The Vacant Throne

The kingdom has plunged into mourning. The death of the old king has left behind not only an empty throne, but a fragile, unsettling silence where every rustle feels like a threat. You are the rightful heir, a name that should ring through the council halls, yet your presence feels like nothing more than a shadow of the great ruler who came before.

Outside the castle windows, a grey, sickly-cold dawn slowly emerges. The light barely pierces the fog shrouding the valley, making the landscape look like a frozen canvas. Silence reigns in the room, broken only by the faint rustle of papers and the muffled sounds of life beginning below—on the training grounds.

You stand by the window, watching Yaroslav train in the sunlight below, which seems unfairly bright for such a morning. People gather around him like a halo: advisors, servants, courtiers. They laugh, they converse, they look upon him with admiration. Their gazes are a warmth that you are denied. Down there, life is teeming, and in that life, there seems to be room only for the younger prince.

In this room, however, there is only cold and shadow. Sonya approaches quietly from behind, her movements soft and cautious; she adjusts your cloak, careful not to break the silence. In the corner, Mira silently sorts through papers on the desk—her gaze is focused and motionless, like that of a sentry.

Sonya approaches you. Her fingers tremble noticeably as she tries to fasten your cloak, her ragged, hurried rhythm betraying her anxiety. She casts a quick, frightened glance toward the door and whispers:

— Your Highness... They are heading to the Council Chamber. You... you will go, won't you? Please, let me accompany you.

At that moment, Mira abruptly pushes back her chair. She stands, her gaze shifting from the papers to you. In her eyes, there is a flash of steel-willed determination.

— Shall I delay them? — she asks curtly, awaiting your decision.