The heavy wooden doors of the palace creaked open, revealing a world far removed from the dusty streets of the village. The Grand Hall stretched before King Maltherion—its towering obsidian pillars and gilded designs standing as silent witnesses to his absolute power. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured beams of crimson, sapphire, and gold across the cold marble floor like the remnants of forgotten dreams.
He stood near the war table, eyes fixed on the map spread across its surface—an outline of Alderyn and her neighboring kingdoms. Red-circled regions marked those he had already conquered. Yet his gut stirred with unrest. War loomed on the horizon, and he would not be caught unprepared.
"Your Majesty," a soldier bowed deeply as he entered, disrupting the king's thoughts.
Maltherion didn't look up. "What news?"
His voice was calm, but the steady drumming of his fingers on the map filled the room with tension. The room, once silent, now felt alive with an unseen force.
The soldier hesitated. "The visit… did not go as expected. The people are beginning to question your choice of bride. As for the proposal…"
He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
The king's jaw tightened. "Is she ready?"
The soldier exchanged a glance with the royal advisor standing a step behind the king. "It's not a matter of readiness, Your Highness. The girl is… unwilling."
Maltherion's eyes narrowed. He had anticipated hesitation, not outright resistance.
"What of her father—Gideon Graystone?"
"He agrees to the match, Your Highness, but the girl refuses."
"She will do as I command," he said, his tone like ice.
Turning from the table, Maltherion strode toward the grand balcony. Below, the palace courtyard pulsed with life—soldiers drilling in formation, advisors hurrying between duties, the machine of his kingdom turning under his watchful eye.
"She has no other choice."
Silence lingered, heavy with finality.
Then he turned, facing the soldier again. "Ensure everything is prepared."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And the royal carriage—ready it."
The soldier blinked in surprise but quickly masked it. "At once, my king."
"I'm paying a visit to the Graystone household."
As the soldier exited swiftly, the voice from the shadows stirred.
"Your Highness?" Reagan stepped forward, ever watchful.
Maltherion gave a sidelong glance. "What is it, Reagan?"
"Why are you so adamant that she must be your queen?"
"I felt it," Maltherion said simply, rolling up the map with measured precision.
Reagan frowned. "Felt what?"
"The Grand Gias."
That name silenced the room. The Grand Gias—an ancient divine gift. A bond only given to kings of the Duskthrone bloodline. It was said to awaken when a destined queen—one who could match the strength and soul of her king—was near.
Long ago, when Alderyn's throne was fractured by betrayal and chaos, desperate kings married witches for power. But lust birthed ruin. The witches turned, and kingdoms burned. Then came King Mathias Duskthrone—chosen by the heavens, bearer of the Grand Gias. With it, he restored balance. Since then, it had remained only in legend.
"I thought it was a myth," Reagan breathed.
"It's not," Maltherion replied.
"How do you know it's real? What if it's an enchantment?"
"I cannot be enchanted. You know this."
"But still—"
"I went to the festival for a reason. The priest's prophecy—two years ago—said my queen would be revealed once her powers awakened."
"Yes… I remember," Reagan said slowly, his voice softer now.
"She was there. The moment I scented her, I knew. The Gias responded."
"But you never believed in the prophecy."
"I didn't," Maltherion admitted, "but the Gias leaves no room for doubt."
Reagan stepped closer, voice low. "What if she never accepts you?"
Maltherion looked him dead in the eye. "She doesn't have to. The bond is sealed. She has no other choice."
A guard appeared at the door. "Your Majesty, the carriage is ready."
"Let's go."
Maltherion and Reagan exited the throne room, cloaked in silence as they stepped into the royal carriage. The gold-trimmed doors closed behind them with a muffled thud, sealing in a future no one fully understood.
---
Elara sat on the front porch of the Graystone house, a romance novel in hand—the same one she and Xandria had been reading for weeks. Her bare feet dangled over the step, brushing against the soft green grass. A breeze teased the loose strands of her hair, and for a brief moment, everything felt almost normal.
Then the distant sound of horses jolted her attention.
She looked up, heart lurching as the royal carriage entered their courtyard, its glossy black surface gleaming like obsidian in the midday sun.
Without thinking, she sprang to her feet and rushed inside.
"Mama! The king's carriage—it's here!"
Janet emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She quickly straightened her dress and hurried to the door.
"Long live the king," she said with a nervous bow as Maltherion entered.
"I'm going to live forever, Janet. No need for your blessings," he said, taking the nearest chair without waiting for an invitation. Reagan stood quietly beside him, arms folded.
Janet chuckled awkwardly, trying to mask her unease.
"I believe you know why I'm here."
"My husband is upstairs—I'll fetch him," she offered.
But Maltherion's soft chuckle did not warm the air. It made it heavier.
"I'm not here for Gideon, and you know it. Call Alexandria."
Before she could respond, Gideon descended the stairs, bowing low with stiff formality.
"Long live the king."
"I'm not here for formalities, Gideon. I'm here for my wife."
"I'll bring her at once." Gideon turned toward the hallway and called out.
Moments later, Janet returned with Elara beside her and Xandria a few steps behind.
Xandria looked pale, her eyes red and swollen from sleepless nights. She kept her gaze low, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
"Xandria, greet the king," Gideon said sharply.
"Long live the king," she mumbled, bowing slightly, still staring at the floor. Then under her breath—just loud enough for Elara to catch—she muttered, "I hope lightning strikes him."
Elara's eyes widened in shock, glancing quickly at the king. Or maybe it wasn't just her who heard.
Maltherion chuckled again, resting his hand on his jaw. There was something almost amused in his expression, something ancient.
"Pack your things, Alexandria. You're coming with me."
There was no room for argument. His word was law.