The grand hall of the Solaran Palace was suffocating, its golden walls reflecting the flickering torchlight like the very flames of judgment.
Evelyn "Evie" Ashford knelt on the cold marble floor, her pride abandoned, her hands trembling against the polished stone.
She was a vision of ruined nobility—her once-pristine gown of sapphire blue now dirtied by the dust of the courtroom.
Strands of fiery red hair, once meticulously braided in the fashion of a future queen, had fallen loose around her delicate face.
Her emerald eyes, bright and sharp were now dimmed with despair.
Above her, seated on the throne of black onyx, was Crown Prince Caelum Blackthorn, the man she had loved for as long as she could remember.
His face, so achingly familiar, was now a mask of indifference. The same black hair that had once glowed under the warm Solaran sun was now neatly tied back, his stormy blue eyes colder than the northern sea.
He was the prince who had once whispered her name like a vow. Now, he was her judge.
At the center of the hall, General Alaric Ashford, her father, stood in chains.
His broad shoulders, once clad in armor that had won countless battles, were now bare and bruised, his proud emerald eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.
He did not look at Evie. He did not dare.
The accusations were clear: Treason. Conspiracy. Betrayal.
"General Alaric Ashford," Caelum's voice rang out, cold and sharp as a dagger.
"You stand accused of plotting against the Solaran Crown. Evidence has been presented that you conspired with our enemies, supplying them with military secrets in exchange for power."
"It is a lie," Alaric said, his voice steady despite the weight of the chains pulling him down.
"I have bled for this kingdom, fought for it, defended it with my life. I would never betray Solara."
A murmur rippled through the court—whispers of uncertainty, of disbelief.
House Ashford had been one of the most loyal families in Solara, its legacy built on duty and honor.
But then, the proof had been brought forth—letters, sealed with Alaric's sigil, sent to Solara's sworn enemy, the Kingdom of Varestia.
A confession from one of his closest men, claiming Alaric had met with Varestian envoys in secret.
Evie knew better. Her father was a man of war, not deception. The accusations were false. They had to be.
"Caelum," she whispered, her voice breaking as she looked up at him, her knees aching from the cold marble beneath them.
"You know my father. You know us. You cannot believe this."
Caelum's expression did not change. "The evidence speaks for itself."
"Evidence can be forged," she shot back, desperation creeping into her voice.
"This is a game of politics. Someone wants my family erased, and you are letting them."
Silence.
"Please," she whispered, her pride shattering as she bowed her head.
"Please, my prince. If you ever loved me, spare my father's life."
The words tasted like poison, each syllable slicing through her soul.
She, Evelyn Ashford, daughter of a warrior, a woman raised to hold her head high—kneeling. Begging.
She heard the sharp intake of breath from the nobles watching. A noblewoman, a future queen, brought to her knees in front of her betrothed.
Caelum did not answer.
The silence stretched, unbearable.
Then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, he dismissed her.
"Rise, Lady Ashford."
Not Evie. Not Evelyn. Just Lady Ashford. A stranger.
A sharp, suffocating pain coiled around her chest. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, only to see the coldest expression she had ever known on his face.
"Your father's crimes cannot be ignored. The punishment for treason is death."
The words rang through the hall, final and absolute.
Evie's breath hitched as the guards forced her father to his knees. "No—no, please, you can't do this!"
She lunged forward, but arms wrapped around her, pulling her back. She fought, screaming, but the grip was iron.
"Evie!" Her father's voice broke through her panic, his emerald eyes locking onto hers.
"Live. You hear me? Live."
A choked scream tore from Evie's throat.
She did not hear the formalities. Did not hear the proclamation of guilt.
All she heard was the whistle of the executioner's blade, the sickening crunch of steel against flesh, and the roar of the crowd as Alaric Ashford's head rolled across the marble floor.
Her father's blood painted the palace red.
She did not know how long she lay there, crumpled on the ground, her nails digging into the stone, her throat raw from screaming.
By the time the guards seized her arms, she no longer fought.
By the time they stripped her family of their titles, of their land, of their dignity, she no longer cared.
By the time they cast her, her mother, and Liam into the Scorched Wastes, she was already dead inside.
***
She did not remember how she got there.
The Scorched Wastes stretched endlessly before her, an ocean of golden sand that burned beneath the ruthless Solaran sun.
Her wrists were bruised from the shackles, her throat raw from thirst.
Her mother, Lady Selene Ashford, once the most elegant woman in the Solaran court, now lay beside her in the sand, her once-radiant raven-black hair clinging to her sweat-drenched skin.
Her violet eyes, which had once dazzled nobles, were hollow, unfocused.
"Drink," Evie whispered, lifting a small, tattered waterskin to her mother's lips.
Her mother did not respond.
She hadn't spoken in days.
The desert was merciless. They had been sent here with nothing—no food, no shelter, only the clothes on their backs and a single waterskin, barely enough to last a day.
And Evie could see it—the way her mother's breaths came slower, shallower.
The way her once-proud posture had withered, her body reduced to skin and bones.
"Please," Evie whispered, her hands trembling as she brushed sweat-drenched hair from her mother's face.
"Stay with me."
A faint smile, almost invisible.
"My Evie," her mother murmured, her voice barely a breath. "So… strong."
Evie shook her head, biting back the sob in her throat. "No, I'm not. I'm weak. I couldn't save any of you."
Selene's fingers twitched, brushing against Evie's cheek in a final, fragile touch.
"Not… weak," she whispered.
Her hand fell.
Her eyes did not close.
Evie did not scream. She did not cry.
She simply knelt there, cradling her mother's body, rocking back and forth as the heat pressed down on her like a suffocating hand.
Liam clung to her side, fevered and trembling, his small hands grasping at the edges of her torn dress.
"Evie," he whimpered. "I don't want to die."
"You won't," she lied, pressing a shaking hand to his burning forehead.
They were out of water. Out of food.
But the only thing she knew was to dig a grave for her beloved mother as the last honor for the most beautiful and graceful noble lady ever lived.
As for her brother, she held him through the night, whispering stories of the palace gardens, of cool fountains and golden sunsets, of a home that no longer existed.
By dawn, Liam was cold in her arms.
Something inside her shattered.
She did not scream. She did not cry.
She simply dug.
With her bare hands, she carved a grave into the unforgiving earth, her nails breaking, her skin splitting against the sharp stones.
She placed him inside gently, as if he were only sleeping.
When the wind howled, carrying the scent of scorched earth and death, she realized she was truly alone.
She was alone.
She was alone.
The world blurred, blackness creeping at the edges of her vision. Her body collapsed, her strength finally giving out.
The sand beneath her was burning hot, but she no longer felt it.
As her consciousness faded, her fingers brushed against something hard, buried beneath the sand.
A faint glow.
Something ancient. Powerful. Waiting.
Her fingers curled around it.
The Ashen Crown.
The moment it touched her skin, a surge of fire rushed through her veins, searing through the grief, the hunger, the despair.
And then—
Nothing.
Only darkness.