15 years later.
The night sky stretched wide over Huna—the capital of Sagnik Kingdom—twinkling stars watching in silence. Below, lanterns painted the open grounds in gold and crimson.
A massive arena, sprawled across the palace front, lit with a thousand torches. The arena was divided into 4 distinct parts—each a world on its own.
A raised ceremonial stage stood like a throne carved from moonlight, its surface glowing faint silver against the night. The red carpet stretched from all sides towards the stage. White flags were draped down tall poles, each marked with the royal crest—crimson handprint dripping like blood. Upon it, two glided chairs stood, tall and cruel in design. To the King and Queen who ruled with blood and fear.
The first section, closest to the stage, was crowded with Royalty and honoured bloodlines from all over the world. Emperors, Kings and Queens. Their clothes shone with gold threads. Their expressions and eyes filled with pride and Power.
The second, behind the first, was crowded with allies, relatives, friends and handpicked guests from across the world. Their murmurs carried different languages.
The third, filled with nobles under Sagnik. They dressed grandly, but their shine was borrowed.
Some talked. Some laughed loudly. Some drank harder, and some sat bored.
Last and farthest from polished tiles and cushions were the crowd of commoners.
Men, women, kids and every soul who could walk had gathered to witness this once-in-a-lifetime ceremony. Their seats were humble, set on stone, but the excitement in their eyes gleamed brighter than any jewel.
It wasn't just a wedding.
This was accession.
"Hey, you see that woman in a blue frock?" a boy nudged his friend. "Damn she look like a dream."
"Whe-Idiot!" another said. "She's the queen of the southern continent."
"Queen at a young age? I just want to see her smile at us."
"Can you keep it down? You'll get us hung."
"Worth it. One smile from her, I would walk straight into hell."
"Shut up—"
Horns blew.
Four blasts shook the air.
Ground vibrated beneath their feet.
Everyone rose.
From a golden hallway connected to the place, royal guards emerged, marching in formation. Their black armour shone under moonlight. A commander led them from the front. Behind them walked the King.
He was tall, aged, no weakness in his steps. A red robe was draped over his shoulders, trailing behind him. His long silver hair matched his beard, and atop his head rested a crown—carved from bone, embedded with black stones.
Queen walked next to him.
Slender. cold. Draped with red and silver. She held her chin high with pride. Her gaze was sharp enough to pierce any armour. She's smiling but not with warmth.
They ascended the stage and took their thrones. The commander stood behind them, still as stone.
Drums began to beat.
Slow. Heavy. Like the heartbeat of the world itself.
Four cloaked figures emerged from the palace. They were covered in black fabric, only their sharp green eyes were visible. Behind them walked the prince.
He wore robes of black and red, and his head remained bowed as tradition demanded—a gesture of respect toward the gathered kingdoms. Even with his face lowered, pride bled from his posture.
He ascended the stage. He bowed before the King and Queen and then stood at the centre of the stage. The four cloaked guards positioned themselves below, surrounding the stage.
Drums stopped.
Silence reigned.
An old couple stepped forward—skin wrinkled, spines curved with age. Death seemed to walk just two steps behind them. They wore white, and the man held a scroll sealed with the royal sigil. The woman clutched a bronze plate, in which a small fire danced.
The old man turned towards the prince and began to chant. Ancient words, spoken in a tongue older than any kingdom present.
But before chats could rise.
"Let her come," the prince said, interrupting the chants.
The old man faltered, glancing nervously at the Queen.
"But… Your Highness, it is not yet—"
A small gaze from the prince shivered the old man's spine.
"Son, the ceremony will be held without her," the queen said, calm, practised.
"Mother!" the prince said. "I will not ascend alone. We talk together!"
"This is tradition—" King tried.
"Then let rewrite tradition. We wait until she stands by me. We take the oath together. Does anyone have complaints?"
The moment of pause.
The King leaned forward slightly, opened his mouth, then stopped. He met the prince's eyes, and whatever he saw made him stop and lean back in silence.
They yielded. Because they knew—they no longer ruled him.
Chatter rose like waves among the audience.
"What's going on?" whispered a noble woman.
"He defied the Queen?" a nobleman said. "And she let it go?"
Furthest in the commoners
"Why did the chanting stop?" a man asked.
"Can't you see?" another woman replied. "It seems like some sort of… disagreement."
"Dis agreement?" the old man said. "He interrupted scared chants! That's no mistake, it's an omen. An omen of death."
"Just another spoiled royal brat with no respect for our ways," another said.
"Watch your mouth," someone else from the side said. "Where were you when floods hit you? He saved us."
"Yeah!" the young man supported. "He stood with us. He protected us. He cared for us."
"So what?" another man said. "That doesn't make him a real king. Has he ever seen war? Felt the sting of the sword?"
"Maybe not," a soft voice from a girl nearby. "But maybe that's what makes him different. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather ruled with blood. Maybe he can bring peace."
"This kingdom was carved with blood," a man said. "Every person who attended wants one thing—the Crown of Sagnik. Everyone knows it, including our majesties and the prince. Even you guys know it. We are safe until it's on Majesty's head."
Words hit. Silence fell on them.
"Let the prince do what he wants," a drunken man said. "He's got more spine. But can't imagine what kinda girl makes a prince halt the world."