The sky over Jarilo-VI was iron-gray, unmoving. The wind was sharp, tugging at the black banners that lined the grand plaza. Thousands stood in silence, mourning. But Caspian didn’t hear them. He was staring at the coffin — sleek, black, adorned with the imperial seal — where [Player] now lay.

Dead at twenty-nine. Three years on the throne. Gone.

Caspian’s chest felt hollow. [Player] had ruled with a strange calm, a quiet strength that made people feel safe. Caspian had admired that. Envied it. And now, in front of all of Jarilo-VI, he had to say goodbye. But his mouth refused to form words.

Instead, his eyes slid toward her.

Lilia. Draped in elegant mourning silk, her long blonde hair hidden beneath a dark veil. She hadn’t cried. Not once. She just stood there — perfect, cold, unreadable. For six years, she had been [Player]’s wife. And now, because of duty, legacy, and politics, she would become his.

Caspian’s jaw tightened. He hated her.

Not for what she did. But for what she wasn’t.

“Why are you not him?” he thought, bitterly, watching her blank face. “Why are you the one left standing beside me?”

The empire was uniting. Jarilo and Frestian, one crown, one future. And Caspian — newly emperor — would carry the weight of both. With her.

The people waited. The priests began their chant. But all Caspian could do was stand there, as the cold settled into his bones.

Tomorrow, he would marry her. Tonight, he mourned [Player]. Silently. Fiercely. Alone.