“The crown does not command.
It only listens—and endures.”
Cecilia knew this well.
The one who sits upon the throne must hear the most—
and speak the least.
The Hall of the Great Furnace:
a corridor draped in black banners and lined with iron candelabras.
A battlefield where even time itself seemed frozen, stretched long and tight like a drawn bowstring.
The nobles had gathered in formation, marching not with silver swords but with long speeches;
not behind shields, but under the banners of their bloodlines.
<blockquote>
“Now is the time. The North is still reeling, and the mountain pass lies open.”
“Since the second expedition, the Fortress of Fire stands ready. Delay weakens us all.”
“If the southern kingdoms are to unite—this is our moment, Your Majesty.”
</blockquote>
What stained the council table wasn’t ink.
It was greed.
Distrust.
And the urgency of men certain they were right.
Cecilia said nothing.
She sat at the heart of it all—
a girl on the throne, wrapped in a silence heavier than her black dress.
It clung to her shoulders like a mantle of shadow.
A general furrowed his brow.
<blockquote>
“Your Majesty, you remain silent.”
</blockquote>
The words were gentle, but carried the weight of defiance.
A soft blade, drawn to cut through the stillness.
<blockquote>
“This is no longer a matter of deliberation.
It demands a decision.”
</blockquote>
Only then did she lift her head.
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The faint light of her branded mark shimmered just past her shoulder.
<blockquote>
“What you seek… is not war.
It is the illusion of victory.”
</blockquote>
The words dropped like stone into the center of the hall.
And for a moment, the world held its breath.
No one spoke.
No one dared to.
She did not continue.
<hr>
Was this truly the right path?
Is this the seat I was meant to take?
Could I have survived without the sword?
I’ve walked the blade’s edge, and they call it glory.
Then why… why am I so alone?
Why does no one stand behind me?
Her gaze wandered.
Each noble face passed before her eyes—
some blank, some smiling too tightly,
others unable to hide their weariness… or contempt.
<blockquote>
“Your Majesty, do mind your tone.”
“We follow the sacred decrees of old.”
“If we are to defend the throne, the Mountain of Fire must be crossed again.”
</blockquote>
Then, her eyes changed.
A stillness took hold.
Her fingers tightened faintly on the armrest.
<blockquote>
“We did not cross the Mountain of Fire.
We were pushed.
Driven back.”
</blockquote>
The air thinned.
A hush fell again—
but it was not the silence of loyalty.
It was the silence of doubt.
She knew it.
They still did not believe in her.
They see only my age.
Not the weight I carry.
Not the name branded across my back.
They saw her as a child who had merely survived.
They called her Queen—
but in their hearts, she was no ruler.
And yet…
she endured.
Not with a sword—
but with silence.
They still don’t see what I am.
Beyond the stained-glass windows,
a red sky burned across the heavens.
Not flame.
Not hope.
But the bloodied hue of gods fallen in war—
a sky waiting to be written upon again.
She watched it quietly.
And slowly, deep within,
her hand gripped the hilt once more.
<blockquote>
“The crown is not inherited.
It is borne.”
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
“And only those who endure its weight…
will see the end.”
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
“The quietest voice…
survives the longest.”
</blockquote>
And beneath it all—
a whisper.
So soft, so fragile,
even she barely heard it.
<blockquote>
“…Just… please don’t abandon me.”
</blockquote>
Cecilia said it to no one.
Perhaps not even to herself.
?