The morning after the debut ball dawned soft and hazy, the scent of dew and roses drifting through the open windows of Lady Celeste's townhouse. Isadora sat curled up on a cushioned bench in the sunroom, her hair loosely braided, a cup of lavender tea warming her hands. Across from her, Lady Evelyn sat cross-legged, her gown a simple shade of sky blue — no courtly grandeur here, just quiet conversation between two women seeking a moment of calm.
"I didn't expect to enjoy myself last night," Isadora admitted, sipping her tea. "But… you made it easier."
Evelyn smiled, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "You did well. Court parties can be insufferable, but you held your own."
A silence settled for a moment, then Evelyn glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with the ribbon on her sleeve. "I… I'm glad I ran into you. It's been difficult lately."
Isadora set her cup down. "Because of your cousin?"
Evelyn hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Lucien's sickness… it's worse than the court whispers admit. When the pain begins, it's unbearable. The physician said it would come in waves, but no one imagined this."
She swallowed, voice unsteady. "He becomes… someone else. Not like himself. He can't see anything. He throws whatever's near him — books, glass, chairs — as if it might drive the pain away. And I—I know I shouldn't be afraid of him, but in those moments…" she trailed off, pressing her lips together.
Isadora watched her quietly, her heart twinging despite herself. She didn't know Lucien, not beyond what little she'd heard in passing, but Evelyn's fear was raw and real.
"Has no one found a cure?" Isadora asked softly.
Evelyn shook her head. "The court physicians can only ease the pain for a while. They said this kind of poison leaves a mark on the blood. No Crimson Carrier has ever survived it for long."
Isadora frowned. "Crimson Carrier?"
"It's what they call those with the crimson eyes in our bloodline. Power like that… it's a curse, Isadora. The history books say none of them live to wear the crown. The pain takes them, or something worse does."
A shadow crossed her features as she gazed out the window. "I don't want to lose him. Whatever people say about him being cold and cruel… he's still my family."
Isadora reached across the small table, covering Evelyn's hand with hers. "I may not know much about this place, but I do know what it's like to be afraid for someone you care about."
Evelyn smiled weakly. "Thank you. It helps more than you know."
But why do the Crimson carriers have to be king
Evelyn glanced up, startled for a moment — as if no one had ever questioned it before.
"It's… tradition," she said softly, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "The Crimson Carriers are born with a power that ties them to the ancient magic of Veridion. The old kings believed only someone with crimson eyes could command the throne and protect the realm against the dark things that sleep beyond our borders."
Isadora raised a brow. "But if every one of them dies before they get the crown… doesn't that make the tradition kind of cursed?"
A faint, humorless laugh escaped Evelyn. "You're not wrong. That's what people whisper — that the bloodline itself is doomed. My uncle, the King, has no crimson eyes. Neither does the prince. Only Lucien carries it now, and it terrifies them."
"Why?"
"Because if fate chooses him… it means change. And power no one else can control. The court fears him, the council resents him, and the Queen… well, she'd rather see him buried than crowned."
Isadora leaned back, thoughtful. "So it's not just superstition. It's about who holds the real power."
Evelyn gave a small nod. "Exactly. And now with his sickness… some say it's proof of the curse, others say it's the Queen's doing. But no one dares speak it aloud."
A cold shiver crawled down Isadora's spine. She might not have cared about Lucien before, but the politics of this world were beginning to feel dangerously close — and the thought that a man was dying, trapped between fate and fear, left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She looked at Evelyn, whose blue eyes shimmered with unshed worry, and murmured, "Then you'd better hold on to the ones you have left, Evelyn. Because from what I'm hearing… this kingdom eats its own."
Evelyn gave a rueful smile. "It always has."
The heavy velvet curtains of the Queen's chamber muted the sounds of the palace beyond. The room glowed softly in the warmth of candlelight, the scent of spiced wine lingering in the air. Queen Evelyn sat gracefully upon a cushioned divan, her golden hair swept back and held by a circlet of sapphires. Across from her, Prince Alaric lounged with a goblet in hand, a faint, satisfied smirk on his lips.
"I hear the Crimson Duke can barely stand now," Alaric drawled, swirling the dark liquid in his cup. "A fitting end for a beast pretending to be a man."
Evelyn's smile was cold and sharp. "Good. It's about time fate showed its hand. The council may cling to their old tales, but this kingdom belongs to you, Alaric. And I'll see it remains that way."
Alaric's gaze narrowed. "What about the others? The generals? The old lords? They'll cry about tradition. About crimson eyes and ancient rights."
The Queen reached for her own cup, her movements elegant and unhurried. "Let them cry. I will break every last relic of that superstition if I must. The throne is yours by blood, by right. I won't have you cheated of it because of one cursed tradition and one sickly duke."
Alaric's lips twitched into a grin. "And if he recovers?"
"He won't." Her voice was cool, certain. "And if by some cruel trick of fate he does… he'll wish he hadn't."
A brief silence passed between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth.
Evelyn's gaze sharpened. "You are the heir, Alaric. I'll see every council seat filled with those loyal to you, every whisperer silenced, every law rewritten if I must. No one will take your crown from you. Not Lucien D'Aragon. Not anyone."
Alaric raised his goblet in a mock toast. "To the end of old bloodlines."
Selene's smile didn't waver. "And to the birth of a new era."The heavy velvet curtains of the Queen's chamber muted the sounds of the palace beyond. The room glowed softly in the warmth of candlelight, the scent of spiced wine lingering in the air. Queen Evelyn sat gracefully upon a cushioned divan, her golden hair swept back and held by a circlet of sapphires. Across from her, Prince Alaric lounged with a goblet in hand, a faint, satisfied smirk on his lips.
"I hear the Crimson Duke can barely stand now," Alaric drawled, swirling the dark liquid in his cup. "A fitting end for a beast pretending to be a man."
Evelyn's smile was cold and sharp. "Good. It's about time fate showed its hand. The council may cling to their old tales, but this kingdom belongs to you, Alaric. And I'll see it remains that way."
Alaric's gaze narrowed. "What about the others? The generals? The old lords? They'll cry about tradition. About crimson eyes and ancient rights."
The Queen reached for her own cup, her movements elegant and unhurried. "Let them cry. I will break every last relic of that superstition if I must. The throne is yours by blood, by right. I won't have you cheated of it because of one cursed tradition and one sickly duke."
Alaric's lips twitched into a grin. "And if he recovers?"
"He won't." Her voice was cool, certain. "And if by some cruel trick of fate he does… he'll wish he hadn't."
A brief silence passed between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth.
Evelyn's gaze sharpened. "You are the heir, Alaric. I'll see every council seat filled with those loyal to you, every whisperer silenced, every law rewritten if I must. No one will take your crown from you. Not Lucien D'Aragon. Not anyone."
Alaric raised his goblet in a mock toast. "To the end of old bloodlines."
Evelyn's smile didn't waver. "And to the birth of a new era."