The star that fell
The bells rang.
Low and heavy. Each chime dragged through the air like a breath held too long. Pigeons scattered from the cathedral roof. The sound echoed down every street.
Inside, the Grand Cathedral glowed like a wound dressed in silk.
Gold trimmed the arches. Candles lined the steps. Every lily, every ribbon, every embroidered cloak had been hand-picked to scream reverence. But the scent was wrong — too sweet. Like covering rot with sugar.
The nobles sat in rows, backs straight, faces grave.
They didn't blink too fast. Didn't shift too much. The trick to fake mourning was stillness.
And whispers.
"She's not here," someone muttered, scanning the front row like a challenge.
"Eliza?"
A slight tilt of the head. Feigned confusion.
"The Marquess of Caerwyn's adopted daughter."
Said quieter, as if that explained everything.
"She always came. First. At dawn. For seven years."
A pointed pause.
"White lilies. Every time."
Voice light. Almost admiring. Almost.
"Not today."
No tone. Just observation.
"Maybe she's sick," someone offered — too quickly.
"Maybe she was told not to come," said another, watching a court lady rearrange her veil.
"Maybe she finally learned her place."
Soft. Sweet. With a smile that didn't feel real.
"She had a place."
Cooler voice this time.
"Right at the front. Before the rest of us."
"Tch. An adopted daughter with filthy blood, kneeling where nobles wouldn't."
Louder now. No one shushed them.
"That's loyalty. Or performance."
"Didn't look like performance."
Sharp glance.
"Didn't feel like it either."
"She mourned harder than the whole court."
"She meant it."
Quiet. Almost reluctant.
Silence.
Then the real whisper.
"What even killed her?"
"The Princess?"
A few heads leaned closer. Pretending not to care.
"They say the fire."
"At the Oakace. That old wing."
"But it was small. Out in minutes."
"No one saw the body."
"They say it was too burned to show."
"They say she wasn't even in her room."
A pause.
A blink.
An itch of doubt scratching down spines.
"Then where was she?"
"No one knows for sure."
Eyes flicked — too fast — toward the Emperor's row.
"Except whoever let it happen."
That landed.
And no one spoke after that.
---
The Empress arrived in white. Veil to the floor, lips trembling in perfect restraint.
"She was our light," she said, voice gentle, rehearsed. "Our pride."
Polite silence.
Then the Crown Prince stepped forward.
He didn't smile.
His voice cut sharper than his blade ever had.
"She was the best of us. And we let her die."
The room froze.
Eyes flicked to the Emperor — unmoving. Unamused.
But the Prince just bowed and stepped back.
And somewhere in the third row, someone whispered:
"That boy wants war."
The Duke stood still.
Too still.
He hadn't blinked once since the bells rang.
---
And then — a shift.
The Second Prince, small and pale in his tailored mourning black, turned his head and stared.
Not at the coffin.
Not at the lilies.
But at his older brother.
He blinked slowly, lips pressed in the mimicry of grief.
A lady-in-waiting leaned in to whisper something — perhaps comfort, perhaps instruction — but he didn't respond.
Just kept watching.
Like a student.
Or a mirror.
Or a question waiting to become an answer.