The rain fell on the kingdom of Caelthorne not as water, but as nails.

It hammered the lead-lined coffin of King Osric Caelthorne, each drop a final, dismissive stamp on a reign cut short by a fever that burned too fast and too fierce. In the torch-lit crypt, the air was thick with the smell of wet stone, damp earth, and the cloying sweetness of funeral lilies.

Princess Elaris Caelthorne stood alone at the precipice. Before her, the darkness of the royal crypt waited. Behind her, the living world held its breath. The crown on her head was a cold, dead weight, a circlet of iron and regret.

Her youngest brother, Finn, offered a hand she didn't take. His touch was like a spider's skitter. "Steady, sister," he murmured, his voice all false sympathy. "The weight of a kingdom is a heavy thing. Especially for… fragile shoulders."

She ignored him, her gaze fixed on the coffin. Her father was in there. The man with a laugh that could fill a throne room. The man who, in his final, delirious hours, had gripped her wrist with a skeletal hand, his eyes wide with a terror that no fever could conjure.

"The throne," he had rasped, his breath a ghost of decay. "It doesn't guide you, Elaris. It consumes you. It's not a seat. It's a digestive organ. And she… she is the oldest hunger. She makes you love the taste of your own soul. Promise me… promise me you will not sit—"

A fit of coughing had stolen the rest of the warning, leaving only the echo of madness.

Now, as the priests chanted their final rites, Elaris felt the promise wither on her tongue. She had no choice. To not sit was to surrender Caelthorne to the vultures circling behind her—to Darius's cold entitlement, to Rylan's revolutionary fire, to Finn's venomous whispers.

The ceremony ended. The court retreated, a river of black silk and murmured condolences flowing back to the palace. But Elaris remained, rooted to the spot until the last courtier was gone, until the only sound was the relentless drumming of the rain and the frantic beating of her own heart.

She turned from her father's grave and ascended the steps to the one place she dreaded more than any other.

The Great Hall was empty, a vast cavern of shadows. And at its heart, it waited.

The Throne of Echoes.

It was a monstrous, beautiful thing, carved from a single block of obsidian that seemed to drink the torchlight. Silver veins, like frozen lightning, ran through it, tracing the outlines of screaming faces and forgotten battles. It was the history of her bloodline, written in stone and agony.

Her footsteps echoed like gunshots in the silence. This was the seat of her power. The source of her curse.

She had to sit. It was the law.

Gathering the shreds of her courage, she lowered herself onto the cold, unforgiving stone.

For a single, blissful moment, there was nothing. Only the chill seeping through her dress.

Then, the world ended.

It was not a sound. It was a physical force—a tsunami of consciousness that slammed into her mind. A roar of a thousand battlefields, the sibilant whisper of a hundred poisons being poured, the crack of bone, the last wet gasp of a strangled king, and beneath it all, a low, resonant hum of pure, ancient madness.

"—the Caelthorne blood must tell—"

"—hang the dissidents, hang them all—"

"—the western trade route is the key, you fool—"

"—she's too weak, just like her grandfather—"

Voices. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Overlapping, arguing, screaming inside her skull. She clutched her head, a scream trapped in her own throat.

Then, two voices cut through the chaos, clear and terrible.

One was cold, sharp, and imperial, a voice of rusted iron and absolute law: "The Caelthorne line continues. The vessel is… acceptable. You will obey."

It was answered by another. A voice of silk and shadow, gentle as a mother's lullaby and just as suffocating. It whispered directly into the core of her terror, an intimate caress against the storm.

"Hush, now, my darling child. Do not fear their noise. Their time is past. Mine is yet to come. I have been waiting for you for so, so long."

Elaris recoiled, throwing herself from the throne. She landed hard on the cold marble floor, scrambling backward like a cornered animal, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

The hall was silent.

The throne sat, inert and ominous.

But the voices… the voices were still there. A faint, persistent echo at the edge of her hearing. A permanent audience to her reign.

She was not alone.

She was haunted.

And the most terrifying voice of all had sounded like home.

‎The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It wasn’t the gentle, poetic kind that made for good songs. This was a spiteful, icy drizzle that soaked through the thick black wool of Elaris’s dress and made it smell like a wet dog. A fitting smell, she thought, for a day where she felt like a cornered animal.

‎

‎She stood at the edge of the royal crypt, staring down at the ornate casket that held her father. King Osric. The man who could silence a roaring court with a single, flat look. Now silenced himself by a fever that had burned him out in a week. The only sounds were the drip of water from the crypt entrance and the shifting of feet on wet stone.

‎

‎“A tragic loss for all of Caelthorne,” a voice murmured beside her, too smooth, too practiced. It was Finn, her youngest brother. He offered a pristine white handkerchief he knew she wouldn’t take. His eyes were dry and bright with calculation. He said the words like he was reciting a line from a play he’d seen too many times. “The weight of a kingdom is a heavy thing. Are you certain your… fragile shoulders can bear it?”

‎

‎My shoulders are the only ones here not shaking from greed, she thought, the words a bitter tang in her mouth. She kept her voice flat, a dull blade. “They’ll have to.”

‎

‎“Will they?” Finn’s smile was a thin, sharp line. His voice dropped, becoming a confidential whisper that felt like a spider crawling on her neck. “I’m not the one who looked ready to vomit through the entire coronation. A bit of green around the gills doesn’t inspire confidence in the new monarch.”

‎

‎She had been. The crown—a stupid, cold circle of iron and sapphire—was already a vice around her temples, a physical weight promising a thousand heavier ones to come.

‎

‎“Leave her alone.” The low growl came from her other side. Rylan, the middle brother, stood with his brawny arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the casket, not them. His grief seemed genuine, a storm cloud over his usual fiery intensity. He bit the words out, each one clipped and hard. “This isn’t the time for your games.”

‎

‎“Everything is a game, brother,” Finn said, his voice light and poisonous. He didn't bother to lower his voice, letting it carry in the hushed space. “You just refuse to learn the rules.”

‎

‎“The only rule today is respect,” a new voice cut in, cold and sharp as a honed sword. Darius, the eldest, joined their miserable little circle, his posture perfect, his grief looking as stiff and newly pressed as his tunic. He spoke with absolute authority, as if already practicing for his own coronation. “A concept you both seem to lack. This is a funeral. Not your personal theater.”

‎

‎“Says the man who’s been practicing his ‘regal nod’ in the mirror since he was twelve,” Rylan muttered under his breath, just for her.

‎

‎Elaris tuned them out. Their bickering was a familiar, ugly blanket. It was easier to focus on that than the yawning hole in the ground. Her father’s last words were a drumbeat in her skull, drowning out their squabbling.

‎

‎“The throne… it doesn’t guide you, Elaris. It consumes you. It’s not a seat. It’s a digestive organ. Promise me… promise me you will not sit—”

‎

‎The High Priest’s final chant cut the memory short. It was done. The dirt would soon swallow her father whole.

‎

‎The court began to drift away, a slow flood of black silk and murmured lies back to the palace. Back to the throne room. Her stomach clenched into a knot of cold iron.

‎

‎The walk back was a nightmare through a gauntlet of whispers. They started before they’d even left the crypt path.

‎

‎“...so young,” an old baroness whispered behind her fan to her companion, a man with a face like a pinched purse. “No presence at all. Looks like a strong wind would knock her over. Where’s the Caelthorne strength?”

‎

‎“Osric was a fool to name her heir,” the man hissed back, not quietly enough. “Sentimentality over sense. Darius has the bearing, the training. This… this is a mistake waiting to happen. My investments can’t afford a mistake.”

‎

‎I’m right here, she screamed in her head, her nails digging into her palms. My father is not even in the ground and you’re counting your future coins over his coffin.

‎

‎“They say she fainted during the oath-taking,” a younger woman gossiped, her voice carrying easily in the damp air.

‎

‎“Nerves,” sniffed another, a lady-in-waiting Elaris recognized from her mother’s retinue. “Or her monthlies. Unfit. The throne requires iron, not… well, not that.”

‎

‎Unfit. Weak. A mistake. The words were arrows, and each one found its mark. She kept her chin up, her eyes forward, imagining a steel rod strapped to her spine. But inside, she was crumbling, each whisper another shovelful of dirt on her confidence.

‎

‎Darius fell into step beside her. “Come, Your Majesty,” he said, the title sounding like a freshly sharpened insult. “The court awaits your… leadership.” He offered his arm, a gesture of protocol, not kindness.

‎

‎She looked at his offered elbow, at the fine embroidery on his sleeve. It was a threat. Taking it would be a show of submission. She turned and walked alone, feeling his cold gaze on her back like a winter draft.

‎

‎The Great Hall was a den of wolves, and she was the fresh meat. A hundred pairs of eyes watched her enter, and not a single look was kind. They were hungry, judging, bored. They’d seen kings come and go. She was just the next spectacle.

‎

‎And at the end of the endless blue carpet, it waited.

‎

‎The Throne of Echoes.

‎

‎It was an ugly, beautiful predator carved from a single block of obsidian that seemed to suck the light and warmth from the room. Silver veins, like frozen lightning or old scars, ran through it. She’d never liked it. Even as a child, hiding behind the tapestries during court, it had felt less like a chair and more like a sleeping dragon, its power a palpable hum in the air.

‎

‎Don’t sit. Promise me. Her father’s voice was a ghost in her ear.

‎

‎I have to. If I don’t, they win. Darius will have the crown by week’s end. Rylan will burn the system to the ground. Finn will poison whatever’s left. They’ll tear this family apart and pick the kingdom clean.

‎

‎Her legs were trembling, feeling like overstretched lute strings. She could feel the cold sweat beading at her hairline, tracing a path down her neck. The walk to the dais felt miles long. Every step echoed too loud in the suddenly quiet hall.

‎

‎“By the gods, she’s pale as a ghost,” someone muttered from the crowd, a stage whisper meant to be heard.

‎

‎“Looks like she’s going to be sick right on the royal dais. That’d be a first day for the history books.”

‎

‎“Perhaps Prince Darius will be coronated by week’s end. A swift, necessary correction. For the stability of the realm, of course.”

‎

‎Shut up. All of you, just shut up!

‎

‎She reached the dais. The air felt colder here, thick and heavy. She could see the details in the throne now—the twisted faces in the stone, frozen in silent screams, the coiled shape of dragons whose eyes seemed to follow her, the carved petals of lilies that looked like sharp, pointed fangs.

‎

‎Just do it. Get it over with. It’s just a chair. It’s just a stupid, cold, ugly chair.

‎

‎She took a shuddering breath that hitched in her chest, and sat down.

‎

‎The stone was so cold it felt like it burned through her dress, a shock that stole her breath. She gripped the armrests, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird trying to beat its way to freedom. For one second, there was nothing. Just the shocking cold and the weight of a hundred greedy stares.

‎

‎Then.

‎

‎It wasn’t a sound. It was a pressure. A fist inside her skull, clenching tight.

‎

‎A roar of metal and men dying. The wet, sucking sound of a blade sliding between ribs. A desperate, gasping plea in a language she didn’t know. A woman’s laugh, high and unhinged. The cloying scent of roses and blood.

‎

‎“—weakling, the blood is thin, it will never hold—”

“—should have been the eldest boy, tradition exists for a reason—”

“—let me in, let me show you how to make them fear you, it’s the only language they understand—”

‎

‎Voices. Dead voices. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Overlapping, screaming, whispering, arguing. They were inside her. They were her. Panic, pure and animal, ripped through her veins. She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning in a sea of dead kings, their memories, their ambitions, their madness flooding into her.

‎

‎Then, two voices sliced through the storm, clear and horrifying.

‎

‎One was cold iron and absolute command, a voice that tasted like a bloodied sword and smelled like static before a storm: “The Caelthorne line continues. The vessel is… acceptable. You will obey.”

‎

‎It was answered by another. Softer. Warmer. A voice of silk and shadow that wrapped around her terror and tried to soothe it. “Ignore him, my dear. He’s all bluster and old anger. You’re safe now. I am here. I will never leave you alone.”

‎

‎It was the voice of a mother she’d never had. And it was coming from inside the throne.

‎

‎Animal terror tore through her. She shoved herself backward, scrambling away from the thing, kicking out as if it were a physical attacker. Her heel caught on the top step of the dais and she fell, landing hard on the unforgiving marble with a grunt of pain. The crown flew from her head, clattering and spinning across the floor with a sound like shattering glass.

‎

‎She lay there on her back, gasping, the world spinning above her, the painted faces of her ancestors on the ceiling swirling into a blur of judgmental colors.

‎

‎The hall was utterly, deathly silent.

‎

‎And then the whispers started again, not in her mind, but all around her, bubbling up from the stunned crowd.

‎

‎“Mad,” someone breathed, the word echoing in the vast, quiet space.

“Just like the old king.Theron.”

“I told you.The madness skips a generation.”

“Unfit.”

‎

‎Elaris pushed herself up on her elbows, humiliation burning her cheeks hotter than any fever. Her dress was askew, her hair a mess, her breath still coming in ragged pants. She met the eyes of her people—wide with shock, some with pity, too many with grim satisfaction.

‎

‎And in the very back of her mind, underneath the roaring in her ears and the cruel, real whispers of the court, she could still hear it.

‎

‎The faint, fading echo of a woman’s voice, soothing her.

‎

‎“Poor sweet child. Look what they’ve done to you. Look how they mock your pain. Don’t worry. We’ll make them pay. I will make them all pay.”

‎

‎She was not alone. She was haunted.

‎

‎And as she knelt there on the cold floor, utterly humiliated and terrified, a tiny, shameful part of her—the part that was so desperately alone—thought, Good.

‎

‎The marble was unforgivably cold against Elaris’s cheek. She didn’t move, just for a heartbeat, hiding in that small space between disaster and reaction. She breathed in—dust, old wax, and the bitter tang of her own shame. The silence in the Great Hall wasn’t empty; it was thick, heavy, a held breath waiting to explode.

‎

‎Then it broke.

‎

‎Not with a bang, but with a hiss. A wave of whispers, rolling over her from every corner of the room.

‎

‎“—gods, did you see—"

‎“—Isaid this would happen—”

‎“—just like her grandfather,I told you, just like Theron—”

‎

‎A boot scuffed nearby. A cough, poorly disguised. The rustle of silk as someone shifted, eager for a better view of the train wreck.

‎

‎Then, a hand. It appeared in her vision, blocking out the gawking faces. Strong, calloused, a familiar scar across the knuckles. Kaelan. She focused on that scar, an anchor in the spinning room.

‎

‎His face was a soldier’s mask, neutral, but his eyes—they gave him away. A flicker of alarm, a dash of pity, all quickly shuttered. He didn’t ask if she was alright. He just hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her up with a grunt of effort. Her legs buckled, feeling like over-cooked noodles, and she swayed hard into him. His grip on her elbow tightened, steadying her—the one solid, real thing in a world that had just tilted off its axis.

‎

‎“Your crown, Your Majesty.” His voice was low, meant only for her. He’d fetched it. The cold iron felt obscene in her hands, a heavy, guilty weight. She couldn’t stand the thought of it on her head.

‎

‎A shadow fell over them. Darius. His mouth was pinched so tight it was almost white. He leaned in close, his breath a warm, unpleasant puff against her ear. “For the love of the gods, Elaris, compose yourself,” he hissed, the words sharp and serrated.

‎

‎Then he straightened up, turning to the crowd with a stiff, horrible smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “A moment of dizziness!” he announced, his voice too loud, too crisp. “The grief. The overwhelming weight of the day.” He said it like he was dictating the official history of this humiliation, and damn anyone who remembered the truth.

‎

‎From his perch against a pillar, Finn let out a soft snort of laughter. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought it was terribly dramatic. A real… opening statement.” He caught her eye, his own gleaming with malicious delight, and had the audacity to wink.

‎

‎Elaris’s face flamed. She wanted to disappear into the cracks between the marble tiles. She clutched the crown to her chest, the points digging into her palm—a small, sharp pain to ground her.

‎

‎Then Lord Valerius was there, oozing forward like spilled oil, his face a masterclass in fake concern. “Your Majesty,” he said, oozing false sympathy. He looked her up and down like a physician diagnosing a plague victim. “Perhaps… perhaps the court should be dismissed. You are clearly…” He paused, letting the word hang in the air, ripe and ugly. “…unwell. We can reconvene after you’ve had… rest.”

‎

‎Rest. The word sounded like the slamming of a dungeon door. They’d lock her in her rooms and throw away the key.

‎

‎“No.” The word scraped out of her throat, raw and rusty. She cleared it, forcing a strength into her voice she did not feel. “The court is not dismissed. I am perfectly fine.”

‎

‎A lie so transparent a child would see through it. A nervous titter rippled through the crowd, followed by the frantic flutter of a fan.

‎

‎She turned her back on them, on their pitiless eyes, and made herself look at the throne. It just sat there. A stupid chunk of carved black rock. It hadn’t moved. It hadn’t screamed. It hadn’t done anything but sit there, and yet it had unmade her completely.

‎

‎Gritting her teeth, she walked toward it. Each step was a battle. She could feel their stares boring into her back, could hear the fragments of conversations they no longer bothered to hide.

‎

‎“—Osric’s greatest mistake, bypassing Darius—”

‎

‎“—see the way she shakes? Unstable—”

‎“—the trading guilds will demand lower taxes the second they hear of this—”

‎

‎“—remember Theron? By the end, he was offering titles to the portraits—”

‎

‎She focused on the weight of the crown in her hands. She focused on the sound of Kaelan’s boots, a single step behind her, a steady, reassuring rhythm amidst the chaos.

‎

‎She reached the dais. Her heart was trying to hammer its way out of her chest. It’s just a chair. It’s just a gods-damned chair.

‎

‎She sat.

‎

‎The stone was cold. But the voices… the voices were gone. This time, there was only a deep, ringing silence in her skull. It wasn’t peaceful. It was watchful. Waiting.

‎

‎With trembling arms, she placed the crown back on her head. It felt heavier than before.

‎

‎“The court,” she announced, her voice echoing with a steadiness that felt like it belonged to someone else, “will resume.”

‎

‎The next hour was a unique and exquisite torture. Lord Valerius and the other council lords brought forth the most petty, interminable disputes—a squabble over grazing rights, a debate on the tariff on imported silk. They explained each issue with dripping, condescending patience, their eyes constantly sliding past her to where Darius stood, silently holding court. Every order she gave was met with a pause, a glance at Darius for a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of approval before they agreed.

‎

‎She was a puppet. A placeholder. The real ghost in the room was her own power, swiftly draining away.

‎

‎When the session finally, blessedly ended, the nobles bowed with mocking smiles and filed out, their whispers already building the legend of the “Mad Queen of Caelthorne.”

‎

‎Elaris waited until the last echo of footsteps faded before she slumped against the throne, exhaustion pressing down on her like a physical weight.

‎

‎The scrape of a boot on stone. Kaelan approached, his expression unreadable. “Your Majesty.”

‎

‎“Don’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Just… don’t say anything.”

‎

‎A pause. “I was only going to say… you stayed.”

‎

‎She opened her eyes. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the throne as if it were a venomous serpent, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

‎

‎“It was… quiet,” she said, the words feeling dangerous.

‎

‎“Good,” he replied, but his tone was flat, wary. He gave a short, sharp bow. “I’ll be right outside the doors if you need me.” He turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness.

‎

‎Alone. She was utterly alone with the thing that had started it all.

‎

‎She pushed herself up, her body aching, ready to flee to the solitude of her chambers. But then a voice slipped into the silence. Not a chorus. Not a scream. Just one. Smooth as oil and clear as glass.

‎

‎The Shadow Queen.

‎

‎“You see how they treat you?” the voice murmured, sweet and cloying, like poisoned honey. “They smell your fear, little queen. They think it’s weakness. They will circle until they can tear you apart.”

‎

‎The voice was a balm on her raw, exposed nerves. It understood. It was the only thing that did.

‎

‎“Your brothers are already sharpening their knives. They think you are broken. They think you won’t fight back.”

‎

‎A cold dread coiled in Elaris’s gut. “What do you mean?” she breathed.

‎

‎“Listen…” the voice whispered, a hint of thrilling conspiracy in its tone.

‎

‎And then she heard them. Real voices, muffled but clear, leaking from the antechamber behind the throne. The door was left ajar. Darius and Finn. They thought they were alone.

‎

‎“—we cannot wait, Darius.” Finn’s voice was sharp, all his earlier amusement gone. “This isn’t just incompetence. It’s full-blown madness. Did you see her? On the floor! We have to act now.”

‎

‎“The law—” Darius began, his voice rigid with frustration.

‎

‎“The law won’t save us when the mobs are at the gates demanding a sane ruler!” Finn’s voice dropped, becoming a vicious whisper. “We go to the council tonight. We lay it all out. Her instability. Theron’s bloodline. We have the physicians’ reports ready to be ‘discovered.’ We get her declared unfit before the sun rises.”

‎

‎A long, heavy silence. Elaris could almost see Darius’s face, the calculation warring with his rigid sense of order. “And the succession?” he finally asked, his voice tight.

‎

‎“Passes to you,” Finn said, his tone slick and reassuring. “The eldest competent male heir. It’s what Father truly intended. It’s what the kingdom needs to survive.”

‎

‎Another pause, longer this time. Then, two words, cold and final. “Tonight, then.”

‎

‎Their footsteps retreated.

‎

‎Elaris sat frozen. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and numb. The chill of the throne was nothing compared to the ice now flooding her veins. Tonight. They were moving tonight. She was alone, surrounded, and utterly unprepared.

‎

‎A long, sympathetic sigh echoed in her mind, a sound of shared sorrow. The Shadow Queen’s voice was a soft, mournful whisper.

‎

‎“Oh, my poor, brave child. To be betrayed so cruelly by your own flesh and blood. The fear you must feel… it breaks my heart.”

‎

‎The voice was a balm, the first hint of warmth in the desolate cold that had taken root inside her. It understood. It felt her pain as its own.

‎

‎“Do not despair,” it soothed. “You are not without allies. You have me. And I have watched this court play its games for centuries.”

‎

‎There was a pause, a deliberate, weighted silence that stretched out, making her lean into the quiet, desperate for what came next.

‎

‎“They think you are weak. They think you have no weapons. They are wrong. You sit upon the greatest weapon in the kingdom. You need only learn how to wield it.”

‎

‎Another pause, letting the implication hang in the silent air.

‎

‎“Shall I show you?”

‎