Arch-Priest Volatro was shouting through the marbled corridors of the Royal Palace. In his royal chamber, stood the Heir Apparent—Crown Prince Fredrick III of the illustrious House of Belmont. As one of the palace priests stood at the end of his chamber.

  Within minutes, the palace couriers were dispatched, their pouches snapping in the wind as they rode through the capital with sealed missives. In the city below, the printers roared to life. And by the hour’s turn, broadsheets were bearing the grim headline—

  "His Majesty, King Paric II. On the 2nd of May 1961. Has Died"

  In the heart of the capital, the people gathered in the grand town square of Paxi-Noverra, their eyes fixed on the towering public announcement board. The words of the herald echoed like distant thunder, delivering the official proclamation of King Paric II’s death.

  For a moment, there was only silence.

  A stillness that seemed to press down on the crowd like fog. No crying, no cheering—just the stillness of a people unsure of what to feel.

  Then, from the back of the square, a lone man began to cheer.

  Another followed.

  And then another.

  Within moments, it snowballed into a full-blown uproar. Mass cheering surged through the square like a wave. Joy, relief, even laughter—emotions too long suppressed—erupted into the open.

  "The king is dead!" one man cried, his voice echoing through the square as he swept his wife and son into a fierce embrace. Around him, the crowd erupted into cheers, the sound swelling like a wave crashing against the stone walls of the city. This was their moment—perhaps the only one they’d ever have. The kingdom was vulnerable now, the iron grip of the monarchy suddenly loosened.

  The tyrant was gone, and with him, many believed, the monarchy itself might finally crumble.

  But from a high hill, above the celebration whilst within palace, Amilia sat across from her older sister, Kroni, watching the celebrations below. The air was thick with voices, laughter that echoed from outside

  "Are they happy because Father’s gone?" Kroni asked softly, eyes wide with uncertainty as she leaned closer to her sister.

  Amilia hesitated, then gave a quiet nod. "I believe so, yes..." There was no point in shielding her from the truth.

  "Are you going to be Queen, sister?" Kroni asked, her green eyes shining beneath her tousled brown hair.

  Amilia shook her head gently. "No. I'm only the Arch-Sovereign. Frederick is the Dutch-Sovereign. He’ll be crowned king."

  "Oh..." Kroni’s shoulders sank with disappointment. "You would’ve made a wonderful queen, you know?"

  Amilia smiled at that, touched by the sincerity in her sister’s voice. "Thank you. But that’s enough talk for now." She reached for the spoon in the bowl beside her and handed it to Kroni. "You’ll need to eat up, the cook will be very upset if you don’t finish it after all his hard work."

  "Okay..." Kroni accepted the spoon and resumed eating, her left hand holding the bowl. As she did, Amilia turned her gaze back to the window, her smile fading.

  The crowd was still roaring with celebration, but in her heart, doubt stirred like a storm. After all her father had done, she knew damn well that her brother can’t fix it.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Sister?” Kroni’s voice broke through Amilia’s thoughts once again. “It’s going to be your birthday soon, right?”

  Amilia blinked, then nodded. "Yes. I’ll be twenty-one."

  Kroni brightened immediately. “Amazing! We’ll be the same age again—for a little while, at least.”

  Amilia smiled at her sister’s delight. “Are you excited for your party?”

  Kroni’s face lit up, but her expression quickly softened, growing more composed. “No. We’re too old for birthdays now. Our duties are what matter.”

  Amilia could see right through it—Kroni was trying to sound more mature. “What about Frederick?” Kroni asked, tilting her head. “Are you going to help him?”

  Amilia shook her head. “I can’t. I’d be overstepping as Arch-Sovereign if I tried. My duties are limited to managing public sentiment in our favour…” Her voice faltered slightly as she glanced out the window again, to the sea of cheering faces far below. “Though, truthfully… that hasn’t felt possible for some time now.”

  “I simply cannot!” a voice rang out from the hall, sharp with frustration.

  “You must!” another shot back, equally forceful.

  Kroni looked up from her bowl, concern pinching her brow. “Is that… Frederick?”

  “Yes…” Amilia said irritated. “Just finish your soup.”

  She stood, smoothing her skirts as Kroni watched her leave with quiet worry.

  Outside the chamber, the corridor was crowded—maids, footmen, and Royal Guards had gathered near the threshold of Frederick’s quarters. Inside, chaos simmered. The king’s grand adviser, James Crowen of House Crowen, stood at the centre of it all, receiving the brunt of Frederick’s unravelling temper.

  “I cannot be king! I simply cannot!” Frederick’s voice cracked, thick with panic, as he paced like a caged animal, eyes wild.

  “You have to, Frederick!” James snapped, though his voice trembled. “We cannot have a kingdom without a monarch. You are the Dutch-Sovereign—who else is meant to wear the crown?!”

  Amilia stepped quietly into view, her presence drawing a few surprised glances from the maids nearby. One of them, standing just to her right, gasped softly upon seeing her.

  Frederick caught sight of her too, and his voice rose again, desperate now. “What about Amilia?! She’s second in line! She’s the Arch-Sovereign, for god’s sake—let her take the throne!”

  James hesitated, his face paling, uncertainty creeping in. “We need a proper leader, Frederick. The princess has had no formal royal training—not beyond what the queen mother taught her before she passed, god rest her soul…”

  “I know her…” Frederick’s voice wavered, heavy with doubt. “Despite what she knows—or doesn’t, I know she’d do better at fixing this doomed kingdom than I ever could…”

  “We absolutely cannot take that kind of risk, Your Majes—Frederick…” James corrected himself, the weight of the moment making his voice falter.

  Frederick sank into a nearby chair, his composure unravelling as the gathered onlookers held their breath. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then looked up and saw her.

  “Someone get Amil—” he stopped mid-sentence. His voice dropped. “Sister…”

  “Brother,” Amilia replied, stepping forward from the line of stunned maids.

  The silence that fell was thick, the room frozen in breathless tension. All eyes turned to them—two heirs of a dying legacy, standing on the edge of something irreparable.

  Amilia’s gaze locked with his. “Do you genuinely not wish to be king?” she asked, her voice low but steady.

  “I can’t rule Thatradore,” Frederick said. His words came in a rush now, stripped of pretence. “Our fate is sealed—either swallowed by the revolutionaries or by the great powers. I’d rather be remembered as a coward who ran from duty than as the man who allowed a thousand-year dynasty to fall…”

  A deep silence followed. Even James was struck dumb, unable to interject.

  Amilia stood still, her expression unreadable—until her hands slowly curled into trembling fists.

  “So you won’t do it…?” Amilia asked.

  “No…”