The palace was drowning in silence. Not the kind that brought peace, but the kind that pressed heavy on the chest — suffocating, tense. The mourning banners still hung from the stone walls, black and solemn against the pale marble, fluttering listlessly in the cold breeze. But even in grief, the air had changed.
It wasn't sorrow that weighed down the servants rushing through the corridors — it was fear.
The old king was dead. And his son was about to take the throne.
The whispers had already begun — soft, frantic things behind closed doors. King Ewald had been a fair ruler, a man of wisdom and patience. His presence had been a steadying hand, a quiet strength. But the crown prince… he was something else entirely.
Althea Vallory, the royal chef or rather the former king's chef, moved through the chaos without a word, her steps swift and practiced. The halls were alive with preparation — the upcoming coronation leaving no room for stillness — but she kept her head down, her face calm. It was a skill she had perfected long ago, even when the storm raged inside her.
The old king had been kind to her. Far kinder than anyone had ever been. And though no one would see it, though she wouldn't let them — she was grieving.
The great hall was already filling when she slipped into the shadows, blending into the edges of the crowd. The room was a vast, echoing thing, the high ceilings stretching above like the sky itself. The air was thick with unease, the quiet broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the scrape of a boot against stone.
And then the doors opened.
The hush that fell was absolute.
Althea's breath caught.
For a heartbeat, it felt like the old king had returned. The man who stepped into the hall carried his father's face — the same sharp jawline, the same proud carriage, the same piercing eyes. But it took only a second longer to realize the resemblance ended there.
King Ewald's presence had been strong, yes — but steady, measured. This man was a storm. Where his father had ruled with grace, his son walked like a blade unsheathed, cutting through the air without a single word.
"His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Alaric of Veldora," the herald's voice rang out, breaking the silence. It echoed against the stone walls, but no one dared move.
Alaric's steps were slow, deliberate, each one a declaration in itself. He didn't acknowledge the crowd. He didn't need to. The weight of him filled the room, and it bent beneath his presence.
Althea kept her head lowered, but her eyes remained fixed on him. The longer she watched, the colder the air seemed to grow.
When he reached the dais, the High Chancellor stepped forward, his voice reverent and steady.
"On this day, we crown a new sovereign — the son of King Ewald, heir to the throne and ruler of Veldora." He turned to Alaric, his head bowed low. "Your Grace, do you swear to uphold the laws and honor of this empire? To lead with wisdom, strength, and justice?"
For a moment, Alaric said nothing. The pause stretched long enough that the crowd began to shift uneasily.
"I swear it," he said at last — his voice low and smooth, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
The coronation moved forward from there, but Althea barely heard it. The weight of his presence was enough to keep her rooted where she stood, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her throat. When the crown — his father's crown — was placed upon his head, the shift was instant.
The air grew colder. The silence grew sharper.
And as the new king turned to face his people, his gaze sweeping across the room like a blade, everyone knew the truth.
The age of kindness had ended.