The day they returned to the palace, the sky hung heavy with clouds—a dark, oppressive drapery that seemed to stretch endlessly over the capital. It was the perfect portent. Foreboding, yes, but fitting. History was about to unfold, and storms, as any wise person would tell you, are the best witnesses.
The gates groaned open, their iron hinges protesting with a screech against the stone. No trumpet fanfare heralded their arrival. No royal ritual. Only the distant hum of startled guards and the rhythmic echo of galloping hooves on the rain-soaked cobblestones. Eyebrows furrowed. Hands instinctively tightened around sword hilts. But it wasn't Princess Charlotte who commanded the attention.
It was the woman beside her.
No diadem graced her brow. No royal cloak flowed behind her. Instead, she wore travel-stained boots and a coat of coarse ash-grey wool, with a single scarlet silk band around her neck—torn, but unmistakable. The sign of a bloodline, the silent proof of inheritance.
Elias, ever watchful, accompanied the horses, his gaze sharp as always. Mira, a step behind, kept her eyes sweeping over the balconies and ramparts, her instincts never letting a rooftop shadow or hidden archer slip past her notice.
They didn't take the servants' entrance. No. They rode through the grand courtyard—the main way—where only rulers and returning war heroes are ever granted passage.
The palace air had fallen into a rare, almost unnatural silence by the time they dismounted. Courtiers froze, hunched over the balustrades like marble gargoyles. Palace servants stood motionless, mid-step, mid-breath. A young page, caught in a moment of indecision, stood rigid, scroll in hand. A tray clattered to the floor somewhere in the distance.
Charlotte alighted from her horse with practiced grace, her boots echoing against the stones. She did not glance at the gathered crowd. She did not need to.
Her voice, clear and commanding, rang out across the courtyard.
"Fetch the Queen."
There was no politeness. No "please." Just a simple, unwavering command, as if she were speaking to the very air itself. And, true to her word, the courtiers moved.
By the time they reached the throne room, it was nearly empty—just a handful of advisors gathered at the foot of the dais, whispering among themselves. They straightened as the doors groaned open, their murmurs cutting off as their gazes locked onto the procession.
And there, at the center of it all, sat the Queen. A statue of iron and frost—motionless, unyielding. Her eyes, cold and distant. Her hands clasped as though in some prayer, unspoken, forever frozen.
But as Charlotte advanced, with the mysterious woman in grey at her side, the Queen's unshakable facade cracked.
She saw the red silk. She saw the face behind it.
And for an instant—just a fleeting moment—grief flashed through her eyes. Not fear. Not guilt. Grief. Raw, painful, undeniable.
"You lived," the Queen said softly, almost too quietly to hear.
The eldest daughter nodded, a bow of recognition.
"You ensured I did."
"You weren't supposed to come back."
"I didn't," the woman said, her gaze flicking to Charlotte, whose steady presence remained unwavering. "Not until she came for me."
The Queen's gaze flickered between the two. The eldest, dark and steady, and the golden child, shining in her carefully crafted perfection. The one everyone knew.
Charlotte's voice broke through the tension, sharp as tempered steel.
"Why did you never mention her?" The words cut through the room like a blade. "Not in court. Not in family documents. Not even in the forbidden records."
The Queen paused. A breath, deep and slow, as if summoning a forgotten memory.
"Because you had to be safeguarded. From her. And she from you. The prophecy—"
"I don't care about the prophecy," Charlotte's words were blunt, final. "I care about the truth."
A heavy silence followed, thick with anticipation.
The Queen rose, slow and deliberate, her gaze flicking between the two daughters—both hers, both born of her blood, but shaped by different fates. The world had only ever made room for one heir.
"You are both of me," she said at last, her voice fragile. "My blood in two halves. But the world…" She trailed off, her voice breaking just slightly. "The world has only ever made room for one heir."
Charlotte moved forward, chin raised, a quiet defiance in her every step.
"Then let the world provide room for two. Or else we shall carve it out ourselves."
The eldest daughter raised her head, her golden eyes burning with a fierce resolve.
"I will not wear a crown," she said softly. "Only a name. A voice. And the freedom to decide what to do with both."
The Queen's gaze softened, but it was fleeting—only for a moment. She looked at Charlotte as though trying to recall something long forgotten, some cherished dream that had slipped through her grasp.
"You were born under a blood moon," the Queen whispered, her voice barely audible. "And I… I was too weak to fight for you."
Charlotte stepped to her sister's side—not behind, not in front, but beside her.
"But I'm not weak," she said, her tone firm and steady. "Not anymore."
The silence stretched on, long and heavy with everything they'd never said to each other, every word left unspoken.
Then, finally, the Queen descended from the dais. Her steps rang out against the stone floor, slow but deliberate. She walked past them both, her face unreadable.
Stopping beside Charlotte, she hesitated, not touching her, not even looking at her directly. She merely spoke, her voice low.
"I hope so," the Queen whispered, her words nearly lost in the cavernous room. "Because peace comes rarely to this place."
The Queen waited, her gaze lingering on the two daughters.
"And you've just set fire to its bones."