[THE MARBLE HALL]
The heart of the castle was as grand as it was imposing.
Towering columns, carved in relief with the chronicles of the kingdom, upheld a vaulted ceiling encrusted with crossed swords — symbols of conquests long past.
Heavy iron chandeliers hung from above, casting a warm glow that danced across the golden armor of the guards and the fine silks of the nobles gathered below.
The floor, veined in white and gray marble, reflected the light of stained-glass windows in kaleidoscopic brilliance, while the royal crest, embroidered upon massive tapestries, watched the scene unfold like a vigilant, unblinking eye.
Amid the murmurs and lifted goblets, standing at the center of that hallowed space, was Rael.
Elder dukes and seasoned advisors gave shallow bows as they passed, their smiles painted with forced reverence.
Noble ladies offered measured greetings, each word weighed like a coin, each gesture a move in an ancient game.
Ministers spoke of stability.
Generals whispered of the ceremony.
All treated him as heir — as the future king.
And yet Rael felt like a stone not yet set into the sculpture of the realm.
He smiled, he shook hands, he nodded with practiced grace, but beneath the surface, excitement surged like a river, barely contained — though the weight of destiny rested heavy on his shoulders.
His eyes landed upon a tapestry depicting his great-grandfather impaling an enemy with the royal spear.
They all celebrated that lineage — that legacy of blood and glory — but Rael bore the pride with as much burden as honor.
For in that hall of gold and ambition, he alone seemed to grasp the true weight of the throne.
Though weariness tugged at his limbs, he remained — upright, unmoving — as if duty had already taken root in his bones.
For in that land, to be heir was not merely a title.
It was a sentence.
And in the castle, beneath the velvet surface of ceremony and civility, darker things stirred.
In the soft glow of chandeliers, Helena — Rael's future bride — was the object of many gazes and whispered envy.
Her gown, wine-dark with silver lace, framed a porcelain neckline that dared attention. Western in cut and bold in intention, it revealed much — and concealed just enough.
Golden hair, gathered only at the sides, cascaded over her shoulders in carefully unruly waves.
Not far from her, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, stood Nil.
Clad in black, as always, his eyes — narrower and colder than his brother's — bore no trace of Rael's softness or hesitation.
On the contrary: there was something glacial in his gaze. A slow-burning hatred, cultivated with patience.
"You should've seen his face," Helena murmured behind her fan, pivoting slightly to glance at Nil.
"When he saw me… he looked like a boy. The poor fool could barely meet my eyes without turning red."
Nil scoffed, pushing off from the wall.
"He's always been weak. Strong of arm, soft of heart." He stepped behind her chair and leaned in close to her ear. "And that's why it has to be tonight."
Helena showed no surprise. She turned her face toward him, her sapphire eyes gleaming.
"So it will be tonight?"
"He cannot sit that throne, Helena. I am the rightful one. He is nothing but a fool bewitched by a pretty face."
She smiled — pleased, polished.
Her fingers rose to trace the golden necklace at her throat.
"Then it will be easy. He trusts me. He's in love. He'll come when I call… alone."
Nil nodded once, silent and resolute.
Then, a voice called out across the hall — a toast.
"Lords and ladies, let us all raise our cups to the heir of the throne — to Prince Rael!"
Applause erupted. Cheers filled the marble chamber.
The name echoed louder than truth.
Nil clapped with the others, his smile thin and lifeless.
"Tonight," he murmured, "the realm will at last be free… of its gentle prince."
[THE ROYAL CHAMBER]
Rael's chamber lay in darkness, lit only by the flickering flame of a single oil lamp that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls.
The young heir removed his ceremonial mantle slowly, as though the weight of it bore down like the crown itself — already present, though invisible.
His thoughts were clouded: the throne, his father, the eyes of the nobility, the words spoken and the silences that echoed louder still.
He sat on the edge of the bed, drawing a long breath, ready to lie down when he heard the door creak gently open.
"Rael…" came a voice, melodic and low, like a spell whispered in the dark.
He turned sharply.Helena stood there, framed by the half-open door, lit just enough for her golden hair to shimmer like pale fire.
The gown she wore was even bolder than the one from the ceremony — a foreign fabric, thin and flowing, that left little to the imagination and sent Rael's heart pounding.
"Helena? How did they let you through?" he asked, rising reflexively, caught between confusion and shame.
She stepped in with slow, feline grace, closing the door behind her without a word. Her gaze drifted across the chamber before settling on him, as if surveying a battlefield.
"I asked my brother to let me visit you," she said softly, stepping closer."I saw how tense you were today. How much you carried on your shoulders... just to please them. Even me."
Rael looked away, a blush rising to his cheeks like fire.
"You… you're beautiful," he admitted, the honesty in his voice raw, almost childlike. "It's hard… not to feel something."
Helena smiled sweetly, yet there was precision in that smile — a calm calculation.She touched his face with fingers cold as porcelain.
"Then don't feel ashamed, Rael. You are the future king. And I am your promised."
She took him gently by the collar of his tunic, guiding him back until his knees buckled and he sat again at the edge of the bed. She sat beside him, naturally — close enough for their shoulders to touch.
"Tonight," she whispered, her eyes locked on his, "you don't need to be strong. Just… be mine."
Rael felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.
His mind screamed for restraint, but the scent of her, the nearness, the rare and unreachable beauty before him — it all pulled at him, begging him to believe.
And so he closed his eyes, just for a moment, and allowed himself to think she was there out of love — and not for something else.
She embraced him — or so he believed.
Then came the cold.
Not in her arms.In his back.
A cold, sharp, wet intrusion. At first, he didn't understand.There was only pressure, a dull crack — as if something deep inside had broken.
Then came the taste.
Salty. Metallic. Unmistakable.Blood, rising in his throat.
Rael brought a trembling hand to his mouth and saw red trickling between his fingers.He blinked slowly, as if time itself had loosened around him.
"H… Helena…?" he whispered, turning his head over his shoulder.
But the eyes he met were not filled with love.
They were cold. Distant.Beautiful — and empty.
He tore the dagger from his back, and the pain followed — brutal, searing — as though his spine had been ripped apart from within.
Blood poured forth without restraint, soaking through the linen tunic, dripping onto the marble floor in dark, spreading stains.
Rael stood, swaying, in the far corner of his chamber, hands pressed against his back in vain attempt to stop the bleeding.
For the first time, he felt an emptiness within — vast, unbearable.
Then the door burst open.
Higor entered in full armor, sword gleaming.
Rael, dazed and disoriented, couldn't understand what was happening.
Was he here to stop her?
But no. He was wrong.
Without a word, Higor lunged forward — blade first — striking with vicious intent.
Rael dodged, barely, on instinct alone.
But each movement sent waves of agony down his spine, every muscle screaming protest at the betrayal of motion.
His breath came ragged. Blood streamed down his side. But the body moved — trained to react, trained to survive.
He slipped past the first thrust, spinning, and drove his shoulder into Higor's chest, staggering him briefly.
"You filthy traitor…" Rael growled through clenched teeth, eyes wild with fury, fingers scrambling for any weapon.
By the fireplace, a ceremonial sword rested — more for show than war.
He ran.
Higor followed.
But before Rael's blade could taste the air, another shadow stepped from behind the curtain.
Nil.
The younger brother.
His smile curled like a serpent's.
A short blade flew from his hand, clashing against Rael's with a metallic shriek.
"Even wounded… you're still a damn legend," Nil hissed, teeth bared. "But every legend meets its end, brother."
Higor recovered and attacked from behind, forcing Rael to split his attention.
They moved around him like predators circling prey — every strike precise, every movement meant to kill.
And still, Rael held them off.
He blocked. He dodged. He struck when he could — blood streaking his face, his chest heaving with every breath.
His strength came not from muscle alone, but from a soul tempered in real battle — not in corridors of whisper and deceit.
But pain demands a price.
A slash from Higor tore into his thigh.
Nil's blade followed, grazing the already wounded flesh.
Rael stumbled backward, staggering toward the stone balcony that opened into the night.
Cold wind struck his fevered skin, and for a moment he looked down.
Far below, the river of Cronos shimmered — a winding, black ribbon under the moonlight.
Nil lunged.
Higor roared.
And then — they struck.
Two blades, plunged into him.
Rael gasped, not from pain, but from the weight of it all. He looked at them both — not with anger, but something far more crushing: regret.
A prince had been slain.
And no one would know.
Nil had planned it too well.
As they pulled their swords free, Rael's knees buckled. His own blade slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.
He leaned against the balustrade, chest rising and falling in disbelief, blood soaking through his garments.
"Die a legend," Nil said, coldly. "And be remembered by all."
Rael looked up — but the gaze he gave his brother was no longer gentle.
Nil faltered, taking a step back.
Higor, perhaps out of reflex — or fear — shoved him.
And the prince fell.
The wind roared past his ears.
The lights of the castle blurred, distant and cold.
And then — the impact.
Rael's body struck the river with a muffled crack, swallowed whole by the waters that flowed silent through the kingdom's veins.
The current dragged him under, through forgotten channels, tunnels buried by time — yet remembered by the stone of the palace above.
Down he sank, into the dark and freezing deep.
Blood mingled with water.
Hope clung to the rocks below.
But Rael...
Rael was still alive.