I never thought I’d return to Eldenhold as king. The last time I walked these halls, I was the boy who hid behind scrolls during war councils, the prince whose voice cracked when he spoke. Now, the weight of the crown presses into my skull like a brand.

The throne room is colder than I remember. Marble columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of conquest—my father slaying dragons, my brother breaking spears. I sit stiffly, trying to mimic their posture, but my hands tremble in my lap.

That evening, I seek refuge in the Royal Library. Dust motes swirl in the candlelight as I trace the spine of an old grimoire. Then, footsteps. Soft, deliberate.

It’s Queen Lysara. My father’s widow. She wears black silk edged with silver, her dark hair coiled like a serpent. Her eyes—deep green, knowing—lock onto mine.

‘You look like him,’ she says, ‘but softer. Gentler. Like moonlight instead of fire.’

I swallow. ‘I… I didn’t mean to intrude.’

She steps closer. ‘You’re not intruding, Elias. You belong here. More than most.’ Her fingers brush my cheek. ‘And perhaps… you belong somewhere else too.’

Before I can respond, the door creaks open again.

Ismene. My brother’s wife. Clad in battle leathers still dusted with ash from the funeral pyre, she stares at us—then smirks.

‘So,’ she says, voice low, ‘the scholar finally has suitors.’

Lysara doesn’t flinch. ‘Grief brings people together.’

‘Yes,’ Ismene replies, stepping forward. ‘It does. And so does hunger.’ Her gaze burns into me. ‘Don’t it, King?’