The Ashes of Sovereignty

The palace walls were already being stripped.

Eric stood by the cracked window of the hall—watching a team of Bernard engineers haul out centuries-old tapestries like they were sacks of potatoes. The glass panes rattled as another Imperial chopper descended onto the front lawn, flattening what remained of the royal garden.

A dull knock echoed at the door.

Edith entered with slow steps, her apron smudged with ash. Her hands were red from scrubbing, though no one had asked her to. She just needed something to do—anything to distract from the humiliation thick in the air.

"They want you to sign the papers, Your Majesty," she said softly.

"Don't call me that." Eric's voice scraped from his throat like rusted chain links. "There's no throne left."

Edith looked down. "I'm sorry."