The chapel’s silence pressed against Elana. She sat near the altar, her fingers tracing the hem of her mourning gown, its white fabric a stark contrast against the dark stone floor.

  The candlelight played tricks on her vision, making the stained-glass windows seem to shift and move in the darkness. She retrieved the alchemical orb from her pocket, its soft glow helping her eyes adjust to the wavering shadows.

  Even with the aid, the chapel’s familiar features felt strange tonight, as if her father’s death had altered the very substance of the stone walls that had witnessed generations of royal prayers and contemplation.

  How many times had she sat here beside him, learning the intricate dance of politics and power?

  His voice echoed in her memory. “The strongest weapon in a ruler’s arsenal is patience, Elana,” he’d said. “Watch, listen, and wait for the moment when action will yield the greatest effect.”

  Then the sound of footsteps came from the chapel’s entrance. Baron Gerlach paused in the doorway.

  He chose a spot several feet away, close enough for quiet conversation but far enough to acknowledge her need for space.

  “Your Highness.” His voice carried none of its usual bombast. “Words feel inadequate in times like these.”

  She inclined her head, accepting the condolence without fully engaging.

  “I remember when your father mediated the timber dispute between my house and the southern merchants. Everyone expected him to side with the larger trading houses, but he took the time to visit our forests personally. He understood that true leadership requires seeing beyond the obvious path.”

  Elana smiled. “He believed in walking the ground he governed. Theory without experience, he used to say, is like trying to swim by reading about water.”

  Gerlach chuckled softly. “His wisdom often came wrapped in such metaphors.” He paused, studying the play of candlelight on the altar. “I was terrified before my first council presentation. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my notes. Your father noticed, drew me aside, and spent ten minutes telling me about his own first council meeting. How he’d accidentally knocked over a water pitcher and almost ruined three different trade agreements.”

  Despite herself, Elana chuckled. “He did the same for me. Before my first public address, I was certain I would stumble over every word. He found me hiding in the library and said, ‘My dear, they’re not there to judge your perfection. They’re there to see your humanity.’”

  “Yes, he had a gift for that.” Gerlach shifted slightly. “For seeing past titles to the person beneath.” He paused. “A gift you share, if I may say so.”

  The compliment carried weight, but Elana noted the careful way he’d spoken.

  “The noble houses grow restless. Change makes people hungry for advantage,” she said.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Indeed. Though some of us remember that strength and stability serves all interests. You have allies, Your Highness. Those who see your father’s wisdom in your actions.”

  And there it was—the subtle offer of support, wrapped in grief and memory.

  “The Kingdom faces challenges that require unity,” Elana said. “The question is whether personal ambition will overwhelm common sense.”

  “You speak of House Darius?”

  “I speak of all who might see opportunity in uncertainty.” She turned slightly, studying Gerlach’s profile as best she could in the dim light. “The time for choosing sides approaches faster than many realise.”

  He nodded. “Then know that House Gerlach stands ready to support strong, stable leadership.”

  Gerlach’s support could prove crucial in the days ahead, especially with Molotok watching their borders with hungry eyes.

  “Your loyalty honours his memory. And reminds us that the Kingdom’s strength lies in unity, not division,” Elana said.

  He stood. “You are your father’s daughter, Your Highness. Perhaps more than you realise.” His hand rested on her shoulder.

  Then he was gone, his footsteps fading into the chapel’s shadows.

  Elana remained seated, her mind dissecting every nuance of the conversation.

  Gerlach’s timing felt too perfect, his words too carefully chosen.

  Was this truly an offer of alliance, or the opening move in a longer game?

  The candles had burned lower, their light growing more uncertain. Like everything else in the Kingdom nowadays.

  Velten’s concern brushed against her mind. The wyvern could sense her uncertainty even from his perch atop the chapel.

  Elana turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, different from Gerlach’s military stride.

  “Your Grace.” Elana inclined her head as the High Priestess approached, the elder woman’s blue and white robes rustling.

  “My child.” She settled beside Elana. “Your father was beloved by the gods.”

  “Was he?” Elana’s voice cracked. “He died without justice, without…”

  “And therein lies the trouble.” The High Priestess’s fingers traced sacred symbols in the air. “The Nameless Four cannot welcome a soul to the endless yellow while death’s scales remain unbalanced.”

  Elana turned toward her, her face a blur in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

  “Your father’s spirit cannot find rest until his killer faces judgement. The ancient laws demand balance—a life for a life, justice for injustice.” The High Priestess’s eyes reflected candlelight. “Until then, he waits.”

  “In the void?” Elana whispered.

  “No, child. Not in the void, nor in the endless yellow.” The High Priestess shook her head. “He exists nowhere, everywhere—a soul in between states, denied both oblivion and peace until balance is restored.”

  “How do we help him? What must be done?”

  “Justice must be served. The assassin’s blood must answer for your father’s.” The High Priestess drew a small pouch from her robes. “The Four demand completion of the circle. As it is above, so must it be below.”

  She opened the pouch, releasing the sharp scent of sacred herbs—sage, rosemary, wyvern’s breath. “Let us pray together, child. Let us show the Four that we seek to restore what was broken.”

  Together they stood before the altar. The High Priestess scattered the herbs across the burning coals, their smoke rising.

  “As above, so below.” The High Priestess held up a ravenglass sword. “What is done must be undone. What was taken must be repaid.”

  The smoke curled around them as they prayed, carrying their words upward to whatever powers might be listening. Elana felt the weight of tradition, of divine law pressing down. Her father could not rest until she fulfilled her duty, both as daughter and as heir.

  When the herbs had burned away to ash, the High Priestess placed the sword back down on the altar. “Remember, child, the gods care nothing for mortal politics. They care only for balance. Find the killer—not the one who wielded the blade, but the one who set his death in motion. Restore what was broken. Only then can your father truly pass into the endless yellow.”

  “I will try, Your Grace.”

  “You must do more than try. You must succeed.”

  “I will.”

  The last wisps of smoke faded into darkness. Another weight added to Elana’s burden, another duty that could not be ignored.

  Balance must be restored. As above, so below.

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