The castle wore black, from the flags to the guards to the grieving courtiers who wandered the halls with hushed voices and heavy footsteps.
Under the gray mourning sky, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The late king lay in state, his face pale and stern even in death. Royals from neighboring kingdoms had arrived to pay their respects — among them, Prince Ronan, second son of the powerful House of Verrion.
He was a tall man with a strong jawline, bright hazel eyes, and a confident presence. Ronan and Kael greeted each other like old comrades, their bond rooted deep from their days training side by side in the military camps.
Yet even their familiar handshake was brief; grief left little room for laughter.
Ronan had hoped to speak with Sebastian, but the new king was occupied — performing the ancient rituals that honored his father's spirit and receiving endless streams of nobles, advisors, and emissaries.
Politics waited for no one, not even the dead.
Later, Kael and Ronan quietly discussed the future:
The eldest son of Verrion's king had fallen ill after a brutal ambush, and with no male heir born to his house — only a baby daughter — Prince Ronan had no choice but to prepare to ascend the throne soon.
---
Meanwhile, Freya had spent most of the day keeping to herself.
After the heavy mourning procession, she slipped away to the balcony, craving the open night air. She wore a flowing black gown the maids had provided, her hair loose and shining under the cold stars.
In her hand, she clutched the simple pendant Miami had given her — the only thing she still had from the woman who had been her whole world.
Freya wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling.
When one salty drop touched the pendant, a strange warmth pulsed through it — so brief, she thought she imagined it.
Startled, she clutched it tighter.
The stars blinked above, silent witnesses to her sorrow.
(And quietly, far away, hidden deep in her abandoned home, the raven ring rested, waiting. Its story was far from over.)
---
Later that evening, after the last rites had been performed, Freya finally stepped into the courtyard where mourners gathered.
Sebastian was there — a black cloak draped over his broad shoulders, his silver-blond hair catching the faint torchlight.
He looked tired, strained, yet there was an undeniable power in the way he carried himself.
For a moment, his eyes caught Freya's across the space.
She stood quietly, a shadow in black, yet something about her presence glowed under the torchlight — as though the moonlight had chosen only her to dance upon. Her red-gold hair was freed from its usual bun, flowing in soft waves that brushed her shoulders. She looked nothing like the girl who had arrived broken and silent. Tonight, she looked... hauntingly graceful.
Sebastian's gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Then, Freya tilted her head slightly, meeting his eyes — calm, unreadable — and gave him a small nod. No words. No unnecessary pleasantries. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Before he could say anything, she turned and began walking away, her footsteps light against the stone.
The black fabric of her dress whispered behind her, and just like that — she disappeared into the corridors of the castle.
Sebastian exhaled, unaware he had even been holding his breath.