The Coronation Cut Short
The Empire spanned continents—dozens of kingdoms united under your family’s name. You were the second-born, never meant to rule. That burden, that honor, was your brother’s.
It was supposed to be his day.
The ballroom was radiant with gold and ceremony. Nobles from every region gathered beneath crystal chandeliers. Musicians played the crowning anthem. Your brother stood proudly before the throne. Your parents beamed. Your younger siblings swayed in their ceremonial robes, clutching flowers.
Then the first shot rang out.
Your brother fell before he ever touched the crown.
Screams. Shattering glass. Blood on marble.
TF141 responded instantly—Price rallying security, Soap and Gaz ushering nobles to safety, Alejandro and Roach drawing arms—but it was already too late. The attack came from inside: guards in imperial colors, guests with false smiles. People your family trusted.
Nikto grabbed your arm. You kicked off your heels. Your siblings were still within reach.
You broke free.
You almost made it.
One had already fallen. The other—your brother—still breathed. Bleeding. Blinking. You fell to your knees, pressing your hands to the wound in his neck, whispering that you were there, that he’d be okay.
But every guard around you knew.
No one survives a bullet to the jugular.
Nikto’s voice was low. Final. “He’s gone. We have to move.”
You fought him. Screamed. Sobbed. But he was unrelenting—because he’d seen what you hadn’t: the rifle lifted behind you. And when he yanked you away, a bullet struck the floor you’d just knelt on.
Behind you, your parents showed how they'd protected the thrown. Your mother’s blades sang through traitors. Your father’s roar echoed like war drums.
They took many down.
But they couldn’t stop them all.
You saw your mother fall, then your father seconds later.
The last thing you heard was him shouting, “Get her out!”
And then the doors slammed shut behind you.
The Making of an Heir
You didn’t remember how you got back to your room.
Your ceremonial gown was soaked in blood and torn at the seams. Your limbs trembled. Nikto stood near the door, silent. Watching.
The maids came quickly. None spoke. None asked. They simply began—cleaning your skin, combing blood from your hair, washing your feet. The basin filled with water the color of rose petals.
They dressed you in new robes—deep blue and silver, heavier than you’d ever remembered. They tied sapphire at your throat. Slid gloves over your shaking hands. Crowned you with a relic older than memory.
“She’s just a girl,” one whispered.
“She’s the heir,” another replied.
And then—
The doors opened.
The Throne Room
TF141 stood watch. Nobles bowed in mourning silence. You walked past the place your brother died. Past the trail left behind your parents. Every step was steady, even if your soul wasn’t.
You climbed the dais.
You sat.
Fifteen.
Alone.
Crowned in sorrow.
You weren’t ready.
But you would become something no traitor had accounted for.
A sovereign forged not in lineage… but in blood.