Chapter III: The First Name

Elizabeth returned to her chambers, her steps careful and her mind still trailing behind in the crypt, haunted by the immortals’ whispers. The torchlight in the hallway cast a trembling glow, as if it too feared the truth she had just learned. When she stepped into her room, she expected silence.

Instead, her father was there.

King Elric stood by the window, back to her, looking over the royal gardens bathed in moonlight. He turned slowly at the sound of the door closing, and smiled.

“My little star,” he said.

She had not heard that name in years. Not since she was a child, tumbling through the courtyards with scraped knees and loud laughter. That name used to make her feel safe. Tonight, it made her uneasy.

“Father,” she greeted, bowing slightly.

He approached and reached for her hands. “Let’s sit.”

But Elizabeth couldn’t help herself. The words came pouring out like a dam shattered.

“Why are there no kings who rule? Why is it only us—the queens? Why does the kingdom demand five hundred lives?” Her voice was low but urgent. “Has no one ever tried to stop it? Has no one ever—”

He raised a hand, not in command, but in quiet surrender. His expression was tired. More tender than she had ever seen.

“Elara…” he murmured, using her middle name with reverence. “I love you. That is all I know. I cannot stop the tides. But tonight, let’s not speak of the sea. Let’s speak of stars. Let’s be father and daughter—for the last time.”

She was stunned. Her father had always been dignified, distant even. But now, there was warmth, sadness, and something else in his eyes. Something final.

So she agreed.

For three days, they shared time like never before. Archery in the old garden. Horse rides through the lower hills. Hours spent playing strategy games he used to teach her as a child. They laughed more in those days than they had in years. She saw the man behind the crown. And for a moment, forgot the crown that waited for her.

But time is unmerciful.

On the fourth day, the bells tolled across the kingdom.

Coronation Day.

Not the celebration from before. That had been pageantry, a prelude. This was the ritual. The final rite.

As the royal orchestra played and banners rose in her honor, Elizabeth entered the ceremonial hall. Princes from across the continent had come—dressed in silk and gold, their eyes fixed on her. Her dress shimmered like blood under the light. Her tiara waited atop the velvet cushion.

She knelt.

The High Matron lifted the tiara, its rubies like frozen hearts, and placed it upon Elizabeth’s head.

A silence fell.

A heartbeat.

Then… applause. Celebration. But Elizabeth was frozen. She looked up and saw how every prince, every man in that room, stared at her—not with awe, but with desire. Unnatural. Hungry. Her skin crawled.

She touched the tiara.

Was this its power?

That night, the ballroom filled with music, wine, and laughter. But Elizabeth did not smile. Something inside her had turned cold.

Later, in her chamber, her mother entered alone. But it wasn’t her mother who spoke.

A voice came from within her own thoughts.

“The first name has been chosen.”

She froze. “What?”

“The one who loved you first. The one who would die for you without hesitation. The one who spent his last days showing you who he truly was.”

“No…” she whispered.

Meredith’s eyes gleamed—not with cruelty, but with quiet resignation.

“It is always the father,” she said.

Elizabeth fell to her knees.