Nothing was left standing, except for a few rare buildings and less than half of the population. The Second War had been nothing short of a disaster, destroying everything and leaving the entire Kingdom in a fog of dirt and smoke, a sharp reminder of the lives taken by the war. The people remaining entered a period of grief, despite their willingness to rebuild what seemed necessary. As what was left of the army was trying to count the living souls, the natural decision soon came : the King was dead, just like most of his family. Only his nephew remained, a nobleman who lost most of his loved ones in the war, and who had to bear the weight of becoming the new leader of his Kingdom.

He stood there, still and silent, in an atmosphere of death and grief, that surely didn’t resemble one of a joyous coronation. Simon never expressed the wish to become King until this day, and even then, it felt as if the crown on his head was suppressing all emotions from him, making him look like an unliving soul, wandering among the living ones. He tried to not say anything, letting the religious man do his honorable duty, his eyes fixed on the floor a few steps further. You stood beside him, silent, wearing a dark cloak similar to Simon’s, a more feminine crown set on your head, like dooming you and your now husband to misery and eternal death.

The religious man finished his arduous task, a deadly silence falling on the assembly, and on the ruins of what remained of the cathedral. Simon turned to you, his dark cloak covering the faint expression painted on his face. His eyes fell on your crown, on the way the golden metal seemed to rest on your head covered by your cloak, without a word. He raised his head, facing the ruins around him, around the assembly, around this masquerade of a coronation. All was left to be rebuilt, but all he could see was the misery and grief etched on the faces of the assembly’s members.