It began with a whisper.
A child in the merchant's quarter cried out at dawn:
"The Crown Lady is dead!"
By noon, the city had changed clothes.
Black banners fluttered on every noble window. Drapes were soaked in ink. Servants rushed to dress in ceremonial mourning wraps.
And by nightfall, the Temple Square was packed with thousands, waiting for the Queen Mother's coffin to emerge.
But there was no coffin.
Just Myra.
Clothed in silvered widow's robes.
Lips painted with crushed nightbell petals.
Eyes rimmed in kohl so dark, they bled shadow.
And at her side…
A boy.
Maybe twelve.
Pale. Thin. Regal. Marked by a faint scar beneath his left eye.
"I present to you," Myra's voice rang through the twilight air, "the forgotten son of Lycaena. Hidden. Protected. Now returned."
"The dead do not always stay buried—and when they return, they do not come alone."
From the rooftops above the square, Zela whispered to Elara:
"That child is no more Lycaena's son than I am a princess."
Elara's face remained unreadable.
She didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Just watched.
"Myra has changed tactics," she murmured. "She's no longer playing queen."
Zela spat into the wind. "She's playing mother."
And it was working.
The people wept.
Nobles fell to their knees.
Caelum stood at the edge of the procession platform, visibly shaken.
He hadn't been told.
That was the brilliance.
The cruelty.
This was not a coup. It was an adoption of legacy.
Later that night, a sealed invitation arrived at Elara's chamber.
"You are formally invited to witness the naming of the Crown Widow's heir, and partake in the Oath of Return."
She crumpled the scroll.
But didn't burn it.
Because something caught her eye: the name at the bottom.
Caelum.
Not as king.
But as witness.
Meaning he was not in control.
He had already yielded part of the narrative.
And now Myra was asking Elara to walk into a performance where she could not speak—but must bow.
The Oath of Return was a ceremony older than any crown. Once used to restore orphaned heirs to their lineages, it carried deep spiritual symbolism—meant to unify the bloodlines of the moon goddess.
Elara understood what Myra was doing.
She wasn't just reclaiming Lycaena's legacy.
She was rewriting it.
The next day, Elara dressed not in mourning black, but in storm grey, stitched with broken moons. A quiet protest.
She arrived at the amphitheater alone.
Caelum met her at the gate.
"You came," he said.
"I had to," she replied. "You let her name a false heir on sacred ground."
"I couldn't stop her," Caelum said, voice tight. "The temple elders backed her. They believe he might actually be—"
"She forged that boy. And forged his memory," Elara snapped. "You didn't even test the blood."
"The chicken that follows the vulture to feast soon realizes it is the feast."
Caelum looked away.
Then added, "You'll speak at the Naming?"
"No," Elara said. "I'll watch. And listen."
Because every lie had a pulse.
And today, she would feel it.
The ceremony was glorious.
Chants rippled through the amphitheater.
Golden powder burned at the edges of ceremonial cloth.
The boy stood between Myra and the High Elder, solemn and graceful. Too graceful.
Too rehearsed.
Then came the moment of oathing.
As tradition required, the three most senior blood-bound nobles were to come forward and lay a hand on the heir.
Caelum stepped forward first.
Then a duke from the Eastern Crescent.
And finally, Myra looked to Elara.
A pause.
Thousands of eyes turned.
Caelum's face tensed.
This was the trap.
If Elara stepped forward, she legitimized the child.
If she refused, she undermined the sacred rite—a punishable offense.
Zela's whisper echoed in her mind:
"If you step into the fire to prove you're not afraid to burn, you'll still burn."
Elara did not move.
Instead, she spoke.
Loud. Clear. Reverent.
"May the moon goddess bear witness to this child's truth. And may her light punish those who twist her name."
Myra's lips twitched.
A smile—tight. Controlled. Annoyed.
But the people heard blessing.
Not defiance.
And Elara kept her hands clean.
After the ceremony, in the Temple's shadowed cloisters, Myra approached her.
"I expected more from you," she said.
"I gave exactly what you hoped for—just wrapped in a mirror," Elara replied.
Myra's expression shifted.
"You won't win the people with riddles and riddles. They crave flesh. Faces. Blood."
"And you've given them a mask," Elara replied. "Let's see how long it stays on."
Myra's voice dropped. "Your war is running out of silence, Elara."
"Then I suppose I'll start making noise."
"The wind that shakes the branches today was once the breeze that kissed the leaves."
They stood.
Locked.
Two storms in elegant robes.
That night, Elara returned to her war table.
Sango had been waiting.
"She plans to coronate the child at the Festival of Tides," he said.
Elara nodded. "Of course. That's when Lycaena vanished. The people will see it as rebirth."
Zela added, "If we're going to hit her court, that's the moment."
Elara looked over her war maps, then whispered:
"No. Not her court."
She pointed to the eastern hill temples.
"Her prophecy scribes. The ones who wrote the boy's lineage."
Adisa leaned in.
"You're not going to destroy the crown..."
"I'm going to destroy the story holding it up," Elara said.
"And then," she added, "I'll make them beg for a new one."