Elowen's POV.
Her thoughts in quotation marks.
Restrained emotion.
No em dashes.
The bells began before dawn.
Not the measured rhythm of prayer. Not the steady toll of assembly.
These were slow. Spaced. Final.
I sat upright before anyone came to tell me. My body already knew.
"The King is dead," I thought.
The words did not break me. They settled, heavy but unsurprising. The palace had been holding its breath for days. Now it exhaled.
A knock followed soon after. Softer than usual.
"Your Grace," the maid whispered when she entered. Her eyes were red. "His Majesty passed in the night."
I nodded once.
"Thank you."
She lingered as if expecting tears. When none came, she bowed and withdrew.
The room felt larger somehow. Emptier. As if something foundational had been removed and the walls had not yet realized they were unsupported.
By midday the corridors were a storm of hushed urgency. Black cloth draped across balconies. Courtiers moved in clusters, speaking in lowered tones that sharpened when I passed.
"He is King now," I thought. "Not almost. Not nearly. Now."
Cassian had not come to me.
He would be with the council. With the generals. With the body of his father.
I stood before the mirror while my ladies dressed me in mourning silk. The fabric was heavier than my usual gowns, the dark color deepening the pallor of my skin.
"You must look composed," I told my reflection. "Queens do not unravel in hallways."
Before the hour turned, another announcement rippled through the court.
The neighboring kingdom had formally declared war.
No surprise there either.
Rowan's death had never been left unanswered. This was simply the moment consequence found its voice.
I felt it then. Not fear. Not grief.
Pressure.
As though invisible hands had begun shaping the future around us, tightening it, narrowing it.
The coronation would be held within days. There was no time for extended mourning. Stability had to be displayed. Strength had to be performed.
In the throne hall, preparations had already begun. Gold polished. Banners adjusted. The crown removed from its velvet case and inspected by trembling hands.
It gleamed under torchlight.
I watched from the upper gallery, unseen.
"That will sit on his head," I thought. "And it will never come off."
A part of me wanted to search for him. To stand beside him as the weight descended. Another part held still.
He had chosen power long before he began choosing me.
And yet.
When I finally saw him crossing the courtyard below, surrounded by guards, something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
He walked differently now.
Straighter. Colder.
Alone.
The distance between us felt altered. Not wider. Sharper.
"He belongs to the throne," I thought. "But he still kissed my forehead before he left."
The memory felt fragile against the magnitude of everything else.
Trumpets sounded across the palace, announcing the formal period of succession. Servants dropped into bows. Nobles lowered their heads.
Cassian did not look up.
He carried grief the way he carried authority. Controlled. Contained.
I wondered briefly if he had allowed himself a single private moment beside his father's body. If he had felt like a son before becoming a king.
"You cannot ask him that," I thought. "Not today."
War preparations began almost immediately. Messengers dispatched. Armories opened. Strategy rooms sealed.
The palace no longer whispered.
It braced.
As evening approached, I remained in my chambers, the mourning veil resting against my shoulders. The quiet returned, but it was not peaceful. It was anticipatory.
Tonight he would return to me as king.
Not prince.
Not almost.
King.
And I did not know whether that would bring him closer or take him somewhere I could not follow.
I touched my forehead where he had kissed me that morning.
"He said he would return in the evening," I thought. "Kings do not always keep promises."
Outside, the bells rang again.
This time not for death.
For reign.