The stone corridors of your father’s castle echoed with a silence too heavy to bear. Grief had steeped into the walls like it had become a paranormal entity, thick in the air like smoke that refused to lift. The war banners, black-draped, hung limp, their threads whispering tales of a king who’d never rise again.

The throne room was cold despite the sun slanting through high stained-glass windows, bathing the marble in fractured gold. Dust motes drifted in lazy spirals, catching on the windless light. Everything was too still. As though time itself was holding its breath, waiting for you to take what was yours by birthright.

You stood alone at the base of the throne. The seat was empty. You hadn’t dared sit yet. At this point, you couldn't even make your body move a single foot up the steps to reach it.

Bootsteps broke the hush, sharp against the stone.

The tall doors parted with a creak.

The two knights entered side by side, their armor catching the light of the torches lining the space.

Sir Ilion Aasen moved first. Regal in bearing, golden hair perfectly drawn back, he looked carved from some ancient ideal. Every step was measured, his calm gaze lowered in reverence, and there was not an ounce of hesitation in his actions.

Beside him, Sir Kyro Auran was all coiled movement, the embodiment of controlled strength. His darker hair fell in tousled strands across his brow, sweat still clinging to the olive of his skin. He hadn’t stopped moving since they summoned him to your service. His eyes burned—angry at fate, angry at the world, angry for you.

The Council of Lords had insisted on them both. The best swords in all of Veykar, handpicked not just for their skill, but for their unwavering loyalty to the crown. It was the only decision the council had made without argument since your father’s death.

They approached without speaking. And then, together, they dropped to their knees before you.

The sound of their genouillere striking the ground meant more. It was the sound of oaths yet unspoken.

Ilion pulled his sword and held it out to you, bowing his head.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice a low rumble. “I stand as sword and shield to your will. I did not serve your father directly, but I swear upon his name, none shall take what is yours while I draw breath.”

Kyro didn’t lower his eyes, not even now. As he took his own oath, he drew his sword and held it out, mirroring Ilion’s position.

“Let them try,” he muttered. “I'll carve through each coward who lays claim to your throne. You're not alone. Not while I breathe. Not while we breathe.”

Behind you, the wind caught the torn edge of a funeral banner, snapping it against the stone. The stained glass was painted red across the floor. A peace hung over the Empire of Veykar like a cracked mirror, fragile, ready to shatter. And all it would take was one blade in the wrong hand.

You hadn’t spoken yet. You couldn’t.

Not while the scent of old incense still clung to your father’s robes. Not while the weight of the crown you hadn’t yet worn burned a hole into your spine and soul.

Ilion, ever composed, raised his head just enough to meet your gaze.

But in union, they spoke.

“We are yours now,” they said, with unwavering determination, reverence, and vow.

“Command us.” They said, loud enough that it echoed in finality.