When a story begins with joy, will it always find its way to happiness, or must peace be born of suffering? This world suffocates me in its hypocrisy, a dream forever out of reach. Grievance clings to me like a shadow, a sorrow I cannot shed. For one I loved yet could never claim is gone, dissipate like dust in the wind, leaving only emptiness in her throne.

  I can only loom deep within the abyss, tormented and scarred. Inside of the forest, dark as night. Even though day stood still, darkness lingers encapsulate the whole forest. Far away from the town that I once called home, my Radovia.

  Radovia was once a proud kingdom, bustling with life. Laughter filled the markets, the air was sweet with hops, ale, grapes, and jasmine. Hope danced in every corner, in every smile, warming even the coldest hearts. The forest on the outskirts of Radovia bloomed with vibrant fruits and teemed with animals that ran freely. Its hills were covered with endless vineyards, and the people were as warm as the sunlight that blessed their fertile lands. It was a kingdom led not by the strength of swords or the wealth of gold, but by the wisdom of its queens. For centuries, Radovia had flourished under a matriarchal rule, where strength and compassion walked hand in hand.

  Festivals lit the kingdom every year with joy: the Lunara Festival, when we praise our Goddess Lunara, where lanterns painted the night sky, every beginning of the year we always celebrate it. The Astera Festival, where the people honored our queen by casting red dahlias into the Cauntea River, the lifeblood of our land.

  I remember Queen Isabella’s coronation as if it were yesterday. She was radiant and wise, a light that pierced the darkest corners of this kingdom—the embodiment of grace. Her golden hair flowed like rivers of sunlight, her sapphire eyes held the calm of the sea, and her presence commanded respect. She led with wisdom unmatched, her every step firm, her people steadfast in their devotion. She brought hope to Radovia, healing its wounds, strengthening its heart.

  But even she, so vigilant, could not escape betrayal.

  Aldrin. His name is venom on my tongue. A fallen noble she raised from ruin, a man she trusted with her life, destroyed her. How could someone who owed her everything betray her so cruelly? She saw potential in him where others saw only failure. She lifted him from disgrace, gave him land and purpose, and for what? To have him twist her kindness into ambition.

  And now, she is gone.

  The night of her death is a scar that never fades. I remember the way her laughter filled the room, the light catching the golden strands of her hair as she raised her glass of wine. It was a rare vintage; one she only drank on special occasions. But as the cup touched her lips, her laughter faltered, breaking into a cough. Her eyes widened in shock. By the time I reached her, she was already slipping away. Poison.

  When Aldrin began whispering poison into her ear, I felt it. A shift in the air, a storm brewing in the distance. But I said nothing. What could I have said? That her kindness would one day be her undoing? That the red dahlias she so loved would turn black with betrayal?

  I was the court’s alchemist, the wizard of whispers, the wielder of unseen power. But what good was it? I could conjure flames from water and turn lead to gold, yet I could not protect her from the one enemy she refused to see.

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  Aldrin stood nearby, his face a mask of feigned horror, but his eyes—oh, his eyes betrayed him. They were calm, calculating. When he turned the court against me, accusing me of her murder, I saw the cruelty in his smile. “The wizard,” he proclaimed, his voice sharp as a blade, “driven by jealousy, has committed treason!” His words rang out, sealing my fate. The guards turned on me before I could even speak. My protests were drowned by the wails of grief, my loyalty erased by his lies.

  Exiled to the forest, I watched as Aldrin claimed the throne, twisting Radovia’s matriarchal traditions into a mockery. “A strong king,” he said, “is what this kingdom needs.” His greed choked the streets with silence, and the joy that once defined Radovia was snuffed out. The red dahlias cast into the Cauntea River for Queen Isabella now withered to black before they could reach the waters, as if the land itself mourned her.

  I failed her. I failed Radovia. My loyalty. My love. My magic. All for her. And still, she slipped away.

  Magic is a lonely path. My father warned me of this when I first ignited a flame with nothing but words. “The more you conjure, the less they’ll understand you,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. I thought him a fool then, a man too afraid of his own power. But now, as I sit alone in this forsaken forest, his words echo louder than ever.

  But there is one promise I can still keep: to protect her son. Prince Caelum. The boy she loved more than life itself. He is my last hope. The king keeps him locked away in the palace, hidden from the world. Perhaps he fears what the boy might become—what the light of Isabella’s legacy might do to his shadowed reign.

  I call upon my magic, summoning strength I thought I’d lost. The ancient power stirs within me, raw and restless, coursing through my veins. My body shifts, bones reshaping, feathers sprouting like whispers of light breaking through shadow. I feel the air stir around me, cool and sharp, as I become cloaked in white—a creature of light, born anew to navigate the darkness. A sense of purpose floods my being, steadying my trembling heart.

  As I soar into the open sky, the wind rushes past, carrying with it memories of a kingdom that once thrived. From above, the world stretches out beneath me—a canvas of faded splendor. The forest, once lush and vibrant, seems cloaked in gray, its edges curling as though eaten away by some unseen blight. Fields lie fallow, their golden grains replaced by brittle weeds. The village streets are eerily quiet, the laughter of children and the hum of bustling markets replaced by silence.

  In the distance, the palace rises like a beacon, but its magnificence is marred. Its spires, once glinting in the sunlight, now seem dull and heavy, like jagged claws reaching for the sky. Shadows crawl along its walls, as though the building itself mourns the loss of its queen.

  I circle the tallest spire, drawn to the faint glow emanating from one of its windows. There, I see him—a boy bathed in golden light, a boy in his teens, his bright stark contrast to the gloom around him. His face is pale, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a line of quiet determination. Yet, in his sapphire eyes, I see the shadow of fear, the kind that no child should carry. He paces the room, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of a kingdom that rests entirely on him.

  He reminds me so much of her—Queen Isabella. There is the same steadfast resolve in his stance, the same spark of quiet strength in his gaze. Yet he is young, his light untested and fragile. My heart clenches with both hope and trepidation.

  I perch on the windowsill, the chill of the stone seeping through my feathers. For a moment, I watch him in silence, feeling the enormity of the task before me. He senses my presence, his head snapping toward me. His wide eyes meet mine, filled with questions and uncertainty.

  “You are my last hope,” I whisper to myself, though the words feel as though they are carried on the wind to him.