The wind carried the scent of ash and blood. The Ragnar estate, once radiant with celebration, now stood battered—scarred by chaos. Shattered chandeliers glittered on the marble like fallen stars, their light gone cold. Silent healers moved between the wounded, speaking only in hushed tones.
Sion stood at the center of it all—his hands glowing softly with divine magic as he knelt beside a boy no older than ten, pressing a healing palm to the child's ribs. The boy whimpered once, then stilled. Sion moved on. He did not speak. Not even Raphael's voice reached him as he worked.
Nearby, Janet sat on a makeshift bench, her right arm bandaged where it had been severed hours before. The divine magic had rejoined bone and flesh, but the pain in her eyes remained untouched. Her younger brothers clung to her, silent, watching their father heal the kingdom.
It was not a victory. It was survival.
By noon, the royal court had convened in the capital's great hall. The mood was cold, tense—everyone wondering how to interpret the attack, and what would follow. King Nathan, flanked by guards and with his crown slightly askew, stepped forward.
His voice was brittle but carried.
"What occurred last night was not a skirmish. It was not rebellion. It was truth laid bare—that our kingdom is fractured within, and too proud to see it."
Silence. Nobles exchanged glances. Leonard's name was never spoken, but it lingered like a curse in the air.
Nathan's eyes swept the chamber. "As of this hour, I renounce the Crown. My reign has ended."
A wave of shocked gasps ran through the nobles.
"I am no longer fit to rule. My blindness allowed rot to grow in my own house. The Clover Kingdom needs a new path—one rooted in compassion, clarity… and strength."
He turned toward Katherine, who stood at the far side of the chamber in a simple white gown. All eyes shifted to her.
"I name Katherine my first daughter the former crown Princess
She froze.
"No," she said firmly, her voice cutting the silence. "I didn't ask for this. I never wanted a throne."
Nathan took a step back—but her mother, Queen Elenora, stepped forward in his place. Her face was pale but resolute, the years of rule etched in the lines near her eyes.
"You may not want it, but the kingdom needs it. You're the only one they will follow. The only one who can keep them from falling apart."
Katherine stepped back, shaking her head. "Let someone else carry it."
Elizabeth grip tightened on her daughter's wrist.
"You must carry it. For your people. For your blood."
Katherine's gaze flicked to the nobles, to the staring court, to the weight of a future she never asked for. And then—to Sion, who stood quietly just beyond the dais, watching her with unreadable eyes.
He stepped beside her, his hand gentle as it rested on her shoulder.
"I'll be with you," he said softly. "Whatever you decide. But I believe in you."
Her breath hitched. Slowly, she looked up at the throne. A simple seat—yet now heavier than any sword.
She nodded once.
The coronation was quiet. There was no music, no trumpet fanfare. The crown, once her father's, was placed upon her brow by the archbishop with solemn hands.
As Katherine turned to face the court, she no longer looked like a royal by blood—but one forged by fire.
"I rise not to rule," she said, her voice calm but strong. "But to protect. Let this crown not be a symbol of power—but of promise."
Some nobles clapped. Others remained still, stone-faced. A few turned and left in silent protest.
That evening, in the tower balcony that overlooked the capital gardens, Katherine stood alone—until Sion joined her.
She leaned on the railing, the crown now set beside her, her hair unbound and swept by the wind.
"I didn't want this," she said quietly. "I still don't."
Sion didn't speak at first. He simply stood beside her, looking out at the twilight sky.
"Neither did I want to become what I became," he replied. "But we don't choose our storms. We only choose how we weather them."
Katherine turned her eyes to him, soft and tired.
"Will you stay by my side, Sion?"
He looked at her. "Always."
Their fingers found each other—lightly, like a fragile truce with fate.
Far away, across jagged wastelands and decayed mountains, a lone figure in a crimson cloak stood at the edge of a black chasm. Faint whispers echoed from below—a language lost to sane minds.
The masked Seer looked down at the gate pulsing faintly with infernal light.
"So… the girl wears the crown," the Seer whispered. "And the dragon stands beside her."
A pause.
"Let them rule. Let them love. While they still believe it matters."
The chasm exhaled a low, guttural sound—like a breath that had waited centuries.