The morning of the king's funeral dawned without sunlight.
Clouds smothered the sky in heavy gray, and a cold mist clung to the earth as if the kingdom itself could not bear the day's sorrow. Bells tolled through Valemont — slow, mournful, each chime a weight pressing down on the hearts of all who heard it.
They came in thousands.
Men, women, and children crowded the palace grounds, dressed in muted fabrics, heads bowed, tears tracing quiet paths down solemn faces. Farmers who had once cheered the king's speeches now clutched wilted flowers. Soldiers who once swore loyalty with pride now knelt with trembling fists pressed to the ground.
Valemont had never known silence like this.
Inside the grand hall, the king rested upon a carved ebony bier draped in royal velvet. His crown lay above his heart — not a symbol of power now, but a farewell to duty. Candles surrounded him in shimmering rows, their flames bending in quiet reverence.
Seraphina stood beside her mother, hands clasped tightly, knuckles white. The queen looked carved from marble — dignified, immovable — but beneath her eyes lived a grief so deep it hollowed the soul. She wore no jewels, only a single band of obsidian around her wrist, the ancient mark of a mourning queen.
Servants sniffled softly. Courtiers bowed their heads. And outside, the people wailed — a chorus of heartbreak rolling through the courtyard like thunder.
Lord Daven stood just behind the princesses. His jaw was tight, his cloak damp from the morning mist. He looked less like a nobleman and more like a guardian forged from resolve. His gaze stayed fixed on Seraphina — steady, protective — as though her collapse would shatter him too.
Priests gathered, chanting the farewell rites in low, rhythmic hums — sacred words meant to guide a king's spirit to peace. The queen stepped forward first. She laid a single white lily on her husband's chest.
"I release you," she whispered, voice strained but strong. "May your rest be gentle. My heart follows you, though my duty keeps me here."
Her lips trembled, but she did not break.
Seraphina's turn came next. Her feet felt heavy — as though each step brought her closer not just to the bier, but to a truth that pressed upon her chest, sharp as sorrow, heavy as prophecy. She placed her trembling hand atop his.
"Father," she whispered, breath quivering, "I promise you… I will not fail them."
She bowed her head, tears falling silently onto his still fingers.
One drop.
Another.
Then her shoulders shook, but she forced herself upright — a princess, carrying her grief like a crown.
Across the chamber, the false Selene stood observing. Her features were composed, the barest sheen of tears resting in her eyes — but they did not fall. Her sadness looked performed, perfectly measured. When her gaze crossed Seraphina's, a flicker — not of grief, but watchfulness — passed through her expression.
No one noticed the way her hands tightened.
But far away, locked deep in enchanted sleep, the real Selene felt it all.
In a dark chamber forgotten by sunlight, her body lay motionless on a cold stone altar. Her skin was pale, breath shallow like a whisper trying desperately to cling to life. Tears leaked from beneath her closed lashes — not the quiet tears of acceptance, but the aching, soundless sobs of a spirit trying to claw back to the world she once belonged to.
Her fingers twitched — barely, the smallest rebellion — as if reaching for someone who could not see her.
A broken whisper escaped her lips, though no one was there to hear it:
"Phina…"
A plea.
A promise.
A dying hope.
Back at the funeral, the king was lifted by cloaked knights and carried through the courtyard. The ground trembled with the wailing of his people — women beating their chests in sorrow, elders chanting ancient lamentations, children clinging to skirts in frightened confusion. The air was thick with incense, ash, and mourning.
They laid him in the royal crypt, carved in stone beneath the gardens, where kings rested in silence and legends slept beside them. As the final seal closed over the tomb, the queen's knees nearly buckled — only Daven's steady hand at her back kept her upright.
The last bell struck.
The final prayer faded.
And a kingdom knelt — not in loyalty, but in heartbreak.
Seraphina wiped her tears with unsteady fingers, but a heaviness clung to her chest — not just grief, but fear. A whisper in her blood. A pulse beneath her ribs.
Her sister was suffering.
Somewhere, she was suffering.
And the monster wearing her face stood only a breath away.
Night crept over Valemont like a veil of black silk — soft, heavy, suffocating.
No lanterns were lit in the palace corridors. No footsteps echoed. Even the soldiers stationed by the gates stood with heads bowed, armor dim beneath the moonless sky. The world seemed to hold its breath, unwilling to disturb the dead king's final rest.
Inside the royal manor, silence was not peace. It was grief — raw and personal, shutting every heart into its own cage.
Queen Elara's Chamber
The queen sat before her mirror, hands resting motionless on her lap. She still wore the mourning gown, though the candles in her room had long burned down to trembling stubs. Her reflection stared back — regal, composed… and hollowed.
She traced the edge of her widow's bracelet, breath trembling.
Once, her chambers had echoed with laughter — shared secrets, whispered dreams.
Now, only the soft drip of wax marked time.
She did not cry.
Not because she could not — but because if she began, she feared she would never stop.
A quiet whisper escaped her lips — not meant for the world, only the shadows.
"Rest well, my love. I will carry your world until my bones break."
Her voice cracked.
Just once.
Enough.
She rose and blew out the final candle. Darkness wrapped her like mourning arms.
Lord Daven's Vigil
Daven stayed in the palace gardens, seated beneath the bare branches of the old winter oak. His cloak was spread across the damp stone bench, but he didn't care for the cold. His fingers pressed against his brow, eyes red — though few tears had fallen.
Daven had always admired the king — a man of fairness, of thought, of quiet strength. Now the manor felt wrong without that presence. Lighter in body, heavier in weight.
He stared toward the darkened windows of the twin princesses' wing — worry knotting in his chest. He thought of Seraphina's trembling voice, her haunted eyes.
There is truth in her fear, he realized.
And he vowed silently — whoever had broken this peace, whoever had turned Valemont into a place of mourning and fear… he would cut through them like steel through vine.
"Your kingdom will not fall," he murmured to the night.
"Not while I breathe."
Selene's Chamber — The Impostor
Alone in her room, the false Selene — the king's vengeful sister reborn — reclined on her bed, eyes open and glimmering in the darkness. She did not mourn. She rejoiced.
Her lips curled in a faint, satisfied smile.
One monarch gone.
One world trembling.
One soul screaming in the dark for mercy.
She hummed a lullaby — one that had once comforted a child who now lay dead in the earth. The sound slithered through the shadows like venom, soft and chilling.
Soon… soon the rest would crumble.
Yet her fingers twitched, irritation surfacing. She could feel Seraphina searching, doubting. The bond between the twins still pulsed — thin, stubborn, alive.
"Sleep while you can, little princess," she whispered to the empty room.
"Your grief will be the soil where my vengeance blooms."
The wind hissed at the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled — then fell abruptly silent.
Seraphina — A Grief Shared by Two
Seraphina lay curled beneath her sheets, staring into the darkness. Her father's face lingered behind her eyelids — proud, gentle, smiling at her when she was small enough to be lifted into his arms.
Now he was gone, and the world felt… unanchored.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye — and as it did, another fall followed, but this one did not feel like hers. It burned — hot, agonized, desperate.
Selene.
Her heart clenched with a pain so sharp she pressed her hand against her chest. A sob tried to rise, but she forced it down — silence wrapping around her like a shroud.
Where are you? She cried inwardly.
Where are you, Selene?
No answer came.
But somewhere far beneath stone, the real Selene stirred, trapped in endless shadow. Her lips trembled, her breath hitched — as if hearing her sister's silent plea.
And for the smallest moment, the tears that slid down Seraphina's cheeks felt shared, two hearts breaking in lonely places neither could reach.
She shut her eyes, whispering into the darkness.
"I will find you. I swear it… I will find you."
Her words drifted through the stillness like fragile petals — helpless against the storm, yet refusing to fall.
Outside, the night held firm — grief heavy, air still, kingdom quiet in mourning. And beneath that quiet surface, fate continued to tighten like a noose around Valemont's throat.