The study smelled of smoke, wine, and rotting ink.
King Alaric sat at his desk in silence, one hand still curled around a pen he hadn't used in hours. Scrolls lay unfurled before him—royal decrees, execution orders, market regulations—each a brittle attempt at control. None were signed.
The room flickered with the dying light of two candles, wax puddling like melted bone. His reflection wavered in the dark windowpane. For a moment, it didn't look like him. The eyes were too red. The crown too thin. He blinked and it vanished.
"Where did it begin?" he whispered.
No one answered. Only the rustle of drapes and the distant clatter of armor outside his chamber door.
—————————
There was a time when Alaric ruled with the kind of certainty that shattered doubts. His words had the weight of iron, commands that cracked like thunder over his empire. But now, in these last weeks, a new silence had begun to seep into his bones, curling around his thoughts, suffocating his will.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Each morning, the scent of the palace—the faint tang of polished wood, the clean scent of linens—felt increasingly foreign to him. The shadows in his chambers seemed longer. The hallways, colder. His mind ached from lack of clarity, a fog that grew thicker with every hour that passed.
He stared at the cracked goblet on the table beside him, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm. Poison? He sniffed the rim, but no. It was wine. Just wine. Just fear.
The truth, however, was harder to face.
It began with the dreams.
Fire. Always fire. He would see it—bright, suffocating, unbearable—writhing in spirals around his throne. Red feathers would dance like sparks, settling in his lap, on his crown. And always, her eyes. Vex's eyes—cold and sharp, burning with the weight of a thousand years. And always, that same whisper: She remembers.
He had ignored it, at first. Dismissed the thought. But now?
Now it haunted him in waking moments, too.
For days, he hadn't spoken to the Queen Regent. She had retreated into the chapel, muttering prayers to gods that had long abandoned the realm. And the court? They avoided him like he carried disease. Perhaps he did.
"Send for the scribes," he commanded aloud, his voice hoarse, the words scraping his throat. But no one moved. The steward entered his chamber, pale and trembling.
"Y-Your Majesty?"
"Bring the scribes," he growled. His hand gripped the armrest. "We draft new laws tonight."
⸻
Scene: The Attempt to Reassert Power
Within the hour, the palace buzzed with frantic activity. Messengers rushed from the palace gates, bearing royal decrees sealed with a crack that echoed like a death rattle.
An edict banning all red feathers from public and private wear.
A decree authorizing military tribunals for the "prophets of false visions."
New trade levies, in hopes of replenishing the treasury.
A demand for all religious relics to be surrendered for inspection.
It was all supposed to feel like power, like control. A return to the order he had once wielded so easily.
But it was hollow.
The scribes wrote, but their quills didn't dance with purpose. The court watched in silence, their eyes like empty wells. The guards barely moved—like weary soldiers too burdened by the weight of too many secrets.
Only the ink ran freely, without fear.
That night, Alaric sat in the throne room, alone. Even the torches, flickering like wounded souls, hesitated to burn brightly. The throne felt colder than it ever had before. The weight of the crown—an ancient, forgotten thing—seemed unbearable now.
⸻
Scene: Rot from Within
In the long, dim-lit corridor outside the royal council chamber, a servant girl fainted at the sight of the portrait of Vex. Her painted eyes, once still and lifeless, now bled ink in black streaks down the canvas. It was a mark of defiance—or a curse—no one could be sure. The painting was removed in silence.
In the treasury, a clerk discovered a gold coin—a coin that whispered when he touched it. "You lied for him."
The clerk didn't return to work the following day.
In the barracks, three guards disappeared during night patrol. Their armor was left behind in neat piles, swords stabbed into the earth like forgotten gravestones.
Alaric saw none of it firsthand. They no longer told him. He learned through silence. The small gaps—the missing faces, the doors left half-closed, the whispers that stopped when he entered the room. They were no longer loyal. They had become ghosts.
He stood at the window overlooking the courtyard, staring out into the courtyard shrouded by night. He whispered, his voice trembling, "I am the king."
But his reflection, dark in the glass, whispered back: You were.
⸻
Scene: The One He Still Trusts
Only one remained at his side.
Crown Prince Kaelen. His son.
The young prince was loyal, yes, but he lacked the sharpness of his father. He was strong, unbroken, but unburdened by wisdom or cleverness. It had always been a comfort to Alaric. Kaelen was predictable.
"You will lead the next campaign," Alaric said, his voice rasping with urgency. "You will raze the Hollow to ash. You will cut down that creature—Vex—and show this realm that fire can be put out."
Kaelen stood silently, expression unreadable. The weight of the command seemed to hang between them, but the prince said nothing.
Alaric pressed further, his voice wild. "Do you understand?"
Kaelen gave a small nod, his gaze vacant. "Yes, Father."
But as soon as Alaric was gone, Kaelen stood alone in the war chamber, his fingers tracing the edges of a map. One corner glowed faintly with ash and fire—the Hollow, where everything had begun.
He touched it.
And the table burned his finger.
⸻
Scene: In the Hollow – The Mirror Response
Meanwhile, in the Hollow, Vex stood before a cracked mirror—a reflection not of glass, but shadow, blood, fire, and memory.
She saw him.
Alaric. His eyes wild with panic. The scribes fleeing, trembling with the weight of forbidden words. His attempts to restore control, to draft new laws that would break the will of the people. She saw Kaelen, touching the map, his hand recoiling as the map burned him.
Rhydir stepped beside her, his shirt undone, his eyes sharp as he watched her gaze turn cold. "He's cracking."
Vex's reflection in the mirror smiled—slow, cruel, elegant. "He's trying to pretend he isn't."
"Should we push?" Rhydir asked, his voice low, but edged with anticipation.
Vex turned to him, brushing a finger along his jaw, her eyes calculating. "No. Let the king believe he still holds the reins. Let him draft his decrees. Let him crown his son with broken gold."
Her gaze sharpened. "Kings don't fall. They rot. Quietly. Until the stench is too loud to ignore."
Rhydir kissed her knuckles, his eyes alight with amusement. "Then let him rot."
⸻
Chapter Close: Alaric's Nightmare
That night, Alaric lay in his bed, tossing and turning. His dreams were filled with red—feathers, blood, flame. His throne, once so secure, was now smothering him, buried beneath the weight of fire.
The more he tried to rise, the heavier they pressed—the flames, the feathers, the weight of his failures.
He woke, gasping, his skin slick with sweat.
Outside his chamber, no guards remained. No loyalists.
Only silence.
And somewhere—echoing faintly through the halls—he heard a cry. A sound as haunting as it was beautiful.
A phoenix's cry.