Ashes of Betrayal
The sun rose timidly, casting pale rays over the palace grounds as if it, too, mourned the sorrow that lingered in the air.
The grand corridors, which were usually alive with chatter and hurried footsteps, stood eerily silent. The scent of burning incense filled the halls, mingling with the faint aroma of herbs left from the previous night's rituals.
The Queen Dowager's chamber, dimly lit and heavy with the weight of prayers, had become a place of both hope and despair. The maids who had kept vigil through the night had fallen into a restless silence, their eyes red from crying, their hands trembling from exhaustion.
As the first light of morning filtered through the cracks of the windows, one of the younger maids approached the Queen Dowager's bed. She knelt cautiously and reached out to touch the lifeless hand resting atop the silk covers. The moment her fingers grazed the cold skin, her breath hitched.
"My lady?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She shook the hand gently, but there was no response.
Panic seized her chest, and she stumbled back, knocking over a bowl of water. The sound echoed sharply, jolting the others awake.
"She's not breathing!" the maid cried, her voice breaking. "The Queen Dowager… she's gone!"
The news spread through the palace like wildfire.
Every maid dropped to their knees, bowing their heads and weeping openly. Guards abandoned their posts to fall into respectful silence, their swords lowered to the ground. Servants dropped their trays and tools, stunned by the suddenness of it all.
When the Queen heard the cries echoing through the halls, she ran, her heart pounding in her chest. The Queen Mother followed close behind, dread already written across her face.
"No! No, no, no!" the Queen shouted as she burst into the room. She fell to her knees beside the bed, shaking the lifeless body. "Mother! Please wake up! You can't leave me!"
The Queen Mother caught her daughter-in-law's shoulders, pulling her away even as her own tears fell.
"She's gone," the Queen Mother whispered. "She's gone, my child."
The Queen collapsed into the Queen Mother's arms, her wails piercing the room.
Word reached the throne room swiftly. The king, who had barely slept through the night, stood frozen as the messenger delivered the devastating news. His fingers trembled as he gripped the edge of his throne.
"No," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
He rose abruptly, his face pale and drawn. When he arrived at the Queen Dowager's chamber, he found his wife sobbing and his mother staring blankly at the lifeless form on the bed.
The king's knees buckled, and he fell beside the body, pressing his forehead to the cold hand that had once caressed his hair as a child.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "I should have protected you."
By noon, the palace was draped in mourning colors. Black banners hung from the towers, and bells tolled in slow, mournful rhythms.
Every member of the court gathered in the main hall, their heads bowed and faces shadowed with grief.
The Queen, now dressed in white mourning robes, stood beside the King as the Queen Mother was seated nearby, too weak to stand. They greeted visitors who came to pay respects, though their eyes remained hollow and empty.
In the courtyard, priests prepared the ceremonial pyre, stacking fragrant woods and flowers.
The rituals for the burial were to commence at sunset, and the palace staff worked tirelessly to ensure everything was in Place
Even amidst the mourning, whispers filled the corridors.
"Did the demon lord do this?" one maid whispered.
"The ritual failed," said another.
"The Demon Lord's shadow lingers," murmured an advisor. "What if this is only the beginning?"
The Queen Mother overheard the whispers and stiffened. She turned her gaze toward the window, her expression resolute despite the tears streaming down her face.
"No matter what," she said softly, "we must be ready. We cannot let this darkness take Over.
Softly the sun dipped below the horizon and the palace prepared for the burial rites, the Demon Lord stood far beyond the palace walls, gazing toward the towers draped in black.
He smirked.
The Queen Dowager's death was only the first move in his game. And as the bells continued to toll, their sound carried far into the night, like echoes of the past refuse to be silenced.
The morning sky hung heavy with gray clouds as if mourning alongside the palace. The sound of drums echoed through the air in slow, measured beats, setting the rhythm for a procession soaked in grief and tension. The palace gates stood open, their towering frames draped in cream-colored banners that swayed gently in the wind.
The entire palace had gathered in the grand courtyard, their heads bowed and faces somber. The men and women of the court, dressed in flowing cream-colored robes embroidered with faint silver threads, stood in perfect rows, their hands clasped in mourning. The Queen Mother, however, stood apart from them.
She wore pristine white robes, a symbol of purity and high honor, her veil cascading down to her feet.
Her eyes, though rimmed red with tears, held the composure of a woman who had seen too many battles, both within the palace and beyond its walls. Beside her, the Queen trembled slightly, holding onto a silk handkerchief stained with the tears she could no longer hide.
Six palace guards, their armor polished to gleam faintly under the pale sunlight, carried the Queen Dowager's bier, its frame carved with intricate patterns and adorned with flowers. The body, shrouded in delicate fabric, rested on a bed of white lilies and chrysanthemums, symbolizing purity and rebirth.
The priests followed closely, their chants reverberating off the marble walls of the palace as they carried bowls of burning incense. Smoke curled into the air, adding a spiritual weight to the atmosphere.
The Queen Mother stepped forward, placing a pearl necklace—the Dowager's favorite—on the bier as an offering.
"May the ancestors welcome you with open arms," she whispered, her voice breaking before she returned to her place, standing tall despite the sorrow pulling at her heart.
Suddenly, the heavy stillness of the procession was shattered by the clatter of hooves against the palace stone. Heads turned as the guards near the gate parted to let two figures through. Gasps rippled through the crowd like a storm as recognition struck them.
The Queen's first wife, long thought to be dead, entered the courtyard, her presence both ethereal and commanding. She wore a cream-colored gown, but its design was far from simple—layers of silk embroidered with gold patterns cascaded around her, making her look like a goddess descending to the mortal world.
Her hair was styled to perfection, adorned with delicate pearl pins and golden chains that glittered softly. Yet, it was her eyes that drew the most attention—cold, sharp, and unreadable.
Lucian stood beside her, equally stunning in his finely tailored robes. His presence added weight to the already suffocating tension, as if his very shadow threatened to stir old rivalries.
The Queen's hands trembled. Theodora, who stood beside her, stiffened, and Alex moved closer, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.
The first wife stepped forward, her silk shoes making no sound as she approached the bier. Every movement seemed deliberate—graceful yet commanding. She stopped before the Queen Dowager, lowering herself slowly to her knees.
Her head bowed low, and the entire court held its breath as she extended her hands and pressed her palms to the stone floor.
"May your soul find peace among the ancestors," she said softly, her voice carrying despite the silence.
The Queen Mother's eyes flickered with restrained emotion as she watched the woman pay her respects. It was a moment that demanded decorum, but beneath the surface, emotions churned—jealousy, resentment, regret.
When the first wife rose, she turned briefly toward the Queen and offered a faint, almost imperceptible nod before stepping aside.
The Queen, unable to bear the weight of the moment, leaned into Theodora's arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. Theodora whispered soft reassurances, though her own eyes were glistening.
Alex's jaw tightened as he observed the first wife and Lucian, his gaze lingering on Lucian with a flicker of suspicion.
The guards resumed their positions, and the priests began chanting louder as the bier was carried toward the ceremonial pyre.
The Queen Mother turned to the Queen and gently took her hand. "We must stay strong. For her."
The Queen wiped her tears and nodded, but the air remained thick with unspoken words and buried tensions.
As the flames consumed the pyre, smoke rose into the sky, carrying prayers and grief with it. But somewhere in the crowd, hidden beneath the veils of mourning, eyes watched.
The Demon Lord's agent—newly initiated and unseen—stood among them, her lips curling into a faint, predatory smile.
Her gaze flickered toward the Queen and then toward Lucian. She knew her orders well.
As the fire crackled and the bells tolled, the palace mourned, unaware that the true battle had only just begun.