I was standing by the glass-paneled hall, a file clutched to my chest, watching the palace glow in gold with preparations. Amara had told me to stay close. That I'd be needed. That a favor might come my way.
She lied.
The guards came in pairs.
"Rheina Blackwood," one of them said, tone devoid of warmth.
I straightened. "Yes?"
"You are hereby stripped of your position. By order of Blackwood One."
The folder slipped from my grasp.
"What?" My voice barely escaped. "This must be a mistake… I—"
A second guard stepped forward and handed me an envelope. Not sealed. Not royal. Just plain paper with cold ink.
Inside was a demotion notice. Printed. Signed. Stamped.
Effective immediately:
Your role within the Blackwood Executive Wing is terminated.
You are reassigned to Floor Unit Maintenance, Section G.
Do not speak unless spoken to.
Do not move without instruction.
Do not wear the Blackwood crest.
You are not permitted near Command or Residential Halls.
My name was there.
But my number… my number… had been scratched out.
"Is this from Amara?" I asked, heart pounding. "Did she approve this?"
"She delivered it," one of them replied.
No explanation. No appeal. No room to breathe.
I was escorted out of the Executive Wing in silence. My eyes burned — but I refused to cry. Not here. Not for them.
In the corridors below, the lights were dimmer. The air colder. The noise less refined. Floor G wasn't part of the empire, it was the gutter beneath it.
No one looked up as I walked in. No one saluted. No one cared.
I sat on the rusted bunk of my assigned unit.
No explanations.
No warning.
Just a void where once I had purpose.
And still, the wedding banners flew outside.
Still, Amara wore the ring.
Still, Chris prepared to rule with fire.
And I?
I was nothing.
But ashes remember the flame.