
Masked figures poured into the hall, swords gleaming in the chandelier light. Their cries of rebellion drowned out the screams of the nobles. Panic rippled through the crowd as the rebels advanced, cutting through anyone who stood in their way.
Lyanna froze, her hand inches from the pendant.
"Your Highness, get down!" Celeste screamed, shoving her aside just as a rebel's blade swung toward her.
Lyanna stumbled, falling to the marble floor. Her crown toppled from her head and clattered away, forgotten in the chaos. She crawled backward, her heart hammering in her chest. The sacred pendant fell to the floor beside her, its glow dimming.
Through the haze of fear, she saw the man in black again. He moved through the chaos with a predator's grace, his sword flashing as he cut down an attacker. Blood splattered his cloak, but his movements were calculated, precise.
Then he was in front of her, his face shadowed beneath the hood.
"Stay down," he ordered, his voice low and commanding.
Lyanna stared at him, her breath caught in her throat. Up close, his presence was overwhelming—his sheer intensity enough to make her question everything.
"Who are you?" she demanded, though her voice trembled.
He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. "If you want to live, follow me."
Before she could protest, another rebel charged toward them, his sword raised. The man in black reacted instantly, stepping in front of her and parrying the blow. The clash of steel echoed in her ears as he drove his blade into the attacker's chest.
"Move!" he barked, tugging her along.
Lyanna stumbled after him, her mind racing. Who was this man? An ally? An enemy? Every instinct told her not to trust him, but with the throne room descending into bloodshed, she had no choice.
As they fled into the shadows of the palace, the cries of battle fading behind them, one thought burned in her mind:
Her coronation was meant to mark the beginning of her reign. Instead, it had thrown her into a nightmare she might never wake from.