Queen Lira sat upon her throne, a grand seat adorned with white gold and obsidian. Its towering backrest bore the intricate carving of the Helarion Tree, its roots stretching deep into the base of the throne, as if binding her to it. Wings were etched into the armrests, unfurled as if to shield their ruler. And yet, despite its majesty, the throne felt smaller with each passing moment—like a gilded cage, waiting to consume her whole.


    Marble pillars lined the chamber, each carved with the faces of past rulers, their stony gazes a silent reminder of the legacy she was forced to inherit—and the burden that came with it. Fifteen steps. That was the distance between her and the council. A distance that should have signified authority, yet only served as a reminder of the chasm between them. The eyes of the men who had served her father for decades now bore into her with veiled doubt, as if the crown upon her head was a weight she was never meant to bear.


    "Where were you last night?" A voice shattered the silence. Sharp, measured—like a blade poised to cut.


    Lira tensed. The question had been expected, yet her breath still hitched at the sound of it. Her pale lips parted slightly, but the words caught in her throat. She needed to respond. She had to.


    "I... I was in the royal library all night," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, struggling to keep the tremor from betraying her.


    "Is that so?" Gored, the eldest among the council, spoke with deliberate slowness. His piercing gaze shifted to a servant standing nearby. "You, the one assigned to the library. Is it true? Did the queen remain there all night?"


    The servant stiffened under the weight of his stare. "Y-yes, my lord," she answered, voice trembling. "I was with Her Majesty the entire time."


    Gored’s eyes narrowed. A slow, almost amused exhale left his lips.


    "Curious… because one of the guards reports otherwise."


    Silence fell over the chamber, thick and suffocating.


    Lira’s gaze drifted to Mira, the servant standing just beyond the council’s reach. Seventeen years old, her hands bore the scars of past burns—a cruel reminder of the day Lira’s father had ordered her punished for stealing an apple to feed the princess, back when she was nothing but a hungry child wandering the palace halls.


    "Did the queen stay with you all night?" Gored pressed again, his voice steady, patient—like a predator waiting for its prey to falter.


    Mira trembled, but she did not break eye contact with Lira. "Y-yes, my lord. We… spent the night reading the Book of Aionis."


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    Her voice wavered, but she held her ground. A lie spoken not out of deceit, but out of loyalty.


    Gored’s lips curled into something resembling a smirk. "Fascinating." His voice grew louder, commanding the room. "Because the guard claims to have seen you leave the castle. And not just anywhere—"


    His gaze locked onto Lira’s.


    "—but to the Forbidden Forest."


    The words rang through the chamber like a war drum.


    Lira’s breath hitched. She wanted to deny it. She needed to deny it. But the words refused to leave her lips, trapped beneath the weight of the council’s scrutiny.


    "Bring the guard in," Gored commanded.


    Moments later, a palace guard stepped forward, bowing before them. His stance was rigid, his voice rough as if reluctant to speak.


    "It is true, my lord," the guard said. "I saw Her Majesty leave the castle. She was headed for the Forbidden Forest."


    A cold chill crept up Lira’s spine.


    Gored’s head turned sharply toward Mira. His voice, once slow and composed, now cut through the air like a dagger.


    "You lied."


    Mira’s breath caught in her throat.


    "The punishment for treason—"


    "No," Lira’s voice finally broke free, but it was too late.


    "—is death."


    Before Lira could move, before she could demand the trial that should have followed, before she could reach out—


    A sword flashed.


    Mira’s head fell.


    Blood splattered onto the pristine marble floor, pooling at the feet of the councilmen. A sharp gasp lodged itself in Lira’s throat, yet she could not look away.


    For the first time, the weight of her crown felt unbearable.


    ---


    Lira lowered her gaze, hands clenched into fists over the silken fabric of her gown. She was a queen, yet she had no power. No voice.


    The crown she wore did not inspire respect—it was a symbol of failure, of a kingdom’s desperation.


    Elaria had never been ruled by a woman before. In its five hundred years of history, not once had a queen sat upon its throne. But history did not change the reality before them: she was the last heir, the only one left. And so the crown had been forced upon her head, not as a blessing, but as a burden.


    Her father, King Herod, had lost his sanity long ago. When Queen Hera, his beloved wife, died giving birth to Lira, he shattered. He could not look at her—not even once. And so Lira grew up cursed.


    A child who had stolen her mother’s life.


    A queen her people never wanted.


    And now, the only person who had ever stood by her side was dead.


    Because of her.


    Because of fate she could not escape.