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Chapter One: The Crown Lies
By the time the blood dried, my fate had already changed.
They told me I wasn’t meant to rule.
Too soft. Too small. Too silent.
Now my father lies dead on the marble of the throne room, and the silence is deafening.
The royal dagger—our family’s crest carved into the hilt—is still in his chest.
The guards found nothing. No signs of struggle. No screams. Just the King of Vareth, murdered before dawn, in a palace supposedly impossible to breach.
And the crown?
Still resting on his head.
Staring at us like it’s mocking whoever dares to touch it next.
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The law is ancient. Ruthless. Simple.
If no heir is named, the crown passes to the one who takes it.
By blade, by blood, or by brilliance.
No votes. No mercy.
Just power.
And my siblings—gods, my siblings—they’ve been waiting for this.
Kael, the lion. Oldest. Strongest. Born with war in his bones and ambition in his eyes.
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Dain, the strategist. Cold, methodical, unreadable. He smiles like a man who already knows who dies next.
Aldric, chaos personified. Too clever. Too fast. The kind of man who plays with knives just to feel something.
And Evelyne… the sister who can wear silk and poison like a second skin.
And then… there’s me.
Avenya.
The quiet one.
The one they all forgot to fear.
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I found him.
His blood was still warm.
They told me not to scream, but I didn’t. Not because I’m brave—but because I already knew…
They would look at me next.
And not with grief. With calculation.
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The council summoned me by candlelight. Twelve men and women cloaked in law, seated like judges in a cage of gold.
“You saw him last?”
“Yes.”
“He dismissed his guard?”
“Yes.”
“And you left him… when?”
I gave them the time. I gave them everything—except what mattered.
His eyes.
They weren’t calm.
They were afraid.
And before I left, he said just six words:
“If they take me—run, Avenya.”
They’ll never hear that part.
Because I don’t know who “they” are yet.
But I swear—I will.
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After the council, I went to the garden. I shouldn’t have. The palace wasn’t safe anymore. But I needed silence. I needed something alive.
And then… I saw it.
A figure, unmoving in the shadows beyond the rose wall. Too tall for a servant. Too still for a guard.
Watching me.
They didn’t flee. They didn’t speak.
They just raised a hand—two fingers across their chest—
And vanished.
A symbol. Not a threat. A message.
I see you.
And suddenly, I knew:
This wasn’t just about the crown.
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Back in my chambers, I found something waiting for me.
Not a threat. Not a note.
A single red chess piece—the queen.
Painted with blood.
And beneath it, carved into my pillow in delicate, practiced letters:
“Let the game begin.”