Cara Cyra

Her gaze was measured, her back never once touching the curve of her seat. The golden coronet on her head weighed heavy, embedded with priceless jewels that shimmered under the morning light. The white hall stretched vast, grand in its symmetry, embellished with long red carpets, large ornate windows, gold linings on every edge, and chandeliers suspended from the marble-tiled ceiling like frozen constellations.

The entrance remained open as a wave of ministers and representatives of governors filled the space, forming a disciplined line that extended toward the twin thrones. Her ceremonial court attire shimmered in the light—golden silk of the finest weave, trimmed with beastial fur that draped down her back in a long, stately cape.

She sat beside the empty throne reserved for the emperor, on a chair of similar design, though slightly offset from the center. Yet her presence alone bent the room toward her. Her subjects subtly adjusted their posture to face her fully, acknowledging her authority without a word.

Trusted servants stood at her left, holding a thin golden tray bearing scrolls and sealed letters. Advisors aligned themselves with precision just beyond them. Her right side remained conspicuously empty—untouched and off-limits.

A moment of stillness passed. The golden chandeliers clinked faintly from the breeze that seeped through the high windows.

"Your Imperial Highness, troubling reports reach us still—the northern borders of Cyrae suffer repeated incursions from Milladorii cavalry," one of the older ministers finally reported, voice steady yet worn.

Several eyes shifted toward the vacant space once reserved for Nicolaean generals. The emptiness was a statement in itself. Still, her expression didn't shift. Her gaze remained laced with apathy, studied and deliberate.

"And yet, did they not once boast their rivers would nourish them for a thousand years?" another minister muttered with a sneer.

Laughter erupted among the senior council—hollow, rehearsed. Yet the younger ministers and provincial envoys stiffened, sensing the tension curdling beneath the ceremony.

"It would seem even time has turned its back on them—"

"Silence."

Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried effortlessly to the far end of the hall like a bell through fog.

A hush fell. The faint tapping of a servant adjusting the scrolls was suddenly deafening.

Her gaze, once distant, sharpened as it settled upon the elder ministers. "Their famine and unrest have stripped them to base instinct. The cause compels their actions—but the manner of their response—" Her voice deepened slightly, "—that is sin."

She rose.

The golden silk whispered against the marble floor as she walked to the edge of the stairs. Each step echoed in the hall. The light from above caught in her hair, and as she turned, the strands seemed to shimmer into fire. Her amber eyes gleamed like molten rubies.

"Mock them, if you must—if your pride demands it," she said. "But do not forget—" she raised her hand slightly, "—I can silence you with a mere flick."

A drop of sweat slid from one minister's brow. The rest bowed their heads low, backs stiff like soldiers at attention. No one dared speak.

She lingered for a heartbeat longer, eyes scanning the room with cold precision, before returning to her throne in silence. The golden fabric trailed behind her like a tame flame.

The air grew tense again. Just then, soft footsteps broke through the silence as her father's old aide approached. He leaned close, whispering into her ear.

Whatever he said made her blink—just once—but that slight falter was enough. It betrayed something human beneath her composed exterior. A crack she immediately regretted.

She inhaled sharply.

"The court is dismissed," she said. This time her voice was clipped, unfamiliar. Her words rushed ahead of her steps as she stood, barely waiting for protocol.

Servants and ministers bowed. The hall stirred like the end of a storm. She walked briskly toward the exit, leaving the scrolls, letters, and golden light behind her.

.

.

.

The unbelievably long halls rang with the clatter of hastened footsteps—so synchronized they could have been mistaken for soldiers marching in unison. Her head was bare now; the golden coronet rested on a soft pillow, carried with great care by a breathless servant trailing close behind.

Castle guards, posted by every marble pillar along the corridor, bowed low at her passing. Their eyes remained fixed ahead, trained and unmoving, yet they all sensed the urgency in her blurred figure as she sprinted down the corridor—first jogging, then breaking into a full run.

"Your Imperial Highness!" one of the younger servants called out behind her, voice cracking as they tried desperately to match her pace.

The stretch toward the imperial chambers felt endless. The castle was colossal, a fortress of elegance and power—but today, its grandeur was an obstacle. Their breath grew short, steps slowing under the weight of fatigue, yet her streak of red hair remained a beacon—undaunted, glowing faintly with mana pulsing through her veins.

At last, she reached the turning point of the corridor, where the hall narrowed and grew more opulent. The atmosphere shifted—the polished floors reflected crystal chandeliers above, and the scent of incense subtly filled the air. Every detail bespoke the sanctity of the emperor's wing.

Here, the guards stood taller and wore full ceremonial armor, hands resting on their hilts. She slowed her stride to a dignified pace, smoothing her garments and steadying her breath. Whatever chaos stirred within her was now hidden behind a carefully composed mask.

At the end of the corridor stood a small gathering. Among them, a man stepped forward. "Your Imperial Highness," he announced with a respectful bow.

His hair was the color of sunlight—strands of pale gold, and his eyes shone like polished emeralds. His robes were woven from fine silk and adorned with gold ornaments, his posture firm, yet not rigid.

"Lord of Pallas," Rukana greeted softly, her voice far warmer now.

Their eyes locked, and though no words were exchanged, a quiet understanding passed between them—an unspoken conversation only they could comprehend. He dipped his head lower in acknowledgement, and the rest of the courtiers bowed in kind, emerging slowly into her awareness.

"Your Imperial Highness," Pallas began, his voice hushed and careful, "the physician began his diagnosis during the court assembly. We shall receive his report shortly."

Rukana exhaled, her expression tightening. "Atratus seclude themselves in prayer, seeking favor from the gods for Father's recovery. Pallas shoulders the burden of the regency alone. Thrasocorvii holds the line at the border, steel in hand, day and night. And Livius scours the breadth of the continent, chasing every whisper of a healer."

She took a breath, more pained than tired. "Yet Cyra is now reduced to names I can count on one hand."

Pallas fell quiet, the weight of her words settling between them. He was older, yes—wiser, perhaps—but even now he remembered what it was like to be her age, to shoulder a throne before time, to rule in the absence of a father's voice. They shared the same fate: both motherless at birth, both born into burden.

"This is the course laid before us, Rukana. Our fate—whether we will it or not." he said at last, gently.

Her brow creased in defiance. "Fate?" she repeated. "We are children born of peace—sculpted in its discipline. And peace, not blind submission, is our strength."

Before either could continue, the grand doors to the emperor's chamber opened with a low groan. All turned.

Out stepped a man in a physician's robe, his face pale, his garments soaked in sweat as though he had marched through a sunless desert.

Rukana's eyes froze on him. The expression he wore—defeated, strained—was far too familiar.

"My vassals traversed mountains and braved the seas to deliver you unto Jormania. And yet—where lie the vaunted skills you so proudly proclaimed?" she hissed, fury breaking through her mask. Her hair began to shimmer, strands lifting in waves as if fire itself stirred within them. "You dare present thyself before the Imperial Seat in naught but sweat and silence—like a charlatan dressed in silk!"

"Rukana!" Pallas's voice cut through the rising tension, stern yet pleading.