The throne room was filled with the quiet hum of political debate.
the weight of governance pressing heavily on Artizea's shoulders as she presided over the day's proceedings.
Her crimson robes swept the floor as she sat upon the golden throne, her expression composed but distant.
The loss of her father still lingered in her heart, but she had buried her grief beneath her duties as queen.
She was mid-sentence when the doors to the throne room burst open with a deafening clang.
A nurse stumbled in.
her face pale as parchment, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.
"Your Highness—the princess!" She cried, her voice breaking.
Artizea's breath hitched. Her eyes widened, the color draining from her face.
The world seemed to stop as she froze in her seat. "What about my daughter?" she demanded, her voice sharp but trembling.
The nurse's words were choked, as if saying them would shatter her own resolve.
"She… she isn't breathing, Your Highness. We tried everything, but…"
Artizea didn't wait for the rest.
She rose from her throne so quickly that the courtiers around her stumbled back in surprise.
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing like thunder as her mind raced.
Without a word, she turned and ran, her robes trailing behind her as she sprinted from the throne room.
At the same moment, high above in the celestial plane, a messenger arrived in the halls of heaven. Rhyssand sat in the council chamber, reviewing scrolls detailing the affairs of the mortal realms.
He had been juggling his duties as king and Artizea's husband, balancing the weight of two worlds.
but he had learned to manage the burden.
A messenger approached, bowing low as he handed over a sealed scroll.
The messenger bowed deeply, his face solemn as he presented the sealed scroll. "Your Majesty, urgent news from Babylon."
Rhyssand took the scroll, his brow furrowing as he broke the seal.
As he read, the color drained from his face. His hands began to tremble, and the scroll slipped from his fingers, floating to the marble floor.
He dropped to his knees, the sound of his armor striking the ground reverberating through the chamber.
His breath came in shallow gasps as the words repeated in his mind: The princess is dead.
And then it came—the sound that pierced even the divine tranquility of heaven.
Artizea's scream.
raw and unrelenting, cut through the air like a blade. It was a cry of anguish so profound that it echoed across realms, shattering the hearts of all who heard it.
Rhyssand closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face as her grief reached him even in the celestial plane.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as his own sorrow swelled.
For a moment, he was no longer a king or a god—just a man broken by the loss of his child and the pain of his wife.
In the mortal palace, Artizea stumbled into the nursery, her heart racing faster than it ever had.
The sight before her was like a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
Her baby girl lay in her crib, her tiny form unnaturally still.
The nurse hovered nearby, wringing her hands, her face wet with tears.
Artizea fell to her knees beside the crib, her trembling hands reaching out to touch her daughter's face.
"No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "No, no, no. Please, no."
The baby's skin was cold beneath her touch. Artizea's breathing became erratic, her vision blurring with tears. "Wake up," she pleaded, her voice rising in desperation. "Please, my darling, wake up!"
She scooped the baby into her arms, rocking her gently as if the motion could bring her back to life.
Her sobs echoed through the room, each one more heart-wrenching than the last.
Her daughter, just eight months old, lay still, wrapped in a delicate blanket that now seemed to mock the vibrancy of life it once held.
"No," Artizea whispered, her voice trembling.
Rhyssand appeared moments later, his face stricken as he entered the nursery.
He stopped in the doorway, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took in the scene before him.
Artizea, broken and sobbing over their daughter's still form, was a sight that nearly brought him to his knees again.
"Tizea," he said softly, his voice
His face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot as he took in the scene.
He moved toward her but stopped when he saw the look on her face—utter devastation, a kind of pain that words couldn't touch.
"She's gone," Artizea choked out, clutching the baby to her chest. " she's gone.Rhys."
Rhyssand sank to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch their daughter's tiny hand. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Artizea's shoulder as tears streamed down his face.
He didn't try to speak; there was nothing to say that could lessen the weight of their grief.
Artizea's screams had quieted to muffled sobs, but the pain in her voice was still palpable.
The two of them sat there, clinging to each other and to the lifeless body of their child, as the night stretched on endlessly.
The palace seemed to hold its breath, the weight of their sorrow blanketing everything.
Artizea, queen of Babylon and daughter of kings, felt utterly powerless.
Rhyssand, king of heaven, felt as though all his divine strength meant nothing.
Together, they mourned the loss of their daughter—their light, their hope, their joy—and the world seemed a little darker for her absence.
TO BE CONTINUED
[BOOK 4 FINAL]
THE FATE OF A DYNASTY