The peace lasted exactly forty-seven days.
On the forty-eighth morning, a rider came from the far west. One horse, half-dead with exhaustion, no banner. The man collapsed at the palace gates clutching a black iron box no bigger than a heart.
Star and Elandor were in the small council chamber when the box was brought in. The rider had died before he could speak, but his last act had been to carve a single word into the box lid with his dagger: RUN.
Inside lay a crown.
Not gold. Not silver. Black iron, ancient, pitted, thorns twisted inward so any wearer would bleed. A single red gem sat at the front like a drop of frozen blood.
Advisor Thorne (mask still perfect, voice calm as winter) broke the silence.
