The air in Lupendralis was heavy with sorrow, a mourning silence blanketing the land like a dark veil. Within the shadowed chamber, Anastasia sat between Lydia and Jeremiel—her beloved adoptive parents—and King Adeodatus. All were robed in deepest black, their faces etched with grief, their silence a sacred echo of loss.
A gentle rustle stirred the hush. One of the palace maids stepped forward and knelt slightly beside Anastasia, her voice soft as falling ash.
“Your Highness,” she whispered, “it is time.”
The funeral had begun.
Out in the courtyard, the royal procession awaited. At its forefront walked Queen Selene, regal and radiant even in grief. At her side was Anastasia, their hands clasped tightly—an unspoken tether of shared sorrow. Together, they stepped forward, each stride a p
