The royal palace awoke to the deep clang of bronze bells—
The kind that only rang on days of great ceremony.
Their echoes rolled through the marble corridors of the Third Kingdom,
Where mist still curled like silk over the city's Grecian towers,
And white birds fluttered above hanging gardens,
Shaking droplets of dew from petals below.
Inside the palace, everything moved in perfect rhythm—
As if time itself had been trained.
Servants floated like shadows around every corner,
Bowing in silence, carrying golden plates and crystal embossed with sun and moon symbols.
In her room, Neva sat before a wide mirror.
Behind her, servants twisted her silver hair into intricate braids—
Spells disguised as style, woven like ancient enchantments.
She watched her reflection with glassy, detached eyes—
Not impatient, not eager.
More like a third person watching a game that didn't belong to them.
Then her mother entered.
She smiled softly, as if greeting a statue, and said:
"Nothing about the coronation day stirs you, Neva?"
Neva didn't respond.
She brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face,
Refusing to let the servants touch her—preferring her own hand.
Then, with a trace of cold sarcasm, she answered:
"How many times must we celebrate someone sitting on a new chair?"
Her mother smiled—deeply, but not warmly.
A knowing smile.
Not joy, but understanding.
The smile of someone who knew the rules of the game all too well.
"In this world, Neva," she said quietly, "we don't celebrate for the throne…
We celebrate for the ones watching."
A pause.
Then, as if casting an old forgotten spell, she added:
"And remember… today, all who watch will remember faces, not names."
Neva turned toward her, locking eyes in the mirror.
"And which face will I be?" she asked.
Her mother didn't turn—only smiled faintly.
"The one in the front row," she said,
"smiling without saying a thing."
Then the bells rang again, louder this time—
Announcing the hour.
The day had begun.
Neva sat on a marble bench at the edge of a high balcony,
Her legs swinging gently as she toyed with a piece of golden candy using a tiny spoon.
Sunlight reflected off the white domes of the city.
Below, birds sang over ancient statues,
And the air shimmered like something waiting to be broken.
Footsteps approached, soft and controlled.
Elios, her elder brother and heir to the throne, emerged—
Draped in a blue robe embroidered with silver threads.
His crown tilted slightly on his head,
As if it had been placed there in a hurry.
Neva looked up at him lazily, tilting her head.
She smiled faintly, as if watching a scene in a comedy.
"Oh look," she said mockingly, "the future king has arrived…
And he can't even wear his robe properly."
Elios laughed—a short, tired sound.
But his eyes remained heavy.
"More like a jester in shiny clothes," he muttered.
Neva held up her candy like a chalice.
"And does His Majesty want a piece of sugar to guide him through his destiny?"
With a swift motion, Elios grabbed the candy and tossed it into his mouth—
Making her laugh.
"Hmmm," she said slyly, "stealing sweets at the start of your reign?
What a promising beginning."
For a moment, they both laughed—
A rare, brief echo of something they'd lost.
But the laughter faded quickly.
There was something behind it—
A hollowness.
They both knew it wasn't really funny.
After a pause, Elios asked, his voice lower:
"If you were me… would you sit on that throne, Neva?"
Neva stared at him for a long moment.
Then she replied coolly:
"I can't sit still in one chair for more than ten minutes—
Let alone a throne."
She paused, then added with a small sideways smile:
"But if I ever did…
I'd make sure everyone knew exactly who I was.
And I'd be the one pulling the strings."
Elios lowered his gaze, his voice dropping to a whisper:
"Sometimes… I feel the game started long ago.
And we were all just pieces on the board."
Neva said nothing.
She simply stirred her drink slowly,
The spoon clinking gently against the glass.
Far below the palace, in the sunless depths where even light hesitated to go,
A stone chamber breathed with quiet menace.
The air was thick—scented with burnt herbs, old incense, and something dry… like ash or dusted bones.
Torches burned with a bluish flame, flickering against walls draped in black velvet,
Each embroidered with the twin royal sigils of sun and moon.
At the center, a circular table stood—carved from a single piece of ancient wood,
Its surface etched with indecipherable symbols.
Four figures sat around it.
Each cloaked in gray or midnight, their faces hidden behind carved wooden masks—
Each mask stranger than the last.
The first advisor was tall and thin, with slumped shoulders and trembling hands.
His mask was dark wood, etched with a single incomplete circle—
One half etched in blue.
His voice was hoarse, like someone long ill,
And when he spoke, his hands shook slightly with age or something worse.
"It is done," he rasped.
"Elios will be crowned today… whether he wills it or not."
The second was broader—massive in frame, his mask webbed with crimson lines like veins.
He kept his head low, voice like thunder held beneath the surface.
But when he whispered, it shook the room.
"I saw it," he muttered.
"Shadows in his eyes… hesitation."
The third advisor wore a finely detailed mask, etched with geometric symbols like a maze.
His every movement was controlled, precise—
Even his breath measured.
He spoke coldly:
"The festival outside? We built it. Let them cheer.
They'll raise banners for light the moment we lift them."
He paused.
Then added with deliberate calm:
"If Elios ever thinks to break the script…
We have the means to return him to his true size."
The fourth was hunched, smaller than the rest,
His mask carved with a half-moon smile,
Though behind it, his breathing wheezed—barely audible, like someone trying not to die.
He whispered, like someone warning from under the floorboards:
"There's always… someone watching… behind the curtain."
A hush fell.
For a moment, the chamber itself seemed to inhale.
Then the third advisor chuckled—short and dark.
"And who," he said coolly, "would dare intervene?"
The first advisor raised a single finger and tapped the table three times—slow, deliberate.
"The play," he said, "is about to begin.
It will not end until all have bowed."