The moonlight filters through the crystalline windows of Queen Henrietta's chamber, casting pale blue shadows across the marble floors.
Her private quarters glows softly, the golden trim of the pillars and drapes gleaming like whispers of wealth.
Candles flickers on ornate sconces, illuminating the royal purple velvet of her bedding and the gentle shimmer of her rose-gold nightgown.
Queen Henrietta jolts awake, her eyes wide as a strange sound breaks the silence of her chamber. She has dismissed her maids for the evening—no one should be here.
She tries to rise, but her body betrays her. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted by an invisible force, and her breath hitched in her throat.
She tries to move again but her muscles betrays her. A wave of dread crept through her bones.
The footsteps draw closer.
By the flickering candlelight, she catches sight of a tall figure dressed entirely in black.
He emerges from the shadows near the window, his eyes sharp and cold like a predator's, fixed on her with terrifying purpose.
Fear paralyzes her further. Her lips tremble as she tries to speak.
"Who are you? How dare you—" But her voice is only a whisper.
Her breath catches as realization hits—she's been poisoned. The food from the royal banquet. Someone planned this.
Tears brim in her eyes as she searches for something—anything—to defend herself. But her body refuses to obey.
The figure draws nearer, and before she can scream, his knife plunges deep into her chest.
Her cry was muffle and raw. Blood gush, staining the fine silks she wore.
The assassin pulls out the knife again and Pain explodes through Henrietta's body.
She gasps, her trembling fingers pressing to the wound as warm blood soaks her gown. Still, she fights, dragging herself to the floor, trying to grab at him, to survive.
She fails.
Two of her maids burst into the room, horrified cries dying in their throats as the intruder turns on them.
With quick, brutal precision, he slashes them down. Their bodies crumple beside her, lifeless.
More tears stream down Henrietta's cheeks. She has already lost her entire family weeks ago—both of them were all she had left. Summoning every last shred of strength, Henrietta crawls across the marble floor, clutching her bleeding chest. She reaches out to touch one of her maids. Her voice cracks in anguish.
The man leaps out the window, vanishing like a ghost into the night.
Henrietta's vision blurs. She collapses beside the bodies of her maids, her blood mixing with theirs, her sobs echoing through the palace walls before everything fades to black.
—
At the edge of the palace grounds, down by the palace lake where the royal swans slept, a woman dressed in a gown of sunshine-yellow silk and embroiled pearls stands at the edge of the water waiting.
Her features are sharp, regal, and utterly composed.
A golden ring gleams on her left hand, a serpent biting its tail.
"Is it done?" she asked the man in black as he emerges from the woods.
"Yes," he replied curtly.
"She's dead."
The woman nods.
"I'll have your mother released. She'll join you by morning. Leave the palace tonight. No one must ever know you were here."
The man bows and slips away like a shadow. The woman turns, her expression unreadable, and disappears into the dark night.
—
By drawn, the Palace of Eldrid is in uproar. Queen Henrietta's body is discovered by other servants while coming to serve her for bath.
The maids lie beside her in a pool of blood.
Panic spreads. Whispers fill the air.
The Queen is dead-- again.
Servants murmur about the curse and the death that follows his wives like a shadow.
And as always, the King says nothing. He remains silent, stoic, unmoved.
Not even debunking the rumors that the curse of the dragon laid on him is responsible for the death of his Queens.
After all, it's the third Queen to be crowned and murdered in just sixteen months.
The Queen was buried with minimal rites, no mourning processions, no noble family to claim her legacy.
She had none left. Her father-a respected but non-political farmer-had died mysteriously just days after her coronation, along with the rest of her kin in a "bandit raid"
On the final day of mourning, King Lucas appears.
He is dressed in black and gold robes that match his icy aura, his posture was unyielding.
His face is carved from stone, his expression unreadable, his eyes colder than winter frost.
Soldiers march in formation behind him, their armor gleaming in the morning light.
No one dares to speak. His mere presence silences the room.
Lucas enters the ritual chamber with slow, heavy steps and stares at her lifeless form. Not a flicker of grief crossed his face.
He performs the bare minimum, places a flower on her coffin, then turns to leave—without so much as glancing at her face one last time.
No tears.
No words.
Just silence.
He had ruled for ten years with icy resolve, becoming the king at just fifteen.
In a chaos of the dragon god, Jurua's uprising seven years ago, the beast who has terrorize the royal family for years, he had killed the ancient beast and executed every of its followers.
Its priest however before her death, cursed the King with the death of everyone around him.
And now, another Queen is dead.
—
Back in his study, Lucas leaned against the cold marble window frame when his personal guard, Thomas Fletcher, entered.
"Your majesty," Thomas says, holding a scroll.
"This was found in the Queen's room. It bears the name Jurua… written in blood."
Lucas's jaw tightened.
He stares at the blood-stained scroll. The word Jurua is scrawled across it in a trembling hand—blood-red.
"It's similar with the ones found on the other Queens but has different handwriting." Thomas tell him
"This is a different culprit." Lucas notes and Thomas nods in agreement.
"Indeed. Someone imitated the writing style from the previous killings, but it's not the same person."
Lucas narrows his eyes. A copycat. Someone trying to stir unrest. The last two queens had died quietly, poisoned—no maids were harmed. This time it's sloppy, rage-filled.
"Find whoever is responsible for this in four days. I will make a drinking cup out of his head first," Lucas commands, his voice a low growl.
Thomas bows and rushes out.
Alone, Lucas leans back in his chair, eyes locked on the scroll. His face unreadable.
He tapped the table, mind reeling and pondered on who dares to use the dragon's name again?
He could tell the goal is to instill fear into the people but whoever the mastermind is, must also be responsible for the death of the families of the Queens.
He recalls the decree from his late father: that the next Queens must come from noble families with no political influence—merchants, farmers, tradesmen.
Henrietta's family had been wealthy farmers, wiped out by bandits days after her coronation. The previous Queen hailed from a family of horse traders. The first was the granddaughter of an ex-general. The family is known to have the best weapons.
Each of them—targets.
Lucas calls for Robert, another loyal guard.
"Before the Queen is buried tonight, check if there is anything else aside the wound from the knife." he says flatly.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As the door shuts behind him, Lucas folds his hands and exhales. The fire in his eyes burns hotter than ever.