The King lay still in his grand bed, a man of fifty-three years with skin like parchment and breath that came in shallow, rattling gasps in the hushed chamber.
A physician pressed a cold hand to the King's brow and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The signal rippled through the gathered court like a whisper across still water.
Men and women robed in the colors of their houses stood in attendance, their presence a tribute not to the dying King, but to the coming vacancy.
Lord Zorven of House Halvek, the House of Governance, stood among them. He positioned himself slightly apart from the others, a general surveying a battlefield he had already won.
Beside him, Lord Varion of House Valmorin, the House of Justice, spoke to no one. His presence cast a silent, unwavering judgment upon all who breathed in the chamber.
In the corner, Lord Maelor of House Thoryssa, the House of Wealth, wiped a tear from his eye with a sleeve of thick velvet. His grief seemed genuine enough, though a careful observer might notice how his gaze kept drifting to the heavy golden chests at the foot of the King's bed, his thoughts more on inheritance than mourning.
And finally, Lord Cedricus of House Sylvon, the House of Armies, stood by the door like a sentinel. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hawk-like eyes fixed upon Princess Calyss.
A hundred eyes, each harboring a different kind of ambition, all fixed upon the King's dying breath.
Princess Calyss stood alone in the center of the bedchamber, a solitary figure amid the vultures.
She looked upon them not with the eyes of a child, but with the eyes of a queen. She saw the lies behind their words, the greed in their gazes, and the ambition burning in their hearts.
***
The air hung heavy and cold in the Tomb of Kings, a vast circular chamber carved deep into the heart of the capital's mountain. The very walls formed a tapestry of history, etched with the names of every monarch who had ruled Fenroth.
Here, in the silence of a hundred kings, Calyss's father was laid to rest.
The rite of passage unfolded as a solemn ceremony, a fragile alliance of competing faiths. The High Priest of Moon Valora, the Fenroth goddess of Night stood at the head of the bier, his face a map of wrinkles earned through countless such ceremonies. Beside him stood the Royal Mages, cloaked in brown and silent as shadows.
The lords of the Houses gathered to one side, their faces carefully unreadable masks.
Calyss stood alone, a solitary figure wrapped in black. She did not weep.
She gazed upon the king her father one final time. A man of power now reduced to memory. He was no longer a king, no longer a father. He had become history.
The High Priest's final blessing echoed through the cavernous space. As the last word faded, a single, mournful gong rang out—a sound that marked the end of one era and the dawn of another.
The doors to the tomb were sealed with a heavy, grinding finality. The Houses turned away, their faces now wearing new masks of purpose.
The war had begun.