The weight of the crown had never felt heavier. King Alistair of Vaeloria stood at the arched window of his council chamber, his broad shoulders slumped beneath the embroidered velvet of his royal doublet. Outside, the kingdom sprawled in autumnal splendor—crimson leaves swirling over cobblestones, smoke curling from village hearths—but the beauty did little to ease the storm in his mind.

  A failing treaty with the northern clans. Nobles in the southern provinces withholding grain taxes. Whispers of rebellion in the east, where Lord Cedric’s banners had been spotted too close to the border. And now, a sealed letter from the neighboring kingdom of Lysandra, its wax seal cracked open like a threat. Their demands were clear: Cede the Silver Vale or face war.

  “Your Majesty?”

  Alistair turned, his hazel eyes shadowed. Sir Garrick, his oldest friend and captain of the guard, stood in the doorway, helm tucked under his arm. The knight’s weathered face softened with concern. “The council awaits your decision on Lysandra’s ultimatum.”

  Decision. The word curdled in Alistair’s gut. He had spent a lifetime training for this—swordplay, diplomacy, the cold calculus of rulership—but no amount of preparation could armor him against the gnawing doubt. What if I choose wrong?

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  “Tell them I need more time,” he said, voice roughened by sleepless nights.

  Garrick hesitated. “They’ve been waiting three days, sire. Lord Haleon said—”

  “Let Haleon choke on his own impatience,” Alistair snapped, immediately regretting it as Garrick stiffened. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me. I’ll address them before nightfall.”

  The knight bowed and retreated, leaving Alistair alone with the ghosts of his failures.

  Queen Selene observed her husband from the corridor, her fingers tightening around the edge of a marble column. She had watched him for weeks—his once-vibrant laughter reduced to terse commands, his restless pacing through the castle halls long after midnight. Even now, his reflection in the window seemed fractured, a man pulled thin as parchment.

  In public, Selene was the picture of regal composure: raven hair coiled beneath a diamond-studded circlet, gowns of ivory samite, a smile as polished as the throne itself. But in private, fear coiled in her chest. This was not the man who had ridden into battle singing, who had knelt in a rain-soaked field to pledge his heart to her. This was a king crumbling beneath his crown.

  She glanced at the folded parchment in her hand, its edges gilt with her personal seal. Her maidservant, Lira, had assured her the king would receive it discreetly. Meet me tonight, the note read. Let me bear the weight with you.

  Selene inhaled sharply. For years, she had played the role of the obedient queen—supportive, gentle, a calming presence in the tempest of court politics. But tonight, she would rewrite the rules.