"I am already dead."
She read those words three more times, but they didn't change. Well, they did, but not in the way she was expecting; instead, they became stained in slow droplets from her frozen crystal blue eyes.
The haystack beneath her crunched as she slowly fell into it, although some of it sank into her barely white robe.
Scurrying for some hope, she looked for an imperial stamp, or rather its absence. She slanted the top of the paper downward so it could reflect the light coming from the barn door opposite her.
The imperial stamp was there.
Her fair and rough hands slightly squeezed the letter as if to brace for impact; her eyes began to read or search for any hope by finishing the letter.
And it read.
From the Desk of High King Barth SteelBorne
To: Alicia SteelBorne, King's Game Candidate
If you are reading this, then I am already dead.
I know this news will bring sorrow—but, child, there is no time for tears.
With my passing begins what the prophets once called the Coming of the Age.
It is not a ceremony but a warning. The Inverts will return, and with them comes the possible extinction of all life in Diversia. Unless they are stopped, our world will burn.
This is the purpose behind your birth—and the birth of your siblings. Each of you was born to represent your respective kingdoms in the King's Game, no matter how small your claim or bloodline.
Only one will be chosen. And only that one may take the throne I leave behind.
But know this, my child: the game is not merely a contest of power or pride. It is a search—for a leader who will bear the burden of all people in the coming war.
Prepare yourself.
Do not falter.
And may the child who is strongest in heart become king.
- Barth SteelBorne
High King of Diversia
Alicia desperately read it three more times, but each time it became less readable because it was stained with tears.
She stood abruptly, nearly stumbling over the hay.
"No…"
The word came out cracked. A dry whisper.
"No, no—this can't be."
She clutched the letter like it might answer her.
"Father can't die. He's the strongest."
Her voice was rising. Too loud for an empty barn. Too desperate for a throne.
"He's—he's my strength. He's my..."
Her knees gave a little. She caught herself on the wooden beam.
Everything came crashing down on her in slow, shattering waves.
Her once-beautiful smile twisted into something unrecognisable—disfigured by sorrow.
Mucus dripped from her nose as she hiccupped, silently and shamefully.
She shut her eyes tight, shaking her head, swiping at her tears with her wrists like they were mistakes.
But it was too late.
The tears had waited long enough.
"He... he didn't even call me by my name."
Her voice cracked, breaking open something deeper inside her.
"He probably doesn't even love me," she choked out.
"I'm just... a tool. A tool for war. Or peace. Whatever they needed."
The words cracked like glass—shards of truth too sharp to swallow.
Her chest heaved as another wave of sobs broke through her ribs. She couldn't stop them anymore.
She wasn't strong enough to hold the grief in.
Not this time.
Suddenly, the drenched letter shimmered—just for a second—as a beam of white light passed through it.
She froze.
Wonder crept in, chasing after confusion. But above them all came something she hadn't dared feel until now:
Hope.
It was fragile, fleeting—like trying to cup water in her hands in the middle of a desert.
Then the light vanished.
She blinked. Tilted the paper. Turned it toward the early morning light filtering through the barn.
Nothing.
Her heart sank again, ready to fall fully back into grief —
Until she turned the letter over.
There—on the back—glowing white engravings were slowly fading.
She gasped softly.
They weren't ink. They weren't written.
They were etched in the air itself.
And it read.
My Alicia,
I knew you would cry. That's why I left this second letter—for you to read not as a candidate, but as my daughter.
I'm sorry you had to find it this way. I had to make sure only you would see it.
I know I wasn't the best father. I know I shut the gates of the castle, not just on you—but on all of you.
Please understand: it was never neglect. It was protection.
I had my reasons.
And if you survive the Game—if you become High King—you will know them all.
Still, I'm sorry.
For every moment I was gone.
For the hate you endured for being born an invert.
For the whispers behind your back.
For the pain of being called illegitimate, unworthy.
You have every right to be angry.
But let that anger become the fuel for mercy, not vengeance.
I may have won the war of swords and borders.
But you, Alicia—you must win the war in their hearts.
Bring peace that will last generations.
Show them the grace of a true SteelBorne.
Show them that you, my greatest joy, are fit to be their King.
With love—
From your father, always.
Do not trust the g–
The words shimmered once... then vanished.
"No. No. Nononono!" she screamed, clawing at the last sparks of white light as they faded from view.
She let out another cry—hoarse and broken—then clutched the note to her chest like it might bring him back.
"Don't leave me, Father. Not again."
Her knees gave way.
With a dull thud, she crashed headfirst into the hay. Her golden hair scattered across the straw like spilled sunlight.
She didn't care.
"How can I save them..." she whispered into the hay, her voice muffled and trembling, "...when I can't even save myself?"
Her hands curled into the straw as her body shook with each quiet sob.
"I'm tired of being strong... so tired."
With a deep sigh, she turned—her back resting against the haystack.
The tears still came, but now they followed a new path—slipping silently down the sides of her face.
Her breaths came in sniffled hiccups, shaky and uneven.
Then her eyes drifted to her armor.
A battle-worn green chestplate, dulled by dust and scars, but still noble in shape.
Gold-trimmed shoulder plates curved like wings—regal, proud.
At its heart, two blurred crystals shimmered faintly: one set into the chest, the other embedded near the abdomen.
Despite everything, it still glistened.
Even in its battered state—it refused to look defeated.
"You must win the war in their hearts..."
Alicia repeated the words under her breath, her voice cracked and reluctant.
She stared at the now-blank letter, as if expecting one more line, one more word from him.
But the silence said it all.
Her jaw tightened. Her fingers curled into a trembling fist.
"Okay, Father..." she whispered.
Then, louder—stronger—
"I'll do it. For you."
A single tear slipped down her cheek. This time, she didn't wipe it away.
She let it fall—like the last piece of weakness she could afford to show.
Outside, the wind rustled the small wheat field softly, carrying her words out into the morning... and to the ears of a shadowy figure crouched silently on her roof.
But not everyone welcomed the coming day.
In the market square of Manthrope, chaos bloomed like a rotten fruit.
"This food is cursed!" a man shouted, flinging a bundle of apples to the ground.
"He's one of hers! Alicia's rats—tainting our crops with witchcraft!"
The crowd murmured, then surged, turning toward the small food stand at the edge of the alley.
John raised his hands. "I'm just a trader!" he stammered. "I barely know the girl!"
But the mob didn't care.
They saw the green and gold sash on his crate—the same colours once worn by the Invert Princess.
And that was enough.