In the privacy of Lord Varion's study, the air was thick with fury. The three lords; Varion, Zorven, and Maelor paced like caged animals, their earlier confidence replaced by seething rage.
"The old fool!" Lord Maelor snarled, his jovial mask gone. "He took our gold, he promised us the words of the gods, and he gave us silence! He has betrayed us!"
"Patience, Lord Maelor," Lord Zorven said, though his own eyes held a cold fire. "A serpent does not strike in the open. It waits for the right moment. The High Priest is a serpent. We will get our revenge."
Suddenly, Lord Mylis, Varion's son, burst into the room. His face was flushed with anger, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "Father, give me the word," he demanded. "I will take a legion and burn that shrine to the ground! We will charge him with treason and dark magic."
"And you would be a fool to do so," Lord Varion replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The people have trust in the High Priest. They will not believe that he plotted treason; they will believe that we, the Houses, are the traitors. We cannot turn the people against us. We need them to believe in our cause."
Mylis, his face a mask of frustration, stepped back. "Then what do we do? We have lost a crucial battle. The queen has been strengthened by this act of defiance."
"We wait," Lord Varion said, his gaze fixed on a map of the kingdom. "The High Priest is a pawn, and we will deal with him. But first, we must deal with the queen. We must turn her own people against her. We must show them that she is not a true ruler, but a mere girl who will curse upon the kingdom."
The three lords, their fury now a cold, calculating resolve, began to plot their next move. The war for the throne was far from over. It had just begun.
***
In a dimly lit chamber within the House of Valmorin, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and cold ambition. Lord Varion, his mind still seething from the High Priest's betrayal, stood opposite a cloaked figure: a mage who served the High Priest. Varion, ever the pragmatist, had summoned him not for a sermon, but for answers. His own religious beliefs were a fragile thing.
"Tell me, mage," Varion began, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "Is this prophecy of the Queen Eternal truly real? The one the old priest so dearly preaches about?"
The mage, a slight man with eyes that seemed to hold ancient knowledge, nodded slowly. "It is, my Lord. The prophecy is etched in the oldest of our sacred texts, a foundation of our faith. It speaks of a queen who will come to rid the world of a great evil."
"And the evil?" Varion scoffed, a flicker of a mocking smile on his lips. "These 'Sisters of the Skull'—are they real? When would they show themselves now?"
The mage's eyes grew wide, a look of profound fear on his face. "According to the ancient texts, they are dreadful beings of pure evil. They will rise when the Queen Eternal rises. It is a balance, my Lord. One cannot exist without the other. They can also be summoned through a forbidden ritual, but way too risky."
Lord Varion's smile turned into a full-throated laugh. It was a cold, humorless sound that echoed through the room. "Nonsense!" he roared. "Children's bedtime stories, all of it." He turned and walked away, his laughter trailing behind him. He had his answers. He would not be bothered by these fairytales. He had a kingdom to conquer.
***
The Grand Hall of the Fenroth Empire was filled with people from all nooks and crannies of Fenroth, to its towering ceiling with the empire's nobility. A thousand eyes, a thousand whispers, all of them fixed on the small, solitary figure walking toward the throne.
Calyss was no longer a princess. The black of mourning still clung to her clothes, but over it, she wore the heavy, ceremonial robes of a new monarch. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of a new war. She felt every single gaze, every breath, every whispered judgment. She was too young, they thought. Too frail. Too untested.
She walked a long, lonely path, a path her father had walked before her, and his father before him. It was a path that led to a cage, a throne of gold and stone, and a crown that would either give her power or break her.
She reached the dais. The High Priest of Moon Valora, his face a web of a thousand wrinkles, lifted the Crown of Fenroth from its velvet cushion.
He placed it on her head.
She stood up.
"All hail the Queen" The Hand echoed. Everyone stood up in their number, and bowed.
She met the thousand eyes of the empire. She was not a princess anymore. She was a queen.