Earlier that day, in Brittany's chamber.
Brittany sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest beneath a cascade of cream silk sheets.
The candles lining her chamber flickered without wind, their flames barely holding shape—as if the very air hesitated to touch her.
The room was dim, shadow-stained.
Velvet curtains shut tight against the sun.
The floor around her bore evidence of silence turned dangerous: a shattered chair lay scattered across the marble, its arm broken from her grip earlier that morning.
She hadn't meant to.
She hadn't meant any of it.
Her fingers trembled as they swept through strands of her hair—longer than it had been two days ago.
And silver.
Not dyed. Not conjured. Changed.
It shimmered faintly now, the glow pulsing in rhythm with something beneath her skin. Something she cannot explain, something utterly different...
She'd broke the chair when her hair started to glow earlier, not out of anger but with the fear of what she might become.
She inhaled and pressed her palms to her eyes.
"What is happening to me?" she whispered.
Her thoughts raced backward. After the duel—after everything—Rollins had questioned her endlessly.
She hadn't responded. Her voice had vanished. Her mind buzzed. Then… blackness.
Two days of it.
And a dream...
And now, she was something else.
She'd awakened with sharpened senses—like sound had depth, like emotion had taste.
When her maid helped her to the bathroom, she hadn't just heard the women speak—she'd heard her thoughts. All of them.
Fear. Curiosity. Even pity.
She hadn't known how to respond.
Instead, she'd offered a soft thanks and retreated back to her bed, locking the door.
Brittany stared at the place where her little fingers had crushed the chair's armrest—splinters scattered like discarded bones.
She felt stronger.
Not just physically—but instinctively.
Her reflexes tingled.
Her skin hummed.
Was she turning into something?
Or just falling apart?
Her throat tightened. Tears blurred her vision.
"I didn't mean it," she sobbed, voice muffled as she pressed her face into her pillow. "I didn't mean to hurt them…"
A voice responded—soft. Familiar. Regal.
"You're fine, my dear."
Brittany froze.
She raised her head slowly and turned toward the door she was certain had been locked.
There stood Queen Mother Irene.
Her grandmother.
Poised in satin robes of deep lilac, silver curls coiled at her neck, ageless in her grace.
Even at seventy-five, she carried herself like memory incarnate—wise, willful, woven from centuries.
"Grandmother?" Brittany whispered.
Irene stepped forward gently, eyes kind but unreadable.
Brittany scrambled upright, folding her hands tightly in her lap, unable to meet her grandmother's gaze. "Wh...Where's Grandfather?" she asked quietly.
"Quetta," Irene replied, settling beside her on the bed. "You know how he is. He's never liked drama."
Queen Mother Irene and old King Karter had left Eldoria's politics behind a long time ago.
Tired of ruling and all the drama that came with it, Karter faked his death and slipped away to Quetta—a kingdom he once conquered.
There, he and his wife, queen mother Irene,blived a quiet, peaceful life, far from the noise of the throne.
Brittany gave a small, broken laugh. Her voice shook. "Then it's good he's not here."
Irene didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she reached out and brushed a glowing strand from Brittany's cheek, but the girl remained as still as a statue.
"You're worried I'll hate you," she said, not unkindly.
Brittany's composure cracked. Long lashes flattered and a burning stroke of tear slid from her eye.
"I didn't do it on purpose, grandmother" she choked. "I didn't mean to hurt the sisters, Darcy. Or Dora. Or Bethany. I… I didn't mean to frighten anyone…"
She grabbed her grandmother's hands, trembling. "Please don't hate me. I couldn't control it. It just happened—I didn't know I could—"
"Brittany," Irene said gently.
"I'll apologize," Brittany rambled. "Swear on my life if I may grandmother. I will. I'll—if they'll listen—I can explain—well, not everything—but—"
"Brit," Irene interrupted, voice low.
But Brittany kept going, panic rising. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted this. I didn't ask for any of this. Please—don't turn away from me—please—"
Irene reached out and pulled her into an embrace.
Brittany clung tightly, shoulders shaking.
The Queen Mother closed her eyes and held her. Long enough for Brittany to stop gasping. Long enough for quiet to settle again.
"I know what you did," Irene said softly.
Brittany stiffened.
"But," the queen mother added, her hand brushing Brittany's silver hair, "do you know what?"
Brittany pulled back, breath catching.
"What, grandmother?" she whispered.
Irene looked into her eyes—hazel still, but flickering at the edges, like gold ink bleeding into a watercolor painting.
There was no fear in her face.
Only memory.
And perhaps… sadness.
Much earlier, in the throne room.
The throne room was quiet—too quiet.
Golden light filtered through the polished glass windows, casting fractured patterns across the polished marble floor.
Courtiers stood in uneasy silence, their eyes flicking toward the king's seat.
Then—
"What?!"
King Aaron's voice shattered the stillness like glass.
He rose from his throne in a blur of crimson silk, his crown catching the light as his eyes narrowed into something cold and dangerous.
"What do you mean?" he growled, stepping forward.
The royal guard before him trembled, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his uniform.
Ross.
Queen Eunice's personal guard.
A deep claw-mark stretched from his left shoulder across his torso, raw and glistening. He was barely upright, supported by two fellow royal guards.
"We… we're sorry, Your Majesty," Ross stammered, bowing as best he could. "There was… an attack."
Aaron's gaze sharpened. "Where is the queen? The queen you swore to protect with your life…" he said word for word, like he'll be spitting fire soon.
Ross swallowed hard, his eyes dimmed.
The silence that followed was suffocating.