Two weeks after the king’s burial, the council summoned Lysander to the great hall.
“You will take the throne,” the high councilor declared.
Lysander bowed his head. “I will honor my father.”
Then came the second decree: “A king cannot rule alone. Tradition demands a queen.”
Lysander’s jaw tightened. He had studied abroad, built a life far from crowns and customs. Marriage felt like another chain. But his mother’s quiet words echoed: Sometimes the path chooses us.
That night Lord Baldwin invited the prince to his home “for palm wine and council.” Inside the compound, Vivienne and Celeste were dressed like peacocks—silk gowns, jeweled combs, practiced laughter. Baldwin’s plan was simple: one of his daughters would catch the prince’s eye and lift the family forever.
Elara was sent on endless errands so she would not be seen.
When Lysander arrived, the family fawned and fluttered. He sat beneath the old fig tree, watching their performance with cool, distant eyes. Then Elara returned from the well, a heavy bucket balanced on her head, moonlight catching the quiet grace of her movements. She bowed low.
“Good evening, Your Highness.”
Baldwin waved her away sharply. “Inside, girl. Quickly.”