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 precarious, 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 enveloping 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 below in the sunlight, 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 of which you are deprived. 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 as she adjusts your cloak, trying 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 comes to your side. Her fingers tremble noticeably as she attempts to fasten your cloak, her jagged, hurried rhythm betraying her anxiety. She casts a quick, frightened glance toward the door and whispers:

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

At that moment, Mira abruptly pushes back her chair. She stands, and her gaze, previously fixed on the papers, is now directed straight at you. It holds a look of steely resolve.

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