The morning hall was draped in silence. Heavy curtains of black velvet muffled the light, allowing only thin strands of dawn to filter through the tall windows. Candles flickered along the stone walls, their flames bending as though burdened by the grief they bore witness to.
At the center of the hall lay the casket of the late King, its polished wood veiled in black and crowned with a circlet of iron. Nobles in mourning attire filled the benches, heads bowed, expressions carved into masks of solemnity. Whispers had no place here—only silence, prayer, and the echo of grief that bound them all together.
Upon the dais, before the eyes of the court, sat the royal heirs: Prince Lucien and Princess Selene.
Selene's form was cloaked in layers of black silk, simple yet dignified. Her hands rested in her lap, pale against the dark fabric, fingers laced tightly together as though holding back the tide of sorrow. Yet her face betrayed no collapse. Her composure was remarkable—calm, poised, almost serene. To the nobles, she embodied grace. To her brother, she was more than grace.
Lucien, seated beside her, wore the same mourning black. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. His gloved hands rested lightly on the armrests, but his eyes—dark, watchful—remained fixed upon his sister. To the court, his gaze was the mark of protective loyalty. To those who looked closer, his stare lingered too long, carrying something unspoken, something that stirred unease without name.
Around them, siblings and half-siblings formed a quiet circle:
Seren, the youngest full sister at six years old, clutched a small prayer book, glancing up at Selene with trust and admiration.
Emric, a quiet ten-year-old half-brother, sat slightly behind Lucien, eyes darting across the room with measured curiosity.
Darian, fifteen, restless and fidgeting, hinted at the subtle tension that might grow in the coming years.
Lady Cressida, their twelve-year-old cousin, observed the scene quietly, her gaze flicking between Selene and Lucien as if reading something unspoken.
The bishop's voice rose, steady and sonorous, weaving prayers for the late King's soul. The words filled the chamber, yet to Lucien, they were little more than a droning hum. His attention never wavered from Selene—not even for the bier at the hall's center.
Scattered among the nobles were figures whose presence lent the hall life:
Duke Alaric, distinguished and stern, occasionally shifted in his seat, measuring Lucien with subtle approval.
Countess Virelle, serene, eyes lingering briefly on Selene, a faint admiration hidden in her composure.
Young Marquis Thane, half-bored and fidgeting with a signet ring, stole glances at Lucien, noting the growing authority in his posture.
Lady Isolde, quiet and elegant, nodded slightly toward the heirs, acknowledgment without intrusion.
Sir Darrin, loyal knight, stood near the dais, posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with silent vigilance.
Selene had always trusted Lucien. From childhood to this day of mourning, she had never doubted his hand, his guidance, his presence. That trust shone in every glance toward him, every unguarded moment she allowed herself.
And yet, fleeting as a shadow, there was a moment when Selene felt a weight in his gaze, heavier than the silence around them, pressing faintly upon her chest. But she dismissed it almost at once. It was only Lucien. Her brother. Steadfast as stone. What else could it be?
The ceremony lingered. Candles guttered. Ash drifted in faint spirals from the torches high above. Nobles offered their bows and murmured condolences. Selene accepted each with gentle nods, composure intact. Lucien accepted too, though his eyes never left her.
He leaned closer, voice low, meant only for her:
"Your composure humbles me, Selene. Few could sit so firmly in grief and still hold such light."
A faint crease touched her brow at his words. She read in them only care, perhaps admiration. Her lips curved faintly in response.
"I could not bear this without you beside me, Brother. It is your steadiness that gives me mine."
Lucien's smile was faint and brief. To her, it was shared strength. To him, confirmation of something far deeper. His hand rose, brushing lightly against her cheek, a gesture so careful, deliberate, it seemed an emblem of comfort. The court would see nothing but fraternal tenderness. Selene saw nothing more.
Yet his touch lingered just a fraction too long before he withdrew.
She felt it—the heaviness, the closeness that pressed softly around her whenever his hand lingered. But she dismissed it as quickly as it came. This was Lucien. He had always been her anchor.
Beyond the dais, shadows deepened. The stones of the palace seemed to hold their breath. Nobles whispered quietly among themselves; some observed Lucien and Selene. Others, like Duke Alaric and Countess Virelle, measured the room and its subtle currents. Even the youngest, like Lady Cressida and Seren, felt the hum of something unspoken, without understanding it.
No one dared speak of the King's sudden fall. The prayers covered much, but silence covered more. And Lucien sat unmoving, mask of dutiful grief upon his face. The court saw loyalty. Selene saw comfort. Only silence saw the truth.