The morning sun spilled through the stained glass, scattering color like spilled wine across the marble floor. Alric stood alone in the royal chapel, hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the towering sculpture of Saint Aurelius — the warrior-saint of sacrifice.
He had prayed here often as a boy. Now the silence felt heavier, more watchful.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Not hurried. Familiar.
"I thought I'd find you here," Saren's voice said gently.
"I needed… clarity," Alric replied, not turning.
She moved beside him, her presence warm despite the chill in the air.
"You've been quieter lately," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Are the lords still ignoring you?"
"I don't know if it's that," Alric admitted. "Or if I've simply become someone they tolerate out of politeness."
He looked at her then. "Have I lost my strength?"
Saren's eyes softened — so carefully, so convincingly. "You've become thoughtful. That's not weakness, my lord. That's strategy."
Her fingers brushed his arm lightly, barely there. "And you're not alone. You have me."
---
Later, when he was gone, Saren remained in the chapel.
She didn't kneel.
Instead, she approached the sculpture of Saint Aurelius and ran her hand along the carved sword. Her lips pressed into a line.
You died for a kingdom you could never rule. I refuse to.
The fire in her chest had not quieted. The old memory flashed — her father's cold voice:
"You are bright, my daughter, but brightness does not make a crown. You are second-born. And you are a girl. Be grateful for a fine marriage."
And yet, her brother had fumbled every lesson, failed at every debate. She had bested him in strategy, diplomacy, and numbers — but tradition weighed more than truth.
She turned, facing the golden cross.
"I will not be erased."
Her whisper echoed through the empty chapel like a vow.
.....to be continued.....
Author's Note:
Look who's plotting under stained glass and silent saints!
Saren says strategy, but I say she's three steps ahead and pretending it's chess. Meanwhile, poor Alric's out here asking existential questions while being lowkey poetic.
The fire's lit, the vows are made, and someone's definitely not here to play the princess.
Stick around, dear reader—
It's only just beginning.
– Your mischievous author.