CHAPTER ONE: THE BEGINNING OF THE END
The wind across the Eldrigg plains carried the scent of old blood, and older deaths.
Twenty seven years had passed since this field drunk of imperial blood, since a seventeen year old prince, named Elrion had cut down his brothers to claim a throne soaked in betrayal and gore.
The soil still remembered, the scattered pieces of bones still lay around, commemorating the fallen of the Great war. A conflict that had cut down thirteen heirs — down to one.
Now, under the rumbling grey sky, emperor Elrion — the Iron General had returned to die where he had first killed.
The gathered people of Malvorin stood in silence as the emperor stood before his executioner, a hooded figure referred to as the “final steel”. As the light caught his blade, so did tears soak his mask.
But Elrion’s eyes were crystal clear. On his face was a proud grin, for he knew that the blade would find him worthy enough to bestow a clean death.
An honourable death.
He had refused the comfort of his palace chambers, refused the slow rot of whatever cursed illness had turned his veins black beneath his skin. He would die as he lived; by the sword and on his own terms, choosing the manner, and the moment.
And that moment was now.
With one final glance at his subjects, his court, and the three young women in mourning veils — he signaled the final steel.
The executioner exhaled for a second, and at the closure of the emperor’s eyelids — the blade cut through flesh. Severing neck from spine in one clean thunk.
Here ended the reign of Elrion Aurelian.
“A moment of silence for the emperor.”
A man dressed in black and grey with an emblem of the crown attached to his breast-pocket called out. Viktor had his head bowed in respect to the man he had served for twenty years.
And so did his daughters, the three women clothed in mourning veils. They stood away from the carriages, in front of the court, shedding tears for the father they had lost, except one.
Yorith.
She had earlier dabbed her eyelids with the water of an onion to produce enough “tears”, but the sting had long worn off. Instead, she focused on scanning the faces of the high lords because she knew that the moment they stepped foot back into the Imperial palace, all hell would bleed loose.
She understood what hung in the balance. Emperor Elrion had failed to father any sons, and given the fact that he had no male relatives of any kind, for the first time in Malvorin's eleven-hundred-year history, it was daunting to say that the Aurelian line stood on the precipice of extinction.
“May the gods give peace to the Emperor's spirit.”
A practiced line she didn't mean. But had to say either way.
Her sisters had smelt her onion doused tears, one more nonchalant move and she could very well be accused of being responsible for the emperor's death.
She was his bastard after all.
“Lord Vik—”
“Viktor!” She was cut off by Thalin who slid past her with a hard, intentional nudge to the shoulder.
Nalea followed — like the minion she was to Thalin, her painted lashes were dripping with dark tears. But the mystery was that for someone who had cried endlessly since sunrise, her red hair was still in a perfect bun.
“Viktor,” Thalin edged closer, looking down at the crowd. “What are these rumours that we hear?”
“Your highnesses” Viktor bowed. “What rumors?”
Yorith pretended to take a step backwards to conceal the fact that she was eavesdropping. She heard a lot of gossip too, from the people, from the servants, and even she was curious to pick apart facts from speculation.
“That the high lords plan to wage war for my father's crown. Is it true?”
Nalea patted her bun and lowered her voice in a conspiratory manner.
“I also implore you to tell us the truth, because if these rumours are true, then shouldn't you start making arrangements to get us to safety?” She turned to Yorith and scoffed. “Excluding this one.”
Yorith stayed silent.
Viktor noticed the rising tension and immediately intercepted it. “Do not worry, I assure you that there will be no war. I won't allow it.”
Thalin scoffed.
“Allow? A powerful man you are, Viktor. Yes, but in as much, the high lords of the west and east are also powerful, need I remind you that the west holds the weaponry advantage of this empire?”
Nalea snapped her fingers.
“Infact, word has it that right now, lord Kith is having serious talks with his commanders.”
Viktor looked like he wanted to say something, but he was cut off by Thalin who was threading in anxiety.
“If they strike, Viktor. Not even you might be able to hold them off.”
Viktor straightened and cleared his throat. His voice lowered, meant to carry only as far as the sisters stood.
“The reason I am confident there will be no war is because the emperor did not leave us empty handed.”
That earned him their attention.
Thalin turned fully toward him.
“Explain.”
“Not here,” Viktor replied, subtly eyeing the crowd. “The emperor left one final gift to the empire. One that settles the matter of succession.”
Nalea’s tears stopped dripping for a second.
“A gift, What kind of gift?”
“You will know after the mourning period comes to an end."
Yorith knew it would last for three days, as custom demanded.
Thalin’s jaw tightened. She disliked waiting. Still, she couldn't say much.
“Very well,” she sighed. “We will return to the palace.”
She gestured toward the line of black carriages waiting at the edge of the plains.
Nalea wrinkled her nose.
“Those?” She glanced at them as though they were an insult. “They are so dull. Perhaps something more exotic would better reflect our station as princesses.”
Thalin did not look at her.
“The carriages are fine.”
“But appearances matter,” Nalea whispered. “Especially now.”
“Ugh. Nalea. Enough, let's just leave already.”
Yorith remained where she stood with her hands folded and her silver hair tucked beneath her veil.
She always rode alone.
“There is something fitting about it,” Thalin smirked. “A bastard keeping to her own shadows.”
Yorith did not counter it.
And that gave her sisters the satisfaction they always revelled in.
Thalin stepped into the lead carriage. Nalea followed, pausing only long enough to lean closer to Yorith.
“Do not get lost on the way back,” she giggled. “These plains have a habit of swallowing unimportant people.”
Yorith watched until the last carriage disappeared over the rise. Only then did she move, turning toward the smallest, plainest carriage left behind. As she climbed inside, the curtain fell closed around her, and the last thing she saw were the bearers, wrapping up the body of the emperor.
Even in his death, it bittered her tongue to refer to him as “father”, when he had been anything but.
★
[THREE DAYS LATER]
Today was the day.
It had been three days following the end of a mourning period and a look-forward to the “gift” Viktor Vulradin claimed that the Iron General had left behind.
What could it be?
Yorith couldn't help but wonder. Just not aloud.
In the three days since the execution, Yorith had scarcely seen Thalin. She had become something of a rare bird, seen only in passing corridors or not at all. Word drifted through the palace that Thalin spent most of her hours in the incense room, the room where the emperor's ashes had been sealed in a jade urn.
Nalea, on the other hand, might as well have vanished.
Yorith stood before the narrow mirror in her chambers, hands folded behind her back, staring at the dress Anya had laid out on the table.
It looked less like court attire and more like an oily rag.
“It is… modest,” Anya coughed out after a long moment of silence.
“Is that what we call it now?”
Anya’s lips pressed together.
“It is appropriate...”
“For who?"
Because Yorith knew that even the lowliest of servants would scowl at the sight of this dress.
Anya smoothed the fabric on the table, avoiding Yorith’s reflection in the mirror. “You are still in mourning, my lady.”
“So is everyone else.”
Yorith could see Anya's fingers twisting together behind her back.
“Well, it is not as though you can compare yourself to your sisters."
Yorith lifted her gaze to the brunette.
There it was.
She turned slowly, just enough to look at Anya directly.
“I wondered when you would say it,” Yorith replied. “You have been itching to say that to my face for years. Ever since your loyalty was bought.”
Anya stiffened.
“My loyalty? B-Bought? I do not know what you mean by that.”
“Do you want to pretend with me?” she asked calmly. “If so, I suggest you choose another audience. I am not sentimental, and I am certainly not foolish.”
Anya swallowed.
“You may be my handmaid,” Yorith continued, “but you have not been loyal to me in many years. So tell me, why would you begin now?”
Anya opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wanted to say something, but Yorith had grown tired of listening.
“I assume that my sisters will arrive in splendid silks,” she smiled. “While I will walk into the court dressed like a mad woman. Is that the plan?”
Anya bit her lip. There was no guilt in her eyes. Only the fear of being found out.
“I am sorry." She sighed. "It wasn't my intention to make it seem… this way."
Yorith looked over her shoulder.
“Please leave.”
Anya hesitated.
“You may go,” Yorith repeated, her tone remained calm. “Take the dress with you. I will not wear that to court.”
Anya gathered the fabric with clumsy hands. She bowed and slipped out of the chamber without another word.
Yorith looked over to the door and walked over to it, she watched Anya trot down the corridor whispering harshly to herself.
The dress was an eyesore, but… the belt could be useful.
“Nalea did tell her handmaid to discard some of her old dresses….”
She had thirty minutes before the council meeting.
She could work with that.
Yorith turned and opened the door, after looking left and right — she stepped out into the hallway. Since everyone was preparing for court, the halls were busy. The imperial guards kept moving about the corridors and as Yorith passed, she felt one of their eyes linger on her chest.
She couldn't react. Right now, even a knight had more standing than her.
She continued on, knowing exactly where she was headed. Nalea's quarters. And soon enough, she arrived at the courtyard and saw Cecilia — Nalea’s handmaid crushing berries with a wooden stick.
“Cecilia.”
The girl looked up, a shadow immediately fell across her face and her expression hardened.
“Princess…” Her tone was empty.
“Have you burned the dresses yet?”
Cecilia blinked.
"Burned them?”
“Yes,” Yorith replied evenly. “The ones... Nalea ordered to be discarded.”
Cecilia straightened, brushing imaginary dirt from her hands.
"No. I didn't plan to burn them. I planned to cut them up and spin them back into thread.”
Yorith glanced toward the inner doors of Nalea’s quarters, then back to Cecilia.
“I wish to do it for her,” she said. “As a kind gesture. I think it might please her.”
Cecilia frowned.
“Please her?”
“Yes,” Yorith continued. “You could focus on the berries instead. I know how particular she is about them."
Cecilia hesitated.
“You want to do my work?”
“I want to gain my sister’s favor,” Yorith slid a strand of hair behind her ear, flashing a small smile. “And you want to avoid her displeasure. This seems beneficial for both of us.”
Cecilia thought about it for a moment too long.
“She might get me whipped if she finds out… ”
Yorith leaned in, eye-level to the girl.
“And who is going to tell her?”
