Prologue
1162 Words
The chamber was small enough that four people could make it feel crowded. A single torch burned on the wall. Its light shifted across old stone and the faces gathered around the table.
Three elders waited for her. And the moment the door opened, their conversation stopped.
Mearith stepped inside without knocking.
She wasn’t a tall woman, but she carried herself with such certainty that people rarely noticed. Silver threaded through her dark hair, and age had carved fine lines around eyes that missed very little. She stood straight, shoulders squared, with a quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
No one rose to greet her. No one smiled.
The woman among the elders rested both hands on the table. And unconsciously, her thumb moved over the silver ring on her index finger.
Mearith's eyes dropped to it. Then to the rings worn by the two men. Same metal. Same design. Same oath.
Nineteen years ago they had stood together beneath the unfinished walls of Rose Tower and sworn before king and God that they would carry out Astaburn's vision until the future queen was made.
After all these years, she still hated the sight of it.
The woman elder looked up. “Lady Mearith.”
Mearith shut the door behind her. “You sent for me.”
“We did.” The woman gestured toward an empty seat. “Please. Sit.”
Mearith glanced at it but remained standing. “I’d rather hear why you’re discussing my family’s deaths while seated comfortably.”
The words landed hard. One of the men looked away. The other stiffened.
The woman elder sighed. “It isn’t that simple.”
“No?” Mearith asked.
“The king’s requirements are known to everyone” said the elder, of the two men. “The woman who marries the prince must be untouched. If Astaburn investigates—”
“He will,” Mearith interrupted.
The man nodded reluctantly. “Then he will discover the truth.”
Silence settled over the table. At last, the second man spoke.
“If that happens, your family won’t be the only ones punished. Every name connected to this movement may be uncovered. Everything we’ve built dies with us.”
Mearith stared at him. “And your solution?”
No one answered.
Her laugh was short and humorless. “Go on,” she said.
The woman elder met her gaze. “We abandon the plan. Get you and your family out of the kingdom and have you settled with our strongest allies in one of the free cities.”
The room seemed to grow still. Mearith blinked once. Then again. As though she hadn’t heard correctly. “You abandon it.”
The woman nodded. “We find another way.”
“Another way?” Mearith repeated. “Eighteen years from now, perhaps.”
The first man shifted uncomfortably. “We can begin preparing another family—”
“Eighteen years,” Mearith echoed.
The elder hesitated. “Possibly less.”
Mearith had fallen dangerously silent.
Then suddenly she took a step toward the table.
“For eighteen years, my husband has risked decapitation every day.” Another step.
“My little ones have lived all their lives under the threat of s*****y. Ready to be thrown to the filth of this kingdom.” Another.
“And my daughter has eaten, bathed, and breathed this since the moment she drew her first breath.” One more.
“And you ask us to abandon it.”
Nobody spoke.
“You watched me carry the danger. Bear the cost. Offer up our lives. And when the moment comes to act, you decide the sacrifice is too great?”
The second man rose suddenly. “You think this is easy for us?”
“Yes.” Mearith’s answer came immediately. “I think it’s easy because it has never been your family.”
The words struck as hard as she wanted, forcing the man to sit back down.
The woman elder rubbed her forehead. “Mearith…” For the first time, exhaustion showed in her voice. “If the king discovers the truth, your daughter dies.”
Mearith swallowed. And there it was. The fear even she didn’t want to name.
“If the king discovers the truth,” the woman continued, “she will not be sent to Rose Tower like the others were.” A pause. “Chalice will be put to death along with us.”
Mearith’s breath came a second faster. Heaving quietly as her eyes drifted to the floor.
Suddenly—she remembered another room.
Warm.
Too bright, she could barely see.
A newborn wrapped in white cloth in her arms that fell empty before she understood why.
The woman elder had stood beside her bed. No older that she was now. The same ring on her finger. The same calm face.
“We will bring her back in a year,” she had said.
Mearith remembered reaching. Remembered tiny feet. Remembered the searing pain in her heart when the child was gone.
The silence stretched. When Mearith finally spoke, her voice was quieter.
“You think I don’t know that?”
No one answered.
She looked back at them. Her eyes shone with anger, with grief, with terror. “I know exactly what happens if we fail. And I also know what happens if we don’t.”
The torch crackled.
She moved closer and leaned forward, hands on the table. “If we retreat now, then everything my family has endured was for nothing. Everything I have endured was for nothing.” Mearith straightened. “I. Am not. Running.”
The first elder opened his mouth.
She cut him off. “No.”
The word was firm. Final. “We have one chance.”
She looked at each of them in turn. “And I will not watch you throw it away because you’re frightened.”
The second man frowned. “You would have us lie to the king?”
“I would have us lie before God.” Mearith’s gaze hardened. “If the choice is between a lie and another minute living beneath Astaburn’s rule, then there is no choice at all.”
The woman elder studied her for a long moment. Then slowly, she nodded. The first man followed. And the second resisted longer than the others. But eventually, he nodded as well.
Mearith released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
The decision had been made.
The woman elder looked down at the table. “When the king asks…”
“You tell him she’s untouched,” Mearith said.
The elder nodded. “And when she’s queen?”
A faint smile touched Mearith’s face. Not amused. Not hopeful. Certain.
“Astaburn will face the cost of his ambitions.”
The revolution had just crossed a line from which it could never return.
And they all knew—this was the beginning of an end.
- Writer
