Thunder rumbled softly over the distant hills as dark clouds hung like veils over the kingdom.
The color of the day was black.
From the banners lining the castle walls to the velvet sashes across noble shoulders, grief was worn not as a feeling—but as a duty.
Carriages rolled into the courtyard—one after the other. Royals from neighboring lands arrived to pay their respects, cloaked in solemn elegance. Among them came the golden-haired second prince of Lysara.
Prince Ronan of Lysara.
Charming, tall, and carrying the air of someone who had seen war and still smiled after it.
He stepped out of the sleek silver carriage dressed in tailored black, his sword at his side not for show, but out of habit. As he approached, Kael broke from his duties to greet him.
"Still walking like you own every battlefield," Kael said with a tired smirk.
"And you still look like you haven't slept in three days," Ronan replied, pulling him into a brief hug. "I'm sorry about the king. I know he wasn't loved, but he was still your crown."
Kael nodded. "And you didn't have to come all this way."
Ronan shrugged. "You're my brother in arms. I would've come even if your kingdom was buried in snow and curses." And my bride of course, they laughed
Together, they walked into the castle.
---
Freya stood near the window, steam still lingering from her bath. For the first time in weeks, she had combed through her long, golden-blonde hair, letting it fall down her back in soft waves. She had always hidden it, tied it back into a practical bun—more survival than style.
But today, Kael had brought her black silk.
And something inside her told her not to hide.
As she dressed, her fingers trembled over the soft fabric. She looked at herself in the mirror. Smooth skin, haunting ocean-blue eyes, and full pale lips. She looked… different. Regal. Like someone she didn't yet understand.
For a moment, she thought of cutting her hair again.
Too many people stared when she walked through towns.
Too many eyes followed.
Too many memories of the whispers, the offerings, the fear.
But today, she left it down.
---
She moved quietly to the outer courtyard where nobles gathered under the black-and-gold canopy. Eyes turned toward her.
And then his did.
Sebastian.
Dressed in dark ceremonial robes with gold trimming, he stood still—speaking to a nobleman—until she passed through the archway.
Their eyes locked.
She was radiant.
Not in a way that demanded attention, but in the way stars glow without effort. Her black gown flowed like ink around her body, the high neckline leaving room for nothing but imagination. Her lips were soft, untouched by rouge. Her face, bare and beautiful.
And her hair—golden strands trailing down her shoulders and back—shone even under the gray clouds.
He watched her longer than he should have.
His eyes fell to her lips—just as she parted them.
"I offer my condolences, Your Majesty," Freya said, voice soft but clear.
It was the first time she called him that.
Sebastian blinked. "Thank you."
She bowed her head and turned to leave, disappearing into the crowd before he could say another word.
Something stirred in him—something sharp, and not entirely unwelcome.
---
Inside, Elara stood beside Ronan, politely listening to his light-hearted jokes. She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. She was distracted.
Soon, she would be Queen.
And yet… she felt more alone than ever.
Later that day, she crossed paths with Freya near the inner corridor. Their gazes met.
Freya bowed again. "My condolences, Princess."
Elara gave a nod. "Thank you," she said, her voice even, but distant.
She didn't linger.
Freya watched her walk away, then turned toward the long hall leading to her room.
Behind her, black banners danced in the wind, and bells rang low through the castle.