The firelight in King Aldric's war chamber cast long, flickering shadows across the map-strewn table. Blades lined the walls, glinting with the heat of the flames. Above, a black and silver banner hung—Velmora's sigil, twin wolves encircling a crown of stone.
A knock.
A moment later, the heavy wooden door opened, and in stepped Commander Kael—Aldric's right hand, his shadow in war and silence.
He bowed deeply. "All are ready, Your Majesty."
Aldric gave a small nod. No words wasted.
He turned, reached for his sword, and fastened it to the thick leather strap across his chest. The steel clicked into place. He adjusted his black fur cloak and strode toward the door.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with preparation. Horses pawed the snow-packed ground. Chariots were being hitched. Servants scurried in and out of lines of soldiers, loading supplies, tightening ropes, organizing ranks.
Today, they would move.
From the outpost fortress to Velmora's true seat of power.
The main palace.
In the dim, stone-walled room at the far end of the eastern wing, Aurora lay curled on her bed, unmoving. Her skin was pale, lips dry and slightly blue, her fingers stiff and splotched with early frostbite. Her breaths were shallow. Ragged.
She hadn't spoken in days.
Since returning from the snow, the cold had settled inside her—beneath the skin, in her lungs, in her bones. Her joints ached constantly, and every attempt to move sent dizziness rushing through her skull. She could barely open her eyes.
A knock came at the door. When it creaked open, she didn't react. She didn't have the strength.
The seamstress entered first, her cloak sweeping behind her. When she laid eyes on Aurora and saw the state she was in, for the first time since Aurora had arrived, something close to pity flickered in her eyes.
Two attendants followed behind her, their expressions unsure. The seamstress stepped forward, took one look at Aurora, then gave a silent nod to the girls.
"Lift her," she said softly.
The attendants approached. Aurora didn't resist. She couldn't. Her body was lead. Her breath made small clouds in the air as they carefully propped her up and placed her in a straight-backed chair near the small, cracked mirror on the wall.
She blinked—just barely.
Everything was hazy.
The seamstress began unfolding familiar blue fabric.
"You are to be dressed," she said, voice calm but not unkind. "We're moving to the main palace."
Aurora blinked again, sluggishly, as the words sank in.
Main palace? Aren't we in the palace already?
As if the seamstress had plucked the thought from her mind, she went on, brushing knots from Aurora's damp hair.
"This isn't Velmora's main palace. This is the outskirt fortress—where His Majesty stays after returning from war. A place for soldiers. Rough. Cold. Far from the capital."
She paused to pin a braid into place, then added, "The queens are here for the first time. At the orders of the king's mother. That's why you've seen them around."
Aurora's eyes shifted, barely, but something clicked.
That explains it…
All this time, she thought this place—this cold, crumbling structure—was the Velmora she'd heard of in Elareth. Powerful. Grand. Rich.
But this outpost was nothing like the tales.
No villages. No people. Only soldiers. Servants. Silence. It always felt… temporary.
Her thoughts spun. If I'm suffering like this here, what would happen to me in the main palace?
A palace full of power. Of watchers. Of enemies. Of queens. Of king Aldric.
The thought made her shiver harder than the cold ever had.
When the dressing was done, her long white hair braided and pinned back, the familiar blue cloak pulled over her shoulders, one of the attendants picked up her small wooden box—the only thing she'd brought from Elareth.
They lifted her gently to her feet and walked out of the chamber.
Outside, the entire palace was in formation.
Snow had fallen again, blanketing everything in a fresh layer of white. Soldiers stood in perfect rows. Commanders sat tall on their warhorses. Servants lined up beside wagons and supplies. The queens, each robed in thick velvet and furs, were being helped into separate chariots by footmen.
King Aldric, dressed in his traveling armor, sat astride a massive black horse, eyes like sharpened flint, watching everything.
Aurora stepped out, leaning heavily against one attendant, her boots crunching in the snow.
At the sight of Aldric, the seamstress, the attendants and Aurora herself—all bowed low.
A wagon was brought near for Aurora to be lifted into it when Aldric's voice, calm and cold, cut through the air.
"She walks."
Silence fell. Selene chuckled softly inside her wagon.
Aurora's head turned weakly.
Aldric stared at her from atop his horse. "She walks," he repeated. "To the palace, with the others."
Silent gasps rose. A few servants exchanged uncertain glances, but no one dared protest.
Aurora remained on her knees, having just bowed. She hadn't the strength to even fully rise.
Her heart sank. Her hands trembled.
He was watching. Everyone was watching. And still, he expected her to obey.
The seamstress and the two servants, having set down her wooden box, went down the stairs to join the others.
Aurora breathed slowly—her chest tight, limbs burning from inside—but began to move.
She sat up. Her fingers curled around her box, and she used it as support to rise.
Her knees buckled.
The world swayed.
But she forced herself up.
One step forward. Then another.
Then— Her foot caught the edge of the stairs.
She rolled, once—twice—and landed at the bottom with a sickening thud against the icy ground.
Her limbs sprawled, her face half-buried in snow. Still. Unmoving.
A low murmur spread through the gathered crowd.
She didn't respond. Didn't lift her head. Didn't even breathe—she had already passed out.
Her white hair lay like spilled snow across the courtyard.
-
Aurora's body stirred, then she felt it—warmth. Real warmth.
It wrapped around her like a thick, invisible blanket—seeping into her skin, her bones, chasing away the cold that had nearly killed her.
Her eyelids fluttered.
She expected pain. The aching weight of her limbs. The scratchy straw mattress. The damp chill of her stone chamber. But instead… her back sank into something soft. Silk sheets. A plush mattress beneath her.
Her fingers twitched against the satin blanket.
Her eyes opened.
The ceiling above her wasn't cracked or grey—it was high and arched, etched with golden vines that gleamed in the soft light. She turned her head slightly, blinking at her surroundings.
Her breath caught.
The chamber was nothing short of majestic.
Creamy marble floors stretched out beneath ornate rugs, walls trimmed in deep gold carvings of falcons and thorns—Velmora's royal crest. A roaring hearth glowed in the corner, its fire warm and gentle. Thick curtains, embroidered with golden thread, framed massive windows.
And the light….. Sunlight spilled through the glass like liquid honey, illuminating everything in a golden haze.
Where am I? she thought, heartbeat picking up.
Am I… dead? Is this the afterlife?
She sat up too fast, momentarily dizzy. Her white hair tumbled down her shoulders, brushed and clean, no longer matted or tangled. She looked around again, eyes wide, disoriented.
This chamber… this warmth… what is this?.
She threw the blanket off slowly and stepped onto the floor barefoot, every movement cautious, like the dream might shatter. She wandered toward the nearest window.
And what she saw made her gasp aloud.
There—beyond the towering palace walls—lay the real Velmora.
Villages scattered like stars across the valley, smoke curling from chimneys. Fields spread wide, dotted with laborers and animals. Roads curved like ribbons through the snowy hills, carts and people bustling with life.
There are people here… Not just soldiers.
She turned her gaze downward into the palace compound.
Guards marched in rhythmic formation, their armor glinting in the sun. Servants glided across the paths, holding trays, fabrics, scrolls. There were fountains. Statues. Gardens laced in frost. Laughter carried faintly on the air.
It was… beautiful.
A kingdom alive.
Aurora backed away from the window slowly, stunned. This must be the main palace, she thought. Turning to face the room again, she whispered "Is this—no…" She shook her head. "…this can't be mine. This can't be my chamber. There's been a mistake…"
She clutched her arms around herself, trying to remember—when did we arrive? Was I carried here? Dragged? How—
A sudden knock.
She flinched.
Then the tall golden doors creaked open… and in walked eight young women, all dressed in matching silks, each carrying folded cloth, polished trays, or brushes.
They walked with grace and precision, heads bowed. They stopped just before her, then bowed low.
One of them stepped forward and spoke gently.
"You are awake, Your Highness."
Aurora blinked. Your what?
She glanced behind her, as if someone else might be standing there—someone they meant instead. But no. There was only her. Pale, barefoot, confused.
She faced the girl again. Her voice was soft, dry. "How long… have I been asleep?"
"Four days, Your Highness," the girl replied, hands clasped. "You were brought in by His Majesty himself. The royal physician was summoned immediately. You've been under his care ever since."
Aurora's lips parted. She struggled to speak.
He carried me?
The king?
And his own physician tended to me…?
She looked down at her hands—no more blisters. No more ice burns. The numbness was gone. She was… healing.
Another servant stepped forward with a small bow. "This is your chamber, Your Highness. We are your personal maids. All eight of us are assigned to your service from this day on. By royal order."
Aurora just stared, unsure if she had heard them correctly.
The gold-framed mirror. The silk curtains. The fire. The carved table by the window. Mine? And had they just mentioned personal maids?
"I… I don't understand," she murmured.
But they only bowed again.
One of them interrupted her daze with a polite smile. "The royal dining table is likely being set now, My Lady. If you're able, we'll help prepare you."
At the mention of food, Aurora's stomach roared. She winced and placed a hand to it.
The servants smiled knowingly.
She braced herself for the usual—they'll choose blue again, she thought. Some cold order from Aldric, some uniform they expected her to wear.
But instead—
"Which color do you prefer to wear today, Your Highness?"
Aurora blinked. "What?"
"Which color, My Lady?"
She hesitated. Then her eyes drifted to the firelight… to the pale sheets… to the delicate shimmer of gold around the room.
"…White," she whispered. "And gold embroidery."
"As you wish. My lady."
They moved at once.
In perfect harmony, they brought out the fabrics—layers of silk and velvet, threaded in shining gold. They dressed her with gentle hands, smoothing each fold with care. They laced her into a gown that shimmered like moonlight. Her long white hair was brushed, oiled with a scent like winter roses, and braided back with gold clasps.
While they dressed her, she kept casting nervous glances about the room and toward them. If this was a dream, she thought, she needed to wake up—quickly.
When they were done, they led her to the mirror.
She gasped.
A girl stared back—but not the one she remembered.
This one was regal. Luminous. Her pale skin was warm now, her lashes long, her lips no longer cracked but soft, with a hint of rose. The dress was beautiful.
I looked like—No, she thought, not a princess.
A goddess.
She turned slightly. Then again. She was amazed.
Just as she turned from the mirror, breath caught in her throat at the reflection she barely recognized, one of the maids stepped forward—hands cupped, reverently holding something wrapped in velvet.
She unfolded the cloth slowly, and nestled inside was a delicate golden tiara, shaped like twisting vines and adorned with the smallest pearls and icy blue gemstones that glinted like frost.
Without a word, the maid stepped close, bowed her head, and gently placed it atop Aurora's hair, letting it rest over her hair like it had always belonged there.
The room stilled.
Aurora reached up slowly, fingers brushing the cool metal, her heart skipping.
A tiara.
Not a servant's cap. Not chains. A crown.
Placed not by mockery, not in jest—but in quiet recognition.
She was dressed in white. Surrounded by warmth. And now, crowned like the queen she had been declared.
A soft breath left her lips.
Who am I becoming? she wondered.
But no answer came—only the soft rustle of silk and the distant toll of the palace bell.
"Shall we go to the royal dining hall now, my lady?" one of the maids asked. "The Queen Mother should be on her way as well."
Aurora's eyes widened at the mention of the Queen Mother. "You mean His Majesty's mother will be at the table too?"
"Yes, my lady."
Sheer terror crossed her face. I'm meeting the King's mother? Her thoughts spiraled. If King Aldric was wicked, what would his mother be like?
She followed them anyway, her heart pounding, already certain the meeting would not end in mercy.