Hamstung Imperial Palace.
Blood streaked the floor and smeared across the walls; it was like an abattoir, only that it was humans that were slaughtered.
Painfully among those humans laid Friya's husband, King Orain of Hamstung.
Every instinct screamed to flee, but Friya's feet would not obey. All she could do was stand there, swallowed by the weight of what she had seen, the horror settling deep into her bones.
Friya froze at the threshold. Her stomach churned, her hands trembled, and the cold numbness that crept through her limbs made it feel as if the world had stopped moving.
This was his chamber, a place that had once promised safety—and now it was unrecognizable, a tomb of terror.
Her heart constricted, her hand clenching her chest as her eyes opened wide.
Her lips quaked , failing to produce a word….she had lost her voice.
"No…"
Tears formed in her eyes, her shaky hands looking for a place to hold on so that she might still remain on her feet.
"Nooooh!
She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face, body shaking as sobs tore from her throat. Her cries started low and guttural, a trembling sound of disbelief, but they quickly escalated.
Her hands clawed at her hair, then at the floor, seeking anything to hold on to as horror consumed her.
Why did it hurt so much?
Her chest felt as if it had been set aflame, every beat of her heart a scorching reminder of loss.
Wasn't this the very man she had just… made love to?
Her mind struggled to reconcile the tenderness she had shared with him moments ago and the terror that now lay before her.
Every memory of closeness clashed violently with the cruel reality, leaving her shaken, and desperate for answers she could not yet face.
She screamed until her lungs burned, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
Her violent, heart-wrenching cries began to twist into something else—an anguished, almost pleading call.
Each scream carried the weight of fear, grief, and despair, the sound of someone reaching out for help that she couldn't even admit she needed.
The moment the first desperate notes reached the corridors, the guards burst in, their boots pounding on the stone floor.
With faces wide with alarm, they froze at the sight before them: the queen, shaking uncontrollably, tears and disheveled hair framing a face twisted in grief.
In the midst of her disarray, her sobs and trembling began to slow, though her body still shook with the aftershocks of grief
It was only when the maids, who had rushed in at the sound of her outburst, gently wrapped her in fresh clothing that she became aware of herself, of her soaked hair, and the state in which she had been found.
The alarm was raised. Bells clanged through the palace, a harsh, urgent sound that echoed down every corridor.
Outside, the knights skidded into action, swords drawn, armored boots pounding against the stone as they raced in pursuit of whoever they thought had caused chaos.
The news soon reached Nafteni, who resided in the comfort of her chamber.
She wept…bitterly, first for her sister and now for her father.
Pained beyond explanation, she picked up a quill and a scroll and wrote to her sister, Jia, who resided in Decreash.
In another chamber, a lone figure rested on the railing of the balcony, the terrace stretching out beneath him.
A striking presence, hair swept and dancing in the wind, catching the light with every subtle movement. His posture was relaxed yet commanding, perfectly framed against the fading sky, exuding an effortless elegance.
Deep brown eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the hallways below, taking in the distant commotion with calm detachment.
From above, he looked down on the palace with the quiet air of someone who saw all yet revealed nothing, a stark contrast to the chaos that raged within its walls.
A cup of wine rested in his hand, the deep red liquid catching the moonlight.
He brought it slowly to his lips, savoring the taste, before setting it down.
Pulling himself away from the wind and the view below, he disappeared into the shadowed interior of his chamber.
"He is dead."
Vagor said, setting the wine carefully on the table.
A deep, resonant voice came from someone who was reclined on his bed.
"You have truly proved… that you love me."
"I have proved nothing but my disloyalty… and my cruelty."
He lashed out, pressing his lips together tightly as he shut his eyes.
"He was my father…" he continued, his voice breaking with the weight of memory.
"No… he was the man who wanted to keep us apart," the voice from the bed replied calmly, every word chosen carefully, devoid of remorse.
"He refused to accept us as we are."
"Because what we are… isn't normal!"
Vagor's hands trembled as he snatched up the cup, hurling it against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crack, wine splattering across the stone like dark, liquid paint.
The sudden violence echoed through the chamber, a physical release of the storm inside him.
The figure on the bed remained completely unfazed, reclining with quiet detachment. He had long grown accustomed to this side of his lover.
"You cannot change a thing. What is done… is done," came the man's voice from the bed.
"Be glad. Rejoice… for you are soon to become the crowned King of Hamstung.
......
Decreasing Imperial Palace
"A letter for you, Your Grace," a maid announced as she stepped into the chamber, holding a folded envelope delicately in her hands.
It was surprising.
Jia hadn't received a letter in months—not since the world had seemed to forget her entirely.
Most days, she had been confined to her chambers, a forgotten figure in a palace that moved on without her.
"When did it arrive?" she asked, holding out her hand. The maid dutifully placed the envelope into her grasp.
"During the Hour of the Owl, last night," the maid replied, her voice soft and respectful.
Jia's gaze fell on the letter. The moment her eyes met the familiar strokes of the handwriting, her heart skipped a beat.
There was no mistaking it—this was from her dearest sister, Nafteni.
She broke the seal with practiced ease, unfolding the letter and reading the words with a blank expression.
Her eyes scanned the lines without a hint of emotion.
But when she reached the second paragraph, something in the words struck like a blow.
Her face darkened, shadows of grief crossing her features, and she stopped reading immediately, overcomed by sorrow.
With a swift, almost violent motion, she threw the letter aside. Her lashes fluttered rapidly, a silent effort to drive back the tears threatening to spill.
"Take it away," she said to the maid, her voice cold. The maid obeyed silently, retreating as Jia turned away, her back rigid.
Once the maid had left, she drew a shaky breath and pulled herself out of the hammock swing where she had been seated, playing a melodious tune with her flute.
She made her way to the corner of her chamber, where a small, unassuming box rested in the shadows. Kneeling, she opened it and drew out a black garment.
Her eyes darkened at the sight of it. She only remembered that garment when she had lost someone; it had been a silent witness to every loss she had endured.
Memories rose unbidden.
The sorrow she had borne when her sister Omelia had passed and the hollow ache that had clung to her for weeks.
And now, with the latest tragedy pressing down on her, the garment's presence felt like a cruel reminder.
Clothing herself in the black garment, designed like a hijab, she sank to her knees and fell forward, her forehead resting against the cool stone floor before a statue that stood at the heart of a small temple in her chamber.
The temple had always been her sanctuary, a quiet refuge where she came daily to worship and nurture her inner peace.
The soft flicker of candlelight, the subtle scent of incense, and the solemn presence of the statue had long offered her solace from the burdens of the palace.
In Hamstung, this way of life had always been part of her daily routine . Not a day passed without her worshipping, offering prayers to the statue of the Great One, as it was revered in their tradition.
Jia mourned her father, her face buried between her laps as tears streamed freely.
Her body shook with each sob, a physical manifestation of the grief that consumed her.
Through choked breaths, she raised her voice to the Great One, the deity she worshipped daily, the statue of a dragon.