CHAPTER 2: THE TWO ROYAL FAMILY
1306 Words
People in Therona woke each morning pretending it had forgotten its past.
Sunlight spilled across tiled roofs and carved balconies, glinting off church domes and merchant stalls as if the city were innocent...peaceful, even beautiful. But beneath the calmness of the city, hatred lay embedded in stone and memory, stitched into their daily life. Therona did not forget its grudges. It carried them the way like a body carries scars, healed on the surface, but fresh underneath.
The city was split cleanly in two.
To the north, the Mondragon banners hung heavy against iron gates and watchtowers. Dark fabrics snapped in the wind, marked with the sigil of the dragon, ancient, enduring, merciless. The streets there were narrow and shadowed, built for defense rather than comfort. Men walked with measured steps, hands never far from their weapons, eyes trained to recognize threats before faces.
To the south, the Calluete district gleamed with color and sound. Open plazas, marble fountains, and tall gates proclaimed wealth and influence. Music often drifted through the air, but it never softened vigilance. Pride ruled here as firmly as any blade. Honor was spoken of as sacred, yet it was guarded with violence just as swift.
Between north and south flowed the River Corva, dark and slow-moving, cutting through Therona like an old wound that never closed. Bridges connected the city, but they did not unite it. They were places of tension, watched closely, crossed cautiously, remembered for bloodshed as much as trade.
No one alive could say how the feud between the Mondragons and the Calluetes began.
The elders told stories, each contradicting the last. Some spoke of land seized under false claims. Others whispered of a broken marriage meant to bind the families together. A few claimed it began with a duel, an insult spoken too loudly, a sword drawn too fast. Whatever the truth, it no longer mattered. The reason had faded; the resentment had not.
Children inherited the feud before they inherited their names.
A Mondragon boy learned which faces hardened his father’s voice. A Calluete girl learned which streets her mother avoided without explanation. Questions were discouraged. Understanding was unnecessary. Hatred did not require logic, it required only memory.
On this particular morning, the bells of Saint Aurelio rang as usual, calling the faithful to prayer. Merchants arranged their goods. Guards patrolled the main roads with practiced indifference. Yet tension lingered, coiled and waiting.
High above the northern streets, Romeo Mondragon stood on the balcony of the Mondragon estate, overlooking the city he was born to rule.
At twenty-two, Romeo carried the weight of inheritance in his posture. His dark hair stirred in the wind, his expression thoughtful, distant. He had grown up watching this city devour its own sons, friends turned rivals, celebrations ending in funerals. Violence was familiar to him, yet it never sat comfortably in his chest.
Behind him, steel boots echoed against stone.
“You should not stand alone for too long,” said Lord Dario Mondragon, his uncle, voice firm with authority. “The city watches.”
Romeo did not turn. “Let it watch.”
Dario frowned. “A Mondragon heir should never appear distracted.”
“I am not distracted,” Romeo replied quietly. “I am tired.”
That earned a sharp glance. “Tired of what?”
“Tired of pretending this hatred keeps us strong.”
Dario scoffed. “Hatred keeps us alive.”
Romeo finally faced him. “It keeps us trapped.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The river below glimmered darkly, reflecting nothing of the sky.
“The Calluetes have requested a council meeting,” Dario said at last. “The Prince will attend. They will send their heir.”
Romeo’s eyes narrowed. “Juliet Calluete.”
“Yes.”
“Then this is not about peace,” Romeo said. “It’s a test.”
Dario smiled thinly. “Everything in Therona is.”
Across the city, behind the high gates of the Calluete estate, Juliet Calluete stood in silence as servants adjusted her dress. Pale fabric, modest but elegant, embroidered with white roses. She barely noticed their movements. Her thoughts were elsewhere, on the meeting she had not been allowed to refuse.
“You will speak only when necessary,” her mother, Lady Mirela, instructed. “You will show no weakness.”
Juliet met her reflection in the mirror. Calm eyes. Steady breath. “And if they provoke?”
“They will,” Mirela said without hesitation. “Mondragons always do.”
Juliet nodded. She had been prepared for this her entire life. Obedience, restraint, composure. She knew the rules. Yet beneath her calm, something restless stirred, a quiet resistance she had never named.
When the escort arrived, Juliet stepped through the gates without looking back.
The council chamber stood above the river, its floor of reinforced glass revealing the slow, dark current beneath. North and south banners faced one another across the room, dragons and roses locked in silent opposition.
Romeo entered first, dressed in black and steel. His presence commanded attention without effort.
Then Juliet arrived.
Their eyes met across the chamber, and something shifted, subtle, dangerous, undeniable.
“So,” Juliet said, breaking the silence, her voice clear, “the north sends its dragon.”
“And the south its rose,” Romeo replied coolly. “Careful. Thorns tend to draw blood.”
Juliet’s lips curved slightly. “Only when handled carelessly.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“Enough,” the Prince commanded. “This council exists to prevent further violence.”
Romeo stepped forward. “Then let us speak honestly.”
Juliet mirrored his movement. “Honesty has never been Therona’s strength.”
Their words clashed, sharp and measured, each exchange charged with centuries of resentment. Yet beneath the hostility lay something neither expected recognition. Not of an enemy, but of an equal.
Thunder rolled outside, distant but ominous.
Therona listened.
A city built on blood does not change easily. But change, when it comes, rarely asks permission.
And as Romeo Mondragon and Juliet Calluete faced one another across the glass floor, the city unknowingly stepped closer to its reckoning.
The thunder did not fade. It lingered above the sky of Therona city, low and restless, as if they were listening to the council below.
The Prince rose from his seat, his jeweled mantle catching the candlelight. “You stand here,” he said, voice firm yet weary, “because this city is bleeding. Every clash between your houses weakens Therona. Trade suffers. Trust dies. And the people pay the price.”
Romeo’s gaze never left Juliet. “The people have always paid the price.”
Juliet lifted her chin. “Yet neither house has ever truly cared enough to stop collecting.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the chamber.
Lord Dario stepped forward, his voice edged with steel. “Mind your tongue, Calluete.”
Romeo moved before he thought, placing himself slightly between them. “She speaks plainly,” he said. “If that offends you, perhaps it is because it is true.”
Juliet looked at him seriously for the very first time. Surprise across her composed expression, quickly masked by control. “You defend me too easily, Mr. Mondragon...”
“And you challenge too boldly for a Calluete, Miss..?" Romeo replied. “Perhaps the city has misjudged us both.”
The Prince raised a hand. “Enough. The purpose of this council is not accusation, but resolution.”
Juliet turned to the Prince. “Then speak plainly, Your Highness. What do you ask of us?”
The Prince hesitated, telling pause. “A ceasefire,” he said. “Thirty days. No patrol clashes. No provocations. No retaliation. If blood is spilled to any places, either your houses, both will be punished.”
- Writer
