The majestic bells of Zlatnomirheim boomed like celestial thunder, echoing from slender silver towers that soared into the heavens. Beneath their resounding peals, thousands of jubilant voices rose in a unified celebration, filling the air with a vibrant chorus. Banners, ablaze in flame-red and dusk-steel, billowed across the skyline, each one emblazoned with the revered sigil of House Aelric Aerandorson-a meticulously reforged sword crossed with the steadfast North Star.
High on the marble dais hewn from stone older than the legends of kings, Aelric emerged beneath the golden glow of the rising sun. In that brilliant light he had returned-not as the wayward Prince who once fled the palace or the hesitant heir who doubted his blood-but as a sovereign incarnate. His crown was not crafted from mere tradition or glittering gold. It was forged from the last iron extracted from Vareth's Deep, where his father, Aerandor, had made a defiant final stand. The ancient stories recounted how his father fought with unyielding valor until the very mines collapsed around him. Though Aelric had never known his father personally, the weight of that hardened steel pressed upon him like a deeply personal legacy.
Behind him, the throne stood vacant-not because he craved its power, but because the realm itself had chosen him. And as every discerning eye watched, the high priestess completed the elaborate oath-binding rites, sending a palpable ripple through the crowd. All gazes shifted toward the eastern archway.
She entered with an undeniable presence.
Mirna.
Clad in a flowing sapphire gown that shimmered with the luminosity of riverlight, her face, now freed from the grime of battle and burden of duty, revealed refined features that had long been obscured. Her hair, styled with breathtaking artistry-braided into elegant spirals laced with silver threads-transformed her from the fierce war-forged commander known for biting a man's ear off in the heat of siege, into a vision that might have inspired poets to retire, overwhelmed by its grace.
At the base of the dais, Hattori and Honzo visibly straightened, each struggling to mask their rapt attention.
"Is that... Mirna?" whispered Honzo, eyes wide with wonder.
"No," murmured Hattori softly, "that is a very convincing illusion."
"She has defined cheekbones-I always thought she was just all scowl and sword."
"She's always possessed those cheekbones. You simply never noticed beneath the layers of bandits' blood that marked her usual guise."
Mirna moved past them with a measured, deliberate grace honed over years of stalking battlefields rather than dancing in palatial halls. Her smile, neither warm nor cold but suspended in a perfectly balanced middle ground, silently commanded: I see you both. Behave or bleed. Their eyes flicked after her, sparkling like magpies enamored by a glinting blade.
"Did she just smile at me?" Honzo asked with hesitant hope.
"She was smiling in my direction," Hattori replied dryly.
"Maybe she was thinking of stabbing you," Honzo joked.
"Whether sheathed or not, I bet that exquisite dress hides a dagger," Hattori mused.
"Always does," Honzo agreed.
There was a brief exchange of glares.
"I should ask her for the next dance," Honzo declared, puffing out his chest.
"No," Hattori interjected coolly. "I'm asking her. It is only proper."
Honzo squinted in disbelief. "You dance?"
"I execute combat patterns with rhythm. It is practically the same," Hattori replied.
"Please. You dance like a collapsing statue."
"And you flirt like a drunken donky."
"I swear by the gods, Hattori, if you don't step aside, I'll challenge you to a dance-off right here," Honzo threatened playfully.
"You'll lose. Elegantly."
Then, with a voice sharp yet deceptively sweet, Mirna interjected, "Gentlemen, if you're done parrying with words, I'd like to proceed with the ceremony without either of you tangling me in your hair ribbon."
Instantly chastened, the two men straightened like schoolboys caught misbehaving.
"Of course, my lady," Honzo said, clearing his throat.
"I was merely defending your honor," he added in a low murmur.
Mirna raised an arching brow. "From each other?"
"Yes," they answered in perfect unison.
With that, she shook her head and ascended the final steps of the dais, taking her place behind the king as if she were simply part of the grand pageantry-completely disregarding the lovestruck chaos she left in her wake.
They both sighed in subdued admiration.
"She's incredible," Honzo murmured.
"Yet one day she'll be the undoing of us both," Hattori replied with resigned humor.
"Yes," Honzo agreed dreamily. "And strangely, I'm oddly okay with that."
As the final horns blared their solemn note and Aelric raised his gleaming sword in a solemn pledge to the realm, his eyes lifted toward the western horizon-toward shadows of loss and to what still lay waiting. Beside him, Honzo and Hattori stood shoulder to shoulder, silent, stoic, effortlessly professional. Except for the soft jab of an elbow.
"She looked at me again," Honzo whispered.
"She was simply checking that you hadn't succumbed to the heat," Hattori retorted gently.
"You imagined that."
"And you imagined she meant you."
Once more, Mirna passed them on her way to the inner court. She said not a single word, yet her lingering smirk taunted them like a silent dare.
****
In the western tower of Zlatnomirheim, Aurelia stood alone, her delicate fingers pressed against the frost-coated windowsill. The biting chill seeped through her skin as if to reprimand her for daring to feel anything in a moment so heavy with loss. Below, the banners of Zlatnomirheim snapped and danced in the wind-crimson and gold ablaze with bold, triumphant light-mocking her in their jubilant flurry as the kingdom roared in praise of its crowned king. His realm. His crown. And not one fragment of it-no whisper, no gleam-belonged to her.
The cheers, the blaring horns, and the sacred vows sworn to Aelric rang hollow, mere echoes of a people who remained oblivious to the fact that they celebrated a man who had already forgotten the woman who once quietly stood by his side. Even as he donned the title, he had scarcely cast his eyes in search of her amidst the crowd. Not once had his gaze faltered in searching for her familiar face, nor had his voice-once soft and stirring-uttered her name since his triumphant return. Not a word, not a glance, not even the faintest trace of memory.
He passed her in the corridor like drifting mist-cool, untouchable-erasing her presence as if she were nothing at all.
She had waited.
Draped in sumptuous emerald silks, her lips painted a commanding shade and her posture as immobile as a finely carved statue, she smiled at precisely the right nobles, laughed at the appropriate jests, and murmured blessings with skillful precision. Every gesture was part of a role she had learned to perform with aching dedication. Yet still, he never appeared. For, it seemed, another held his heart captive.
Mei-Ling.
She had vanished into the shrouded realms, not erased but lingering-an indelible echo in the corners of Aelric's mind where Aurelia dared not trespass. That half-spirit, half-nightmare, a chaotic tapestry of starlight and spell, still haunted his thoughts. Despite the tumult, he had loved her.
Aurelia's jaw clenched as her pale hand curled into a trembling fist upon the cool stone. "She's not even Elvan," she muttered bitterly, her voice soft yet twisted with venom, as though the bitter truth might corrupt the very air around her.
In the glass before her, her exquisite reflection stared back-a queenlike veneer poised and perfect, yet hollowness lurked behind every painted smile. The sight churned her insides with disdain.
With a sudden pivot away from the frosted window, her skirts whispered secrets across the marble floor of her vast, gilded chamber-a room that offered neither warmth nor solace, only the oppressive expectations of a court that prized beauty intertwined with obedience. Behind the silken veils at the far end of the room, past luxurious velvet drapes and ornate ceremonial masks, lay something else.
Something concealed.
Something unspoken.
Something forbidden.
She swept aside the heavy curtains.
Beneath a modest ring of candlelight, a black-lacquered chest rested, its bone carvings gleaming faintly in the dim glow. Its surface was etched with symbols so ancient that they predated even the first of kings, incised deep enough to hum with a mysterious energy when touched-runes from an era when names were whispered only in reverence.
Aurelia knelt. Her emerald gown fanned out around her like a pool of crushed gemstones, and the relentless cold seeped through the stones under her knees, grounding her in the gravity of what she was about to do.
"Let him have his crown," she murmured, voice laden with fatal determination. "Let him pretend he's whole."
With careful deliberation, she unlatched the ancient bone clasps. Inside lay fragile scrolls too delicate for daylight, bottles of ink as dark as a starless night yet shimmering with a hint of violet, and a solitary shard of mirror-cracked and cursed, its surface colder than the void of forgotten dreams.
This moment had not come by chance. One name at a time, one secret whispered beneath the moon's watchful gaze, one price paid in the shadows. The spell she intended was no crude act of fire or death-that would be too crude. No, this incantation was cleaner, more merciless. It would not spill blood but rather unmake memory itself.
Setting the cursed mirror aside, she unstoppered the vial of blood-ink. It hissed like a disturbed serpent, its sound slicing through the silence. Her hand trembled with a mixture of fear and resolve, yet her grip did not waver.
"It won't kill her," Aurelia whispered, each word a solemn promise. "It will erase her."
A brief, heavy pause followed-a heartbeat suspended in time. "He will forget her name. Her voice, the outlines of her face in his dreams. He will search for something he can no longer recall, and all he finds will be emptiness-as if she had never breathed at all."
The words hung in the air, thick as smoke swirling in a dark room. With deliberate care, she dipped her brush into the blood-ink and began to etch the sigil upon the cold stone floor. Each stroke was slow and laden with meaning, the glowing lines pulsing like living veins within the earth. The surrounding air tightened, vibrating with an unseen energy, and each breath she took felt sharper, laced with potent magic.
Aurelia's heart pounded in unison with the incantation. "She was never yours to claim," she whispered, her tone resolute as she traced the final curve of the sigil with unwavering determination. "And after this, she will never be."
Outside, the wind howled against the tower windows as if it bore witness to the irreversible sacrament. The spell did not plead for forgiveness-it demanded sacrifice. And in that moment, Aurelia knew she had more than enough to give.