The Grand Hall of the palace stood bathed in ceremonial silence.
Its arched ceiling shimmered with a thousand crystal lights,
Each one pulsing like a star as dawn's glow filtered through the stained glass.
Maps of the Five Kingdoms were etched into the ancient walls.
Beneath them, hundreds sat in hushed rows—
Nobles, generals, scholars—
Their eyes fixed on the lone throne that awaited its heir.
Elios stood at the hall's front,
Draped in a royal robe of deep cobalt,
Silver lines spiraling around him like constellations—
Maps sewn into fabric, secrets into seams.
His face was pale but steady.
If there was fear, he hid it like a mask.
Behind him, four guards stepped forward,
Each carrying a long scepter crowned with twin emblems—sun and moon entwined.
They raised them slowly, and the air trembled with the sacred rhythm.
The hall held its breath.
Then Elios climbed the final steps alone,
Each footfall echoing with hollow gravity.
A deep, resonant thud rang out behind him—
The sound of the great ceremonial scepter striking marble.
As he neared the throne, the light from the ceiling bent—
Narrowing into a golden shaft, illuminating only him.
It looked as though he walked beneath a personal sun.
He reached the final step.
And stopped.
The silence was absolute.
Then the king entered—
Orestes, ruler of the Third Kingdom.
A towering man with a silver-streaked beard and eyes like carved stone,
His white royal cloak shimmered with gold—
He looked less like a man than a statue brought to life.
Without ceremony, without advisors,
He stepped beside his son and held the crown in his bare hands.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The moment was heavier than law.
Orestes raised the crown slowly,
And his voice—deep and thunderous—rolled across the hall:
> "People of the Third Kingdom… Citizens of the Five…
Since time immemorial, our light has journeyed beyond mountains and seas—
Beyond even the shadow of the sky.
But once in every age, one is born among us who does not seek to rule—
But to carry the light forward.
Today, I stand not as king, but as father…
And I crown my son, not to possess power—
But to protect it."
And with that, he placed the crown on Elios's head.
The hall erupted in light.
A hush swept across the crowd, then soft music began to play—
Faint notes from ancient harps, like the echo of stars.
The applause was slow.
Not weak—but heavy.
It sounded like fate accepting itself.
Orestes returned to his seat beside the queen, Mira—
A silver-haired woman with a small jeweled crown and calm, impenetrable eyes.
She sat like a mountain, quiet but unmovable.
As he sat down, Orestes sighed—
A quiet, tired breath that seemed to drop a mountain from his shoulders.
He turned to his wife and whispered low:
"He did it.
He took the throne…
But I don't know if he can carry the weight."
Mira smiled faintly,
And whispered like night air:
"Elios was born of light.
He is stronger than he seems…
Perhaps stronger than you were."
Then—
A single, unexpected laugh echoed across the room.
Neva.
She clapped her hands with exaggerated joy,
Her voice high and clear, slicing through the silence like a gleaming blade.
"Yes!" she shouted, eyes bright and innocent.
"My brother did it! The smartest and strongest in the kingdom!"
All heads turned in shock.
Gasps. Stares. Murmurs.
Neva stood unbothered, her hands raised in genuine applause,
Her eyes gleaming like a child's on a festival night.
Mira leaned toward Orestes, laughing softly.
"She always knows how to restore balance," she said fondly.
"That's Neva for you."
Orestes laughed too—quiet and honest.
A rare, true sound he hadn't made in years.
"Maybe," he whispered,
"we should crown her one day."
Elios turned slightly, watching his family with a soft smile—
Real. Fleeting.
But behind his eyes…
A shadow lingered.
A weight that not even the crown could disguise.
Far from the towering spires of the Third Kingdom,
In the First Kingdom's crowded streets,
People had gathered in squares beneath colossal screens,
Watching the coronation unfold in glowing fragments.
Flags of white and green danced between rooftops,
Flapping gently in the evening breeze.
The air smelled of sweet pastries, grilled meat, and fresh bread.
Laughter curled through alleyways like smoke.
The moment the broadcast ended, the crowd erupted—
Cheering, clapping, dazzled.
From within the crowd, a boy with bright eyes and boundless energy jumped excitedly.
"Did you see that?!" he shouted. "The crown! That scene—wow!
I wish I were a prince too!
Did you see how it sparkled?"
Beside him, another boy laughed softly—older, calmer.
Koran.
With a sideways smirk, he replied:
"Hmm…
The crown looked heavy, more than shiny."
Their mother, standing close, smiled at them both—gently placing a hand on Koran's shoulder to keep him from stepping too far into the thick of the crowd.
"The crown is never just decoration, Timo," she said, her voice quiet and warm.
"It's always heavier with responsibility."
But Timo only grinned wider.
"Still… I'm sure Elios will make everything better!
Maybe longer holidays!
Better festivals!
Wouldn't that be great?"
Koran chuckled, nudging his friend.
"Honestly," he whispered,
"I think that's what everyone's hoping for."
The three stood for a moment, watching as new footage began to roll on the towering screens—
Clips from other cities, other cheers,
Other lives.
Koran didn't look away.
He wasn't different from the crowd.
But he wasn't like them either.
He was watching… as if trying to see more than what was shown.
For a moment, he lifted his eyes to the image of Elios on the throne—
Surrounded by light, symbols, and celebration.
Then, softly, Koran whispered:
"Strange…
How one moment can change everything about a person.
At least… for everyone else."
His mother looked up at him, her gaze gentle but deep.
"That's the way of the world, my son," she said.
"Fate makes its announcements not through words…
But on the crowns we place above heads."
Koran smiled faintly and turned to her—
No longer confused.
Just thoughtful.
Then she wrapped her arm around both boys and pulled them close.
"Come," she said kindly.
"It's getting late. Let's go before the crowd thickens again."
They walked together down the quieter streets,
Past lanterns casting gold across stone,
Past the scent of burnt sugar and wildflowers.
---
The Night After the Celebration
By the time they reached their neighborhood,
The streets had emptied.
The festival's roar had faded to whispers.
Small houses lined the path, their balconies wrapped in vines and soft lights.
From cracked windows, the glow of lanterns spilled like breath.
They stopped outside Timo's house, a small stone home with a low roof and warm lights inside.
"This was the best day in months!" Timo said with a wide grin.
"Thanks!"
"Don't forget to wake up early tomorrow," his mother reminded him, smiling.
"I promise!" he laughed, racing up the steps toward the door.
He waved to Koran and his mother, still laughing as he disappeared inside.
They turned and headed home, the streets quiet behind them.
When they arrived, Koran kicked off his shoes lazily and flopped onto the couch.
Nothing felt out of place.
It was a peaceful night.
Too peaceful, maybe.
"School tomorrow, Koran," his mother called gently, her voice sleepy.
"Go on to bed."
He yawned and nodded,
Climbing the stairs to his room slowly,
His limbs heavy with festival dust.
But sleep didn't come.
The house was still.
Too still.
The silence was complete—
Until a sound broke it.
A faint… muffled… cry.
Koran sat up, confused.
He listened.
It came again.
Not loud. Not sharp.
A low, aching sound… like someone trying not to be heard.
He stepped out of bed barefoot, moving slowly,
Holding his breath so he wouldn't make a sound.
He descended the stairs one by one.
The sound grew clearer with each step—
A quiet sob, from someone trying to stay silent.
In the far corner of the room, hunched in the shadows,
Sat his mother.
She was weeping.
Her face hidden in her hands.
And from between her trembling lips, a whisper—
So quiet it barely existed:
> "Why…
Why did you leave us…?"
She didn't know he was there.
Didn't know he was listening.
But he understood.
She meant his father.
Koran froze on the stairs, a strange weight blooming in his chest—
Not sorrow.
Not even pity.
Something heavier.
Something quiet.
A sense of helplessness… that maybe he'd always known.
He didn't think.
He just moved.
He descended quietly, slowly,
Then approached her—silent as dusk.
She noticed him suddenly,
Lifting her head in panic, hurriedly wiping her tears.
He said nothing.
He just sat beside her.
Gently.
Without words.
And wrapped his arms around her.
She hesitated at first, confused.
Then, in silence, she leaned into his shoulder.
And wept.
They didn't speak.
Didn't explain.
There was nothing to explain.
They just sat together.
> Some nights need no words.
Just the silence…
And the warmth of not being alone.