Outside, the capital's main street that usually roared with life, voices, wagon wheels, and the distant clang of a smith was unusually somber. Yet the hidden chamber on the third floor of an inn felt as if the world had been muted to a soft, dangerous silence.. The smell of incense filled the air, masking the smell of herbs.

Lara lay on the narrow bed, pale beneath a linen sheet, breathing shallowly and quickly. Jethru knelt at her side, his fingers steady as he pressed a clean cloth to the jagged arrow wound in her forearm, his jaw tight with concentration. A handful of thin cuts marred her arms and collarbone—tokens of the frantic escape from mountains of Alta-Sierra to the palace of Zura.

Her skin burned with fever; a faint sheen of sweat darkened her hairline. When she shifted, the mattress creaked, and a small groan escaped her.

"Why is her fever not subsiding?" Alaric asked, voice cracked with worry. He stood by the crack in the wall, looking out

"Why is her fever not subsiding?" Alaric asked, his voice full of concern.

"All the exhaustion of the last few days has finally caught up with her," Jethru said, his voice low and practical. "She needs sleep—deep sleep. Rest will pull her through. By morning she'll be steadier."

A knock came at the door—three sharp raps—and General Odin and his sons entered without preamble, their faces set like iron. The torchlight picked out the white streaks at the general's temples.

"Turik has taken the throne," Asael said, shutting the door behind him. "They're hunting the assassins with a fury. We cannot linger here."

Asael's words still hummed in the air. For a breath that seemed to stretch like pulled leather, the room held only that new, dangerous knowledge: Turik on the throne.

General Odin's mouth twisted. "That Turik is a snake. He blames others for the slaughter of the royal family when he himself struck the fatal blows." His hand curled into a fist. "He had no mercy—the children weren't spared."

Bener, who had been counting quietly on his fingers, shook his head. "Palace security has tripled. Everyone who enters or leaves is searched. No exceptions—nobles included."

"The security in the palace has tripled. Everyone who go in and out are checked thoroughly. No exception. Even the nobles are being examined thoroughly when they go through the gates."

"How many soldiers do we have inside?" Alaric asked.

"Fifty soldiers posing as guards," Bener answered, "and another fifty disguised as maids, gardeners, a cook."

Lara's hand twitched. Sensing it, Alaric crossed to the bed and took her fingers in his. She quieted, eyelids fluttering like paper.

"Can you move to the other room?" Odin asked softly, looking toward Jethru's makeshift workbench. "You're disturbing my disciple."

"Lower your voice," Jethru snapped, though his tone had no anger—only the precise annoyance of a man protecting the fragile. He dabbed at the arrow wound with a practiced hand and checked the bandage's tension.

The men standing not far from the bed nodded their heads.

"How about the reinforcements? Have they arrived?" Odin asked, his voice softened.

Bener answered: "Five hundred crossed the river last night. Another five thousand wait on the other side of the river.

Alaric closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of command settle on him. Then he stood from the bed and stepped closer to General Odin. When he spoke his voice was a blade: "Then we strike at the coronation. Let Turik have at least the crown before it is gone."

...

The coronation of the new King of Zura was set to take place the day after the burial of the royal family, which signaled the end of King Roman's bloodline—a grim prelude to the dawn of a new reign.

The ceremony was deliberately timed for the hour when the sun stood at its zenith, blazing high over the kingdom. According to Zuran belief, their first monarch had been born of divine lineage—the child of the Sun God Sunna and a mortal princess of Zura. Thus, when the sun burned brightest, so too did the divine right of kingship.

The royal court had proposed that the coronation be held in the open palace grounds, where the gathered masses could bear witness to the sanctification of their new king. Yet Turik, ever cautious, refused. He warned that such a spectacle would be an open invitation to assassins—after all, a single arrow released from the shadows could end a dynasty before it began.

And so, the coronation was moved indoors, into the grand council hall. Only the highest nobles, battle-worn generals, and senior ministers were permitted to attend. Beyond those guarded doors, the rest of Zura waited, uncertain whether this new sun would bring illumination—or fire.

...

Mira sat perfectly still as the maid's hands moved deftly through her hair, weaving strands of gold into a gleaming crown of curls. The golden gown she wore shimmered with every flicker of the light streaming through the window. Upon her head rested a golden tiara that once belonged to Queen Miranda.

Before her stood a polished bronze mirror, its reflection slightly warped, yet clear enough for her to see what she longed to believe—a queen in all but name. She traced a finger down her cheek, studying the poised woman who stared back at her. Was this truly her reflection? Or the dream she had chased since the moment she decided to flee from Northem?

Turik's principal wife and his mistresses were left in his residence in the outskirts south of the capital. The coronation was rushed and it worked in Mira's favor. Fate, it seemed, had finally chosen her side, as she would be the one to stand beside Turik during the coronation.

It was a borrowed title. But soon, the title of queen would no longer be borrowed. Soon, she would not merely stand beside the king—she would reign beside him. No rivals. No other women. Only me.

A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as she rose from her seat. The weight of the tiara steadied her resolve. Each step toward the council hall felt like a step deeper into destiny. When Turik was crowned King of Zura, she would be there—radiant, triumphant, and ready to claim the throne of her dreams.