A chilly wind whipped through the banners that crowned the turrets of Bethel Keep. Dawn's light glinted off the battlements—not in warmth, but in steel and suspicion. Within the highest tower, King John Bethel stood before the great arched window, his countenance drawn in half–shadow. Hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the courtyard where pennoned knights were already drilling for the tournament. His face was handsome—strong jaw, high cheekbones—but the curl of his lip spoke of a mind always turning blades in the dark.
Behind him, Queen Cynthia watched her husband with cool appraisal. She was elegance in white silk, her eyes pale as winter ice. When the twins, Mason and Madison, entered the chamber, she offered only a polite nod. The boy and girl— nineteen years now—bore the slender grace of youth, their mother's eyes and gentleness. Yet in Cynthia's presence they felt the unspoken distance of a guest in her own home.
"Your Majesty, your Majesty," piped Eren, the youngest at seventeen, as he scampered in behind them, all blind adoration and mischievous grin. He bowed too deeply, knocking Mason's shoulder with his elbow. The prince bristled; the princess merely smiled, forgiving. Cynthia's lips twitched.
"Enough," King John said softly. He turned, delivering his children each a look that was gentler than his greeting had suggested. "The tournament begins today. I expect none of you to embarrass the crown." His gaze lingered on Eren, whose grin faltered for an instant before he straightened, as if shocked to find himself still in the room.
As Mason and Madison left to prepare, Cynthia touched her husband's arm. "They grow restless," she murmured.
He shook her hand off, though not harshly. "Better restless than rebellious." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And Eren… the people love him. He is our perfect prince."
She nodded, but her gaze drifted past him to the portraits lining the wall. Above the hearth hung the likeness of their late queen—the twins' mother—her face kind and sorrowful. No official account spoke of her death; that secret was buried deeper than any journal.
⸻
In the Seer's Chamber beneath the east wing, candles guttered around a round table of black oak. Shafts of morning light struggled through diamond-paned windows, illuminating a swirl of purple incense smoke. Here sat Madame Frida, ancient beyond reckoning, her milky eyes fixed upon the crystal grail at her center.
Madison Bethel knelt before her, pale blue skirt pooling on the stone floor. Her dark hair was bound back for audience, and her fingers toyed with the silver lure she wore—an heirloom from her mother. The princess's heart pounded; the world above seemed distant, the howling winds and clanging steel replaced by a hush only the seer's realm could conjure.
"See for me," Madison whispered. "Tell me what threatens our family."
Madame Frida's wrinkled hands rose, palms down over the grail. The crystal's surface rippled, as though breathing. A flicker of shapes: a crumbling tower, a broken crown, faces screaming in the dark. A river of blood. Then—Madison, kneeling on cold stone, staring up in terror. A woman in red, her back turned.
The seer's rasp broke the vision. "The foundations of Bethel Keep are built on a lie," she croaked. "A blood-tithe paid to shadows. The sins of its prince and queen are bound in silent covenants. Soon the tower shall fall."
Madison's breath caught. "What must we do?"
Frida's eyes met hers, unyielding. "The debt must be repaid. A life for a life. But which?"
Terror flashed in Madison's eyes. "I—I do not understand."
"Be wary," the seer whispered, leaning forward. "The red woman comes at sunset. She brings both doom and deliverance. Choose well."
Madison pressed trembling fingers to her lips as she rose. Outside the chamber door, the distant clang of steel heralded the dawn of something far darker than any tournament.
⸻
Beyond the castle walls lay the vast expanse of the Whitevale Plains, where leveled fields met rolling hills, and the road to the capital was thronged with traders, farmers, and nobles. Here, every spring, Bethel Keep hosted its grand tournament: knights jousting, blades clashing in the lists, archers testing their mettle. Colorful tents lined the grounds, each bearing the heraldry of competing houses. Spectators gathered in the stands carved from stone, eager for sport and spectacle.
Captain Roland Darrow rode along the edge of the lists, his polished armor catching the first sun. Broad of shoulder, stern of gaze, he regarded the preparations with a soldier's vigilance. He was the twins' maternal uncle, sworn to protect them since their birth. The court whispered that he never forgave King John for the death of his sister, yet he honored his oath more fiercely than the day he first bore sword.
Roland's dark hair fell in uneven waves, framing a face that bore both grief and determination. He dismounted as a group of Sergeants approached, laying out the security plan. Nearby, Eren laughed with a cluster of nobles' daughters, fanning himself with a dancer's grace. Roland's jaw tightened; he'd seen that same smile on far bloodier lips.
"Captain," an aide said, "the Bethel banners are unfurled. The king will arrive at high noon."
Roland nodded. "Good. No disruptions."
He scanned the fields: in the tilt-yard, knights in shining mail rode down lances aimed at wooden quintains. In the melee pen, men-at-arms tested each other's steel. Aromas of roasted venison and sweetmeads drifted on the breeze. Yet beneath the pageantry, Roland felt the disquiet of a heart betrayed.
He recalled the night the twins' mother begged him to protect her children, even after she dies. The next dawn, she was gone. Officially, she died of fever. To him, she was murdered.
Roland pulled his cape tighter. Today would be different. The old vows of loyalty were no longer enough. He would watch over Mason and Madison. He would uncover the darkness that thrived in Bethel halls—and he would protect his blood, whatever the cost.
⸻
As the sun climbed, King John rode out in gilded saddle, Queen Cynthia beside him in a palanquin drawn by white chargers. Eren who had rejoined them ran alongside, his blue cloak billowing, waving at the commoners who cheered—unaware of the rot within the tower. Mason and Madison stood near the lists, regal in blue and silk, forced smiles upon their faces.
Madison's gaze drifted eastward, toward the forest line where shadows gathered like ink. In her mind, the seer's prophecy echoed. She glimpsed a flash of red cloth between the trees—Dorothy's cloak—and felt the chill of destiny tightening its grip.
King John raised his hand. "Let the tournament commence!"
Clangs of horns and drums answered. The first jouster lowered his lance, and the lists erupted in cheers.
But beneath the roar lay the whisper of wings—something ancient, unsettling. The seeds of ruin had been sown, and Bethel Keep's bright veneer would soon crack.
Tonight, the red woman would come. And secrets older than the stones themselves would rise to claim their toll.