New successor

Throne Study of the Solar Tower, Amanécer Palace

The tall windows of the Solar Tower allowed shafts of warm afternoon light to paint golden streaks across the stone floors. Incense lingered in the air—sweet heliotrope and amber resin—calming yet somber. Scrolls lined the long mahogany table where Luciana sat, one hand resting absently atop her rounded belly as her other held a half-read missive.

Helios sat by the window, arms resting on the armrest, the light catching the edge of the gold circlet on his brow. His expression was unreadable, but there was a subtle tightness in his jaw.

"She's confirmed it," he said at last, lowering the parchment in his hand.

Luciana's fingers stilled. "Melody... is choosing to uphold the engagement with Lucerne?"

Helios nodded. "Voluntarily. Despite our council's reservations, and your own."

Luciana exhaled slowly, her eyes drifting toward the flicker of sunlight outside. "She's too young for such burdens."

"She's almost sixteen," Helios replied. "Only a year younger than you were when you took your oaths before the Circle of Dawn."

"She is not me." Her voice was quiet, but firm.

"No. She isn't." He turned to her. "But she carries your tenacity, and your silence."

Luciana looked at him, and in that moment, the weight of her sleepless nights, of quiet fears buried beneath duty, flickered in her eyes.

"I've tried so long to shelter them," she murmured. "Aria has made her choice clear—she and Cornelius want a different life, one away from courts and thrones and wars. I won't force them."

Helios remained silent, allowing her to continue.

"And now Melody... despite all that's happened, she chooses to step into this alliance with House Caelus." Luciana's hand slowly moved over her abdomen. "Then I must begin preparing her. She will need to understand what this crown demands before it claims her entirely."

"You intend to name her your successor?"

"She is already the last thread tying Amanécer to political relevance in this changing empire. If I don't give her the tools to survive, she will be devoured by it."

Helios's gaze softened—not out of pity, but from deep understanding. He took her hand in his.

"Luciana…" His voice was lower now, almost hesitant. "This isn't just about succession."

She met his gaze.

"You're preparing her... because you fear you may not be here long enough to protect her."

Luciana's lips tightened.

"She must learn quickly," she said, neither confirming nor denying it. "Erebus will return. I know it. The pact binds him to honor, but not to remain away. He will come back—when he feels the time is right. And I..." she looked down at her swelling stomach, "...I may not have the strength to fight him again. Not with two children bound to him already. Not with another on the way."

"Then we divide this burden," he said. "Bring in the royal tutors. Let me teach her the temper of law, diplomacy, and courtly decorum. Let her learn from both of us. She may not wish it, but she must have it."

Luciana's shoulders lowered just slightly. "Thank you, father. I can always rely on your help."

Helios gave her a brief smile. "We build Amanécer together. Let us shape its future, too."

---

A Few Days Later, The East Garden Terrace

Melody sat in sullen silence, back straight, posture rigid as the royal tutor paced before her, reading aloud from one of the old scrolls on diplomacy and vassal-state management.

Luciana watched from the far end of the terrace. Her hands were folded delicately atop her lap, the same shawl from her youth draped over her shoulders.

She saw the tightness in Melody's jaw, the stiffness of her hands.

When the tutor was dismissed, Melody remained seated, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains.

Luciana approached slowly. "You hate this."

Melody didn't deny it.

"I didn't ask for this," she said. "Any of it."

Luciana knelt beside her with some difficulty, one hand steadying herself against the stone bench.

"I know," she said softly. "Neither did I. But when the storm comes—when the world shifts—we do not always have the privilege of choosing the role we must play. But we do choose how well we play it."

Melody glanced sideways at her.

"I don't want to be a ruler."

"I never wanted to be a mother either," Luciana said, surprising her. "But I became one. And I learned. And I gave everything to protect what I once feared. You may never want the crown. But the crown may come for you anyway. And I want you to be ready—not to please the Empire or House Caelus—but for yourself. So no one can ever shape your fate again."

Melody said nothing for a long moment. Then she reached for one of the scrolls Luciana had brought.

"I'll study it. Not for anyone but only for myself."

Luciana smiled faintly. "Good."

"I'm going to take some tips from father on diplomatic relations." She stood up and gathered her scrolls.

"Mel." Luciana called her before she left.

"Y-yes sister?" Melody turned around.

"Never bear your burdens alone." Luciana gave her one last piece of advice out of sisterly love and left the chambers.

Melody repeated the words said to her as if to engrave what has been told to her.

She left her own chambers as she repeated the words again and again.

The stone corridor was quiet, the sunset filtered in through the wide archways displaying their world. Servants were distant murmurs down the hall. Melody, dressed in a deep navy dress with minimal adornment, made her way to her father's private study. A satchel of scrolls pressed against her hip, the weight of new responsibilities never far behind.

She refused to let the servants take care of it.

She was not expecting anyone else.

As she reached for the iron-banded door, it opened from the inside.

Lucerne.

He paused, just as surprised to see her.

They stood for a moment in awkward silence.

"Princess," he said formally, stepping back.

"Lucerne," she acknowledged, glancing past him. "You were meeting with my father?"

He nodded. "He had questions about the old treaties between Amanécer and the southern merchant houses."

A pause lingered. Melody's gaze fell briefly on the scrolls in his hand—evidence of her father giving him deeper access to state affairs.

"You seem more involved lately," she said.

"I'm trying to prove myself worthy of what your family has risked to uphold."

Her brows lifted ever so slightly. "Is that what you think? That we're… upholding you?"

Lucerne hesitated. "Aren't you?"

Melody said nothing at first. Then, slowly, she stepped past him, entering the study, letting the door fall shut behind her—but not before she spoke again:

"You're not the only one who's afraid they'll never be enough."

Lucerne turned, startled. It was the first time she had admitted to anything resembling vulnerability in his presence.

He remained in the hall, frozen.

Inside the study, Melody set her satchel down with deliberate care. But her hands lingered on the edge of the desk longer than they should have, knuckles whitening slightly.

The room smelled of parchment, ink, and old wood—a room of legacy and expectation. Her father's handwriting lay across the pages, notes meant for her eyes, lessons for her future.

She took a long breath—but it trembled near the end.

A knock came.

She looked up. The door opened halfway again.

Lucerne stood there, eyes searching hers.

"You'll be more than enough," he said quietly.

Then he left—no grand display, no lingering glance. Just that one sentence, left hanging between them like smoke from a long-extinguished flame.

Melody stood still, alone, for a long time.

And this time, when she blinked, one tear slipped free.