The heavy doors to the council hall loomed before him, carved with the emblems of Zura's founding kings. The guards standing watch lowered their heads as Turik approached, and for a fleeting instant, he caught his own reflection in the polished steel of their armor—an unfamiliar man, robed in crimson and would soon be crowned by destiny.

The moment the doors swung open, sound rushed out to meet him. Trumpets blared, echoing off the vaulted ceiling; courtiers and nobles bowed in a synchronized wave of reverence. The air was thick with incense, with heat, with the unspoken tension of a world about to change.

Turik crossed the threshold slowly, each step measured, deliberate. He felt that he was walking on cloud nine. He could feel every gaze upon him—some filled with awe, others with quiet calculation. Power drew attention the way blood drew wolves.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the golden canopy of the throne, the high priest waited, holding the ancient crown that had been placed on the first king of Zura. Its jewels gleamed like captured suns, refracting light in fragments across the marble floor.

Mira stood nearby, radiant in gold, her smile serene but her eyes sharp. She knew how to play the role of the queen even before the crown touched her head. For that, Turik admired her. For that, he would allow her to stand by his side.

As he ascended the steps to the dais, a strange calm settled over him—a stillness that came not from peace, but from control. Every betrayal, every death, every secret buried beneath this palace had led to this singular moment.

The priest began to speak, his voice a solemn chant echoing through the chamber. "By the will of Sunna, the eternal light, we anoint Turik as the rightful king of Zura. We crown you with a crown of glory and righteousness. Receive this scepter and may you hold authority with gentleness and grace, trusting not in your own power but in the mercy of Sunna who has chosen you".

Rightful. The word struck something deep within him. He almost laughed. Nothing about this throne was rightful. It was taken—seized—wrestled from fate itself.

As the crown descended onto his head, a ripple of sound swept through the hall—cheers, applause, the chorus of allegiance. He rose from his knees, and the light of the sun through the stained-glass windows struck his face, casting it half in gold, half in shadow.

In that fractured light, he felt what he truly was: not a chosen king, but a forged one—hammered by ambition, tempered by blood.

Turik let the applause wash over him and smiled, the calm, regal smile of a man the world now called His Majesty. And deep within, beneath the weight of the crown, he heard a lingering whisper.

Rule, it murmured. And never look back.

From her place beside the dais, Mira watched him ascend—each deliberate step echoing through the vast council hall like a drumbeat of fate.

The scent of incense hung thick in the air, laced with the faint tang of lavender. Light from the stained-glass windows poured over Turik's shoulders, cloaking him in shifting gold and crimson. To everyone else, he was already a figure of divine right—Sunna's chosen heir, radiant and unstoppable.

To Mira, he was something else entirely.

She had seen the man beneath the robe and crown—the one who could charm and destroy with his cunning. His rise had been ruthless, inevitable. And now, as she gazed at him kneeling before the high priest, she felt that same ruthless hunger awakening in herself.

When the crown was placed upon his head and the hall erupted in cheers, she felt her chest tighten—not with pride, but with something sharper. This is it, she thought. The moment history begins to remember my name.

Every bowing noble, every kneeling servant, every roar of loyalty was a promise that soon, she too would reign—not merely as consort, but as Empress.

She straightened her posture, letting the heavy folds of her golden gown fall perfectly around her. Her jewels caught the sun like sparks. To the watching crowd, she was a vision of grace, serene and radiant in her silence. But behind that calm smile, her thoughts burned bright.

You've seized the throne, Turik, she thought as he rose to stand before his subjects. Now I will seize you. And through you, I will rule.

The cheers swelled again as Turik turned toward her. His eyes met hers for a brief, electric moment—his gaze sharp, assessing, almost possessive. But Mira held his stare without wavering.

She had learned long ago that power was determined by lineage and birthright—a gift bound to bloodlines of ancient names. But with Turik, she discovered another truth: that power could be taken, not inherited. It could be claimed in silence, built upon patience, sharpened with cunning, and worn like silk upon the skin.

When Turik extended his hand, she laid hers upon it with regal grace. Together, they turned to face the roaring hall—a king and queen bathed in sunlight, their joined silhouettes stretching across the marble floor as one towering figure of triumph.

The crowd's cheers swelled like a storm, and yet beneath the gold and glory, Mira felt a tremor—so slight, it might have been her imagination. The light that crowned them was dazzling, intoxicating… and blinding.

And she knew that in such brilliance, one shadow would inevitably consume the other.

"All Hail The King!"

"Long Live His Majesty!"

The chant continued to thunder through the hall, echoing from pillar to the vaulted ceiling. Turik and Mira drank deeply from the moment—drunk on the sweetness of conquest, the scent of polished steel, the shimmer of jewels and envy in the eyes below.

Then—clap.

A single, deliberate sound cut through the din.

Another followed.Clap.

Clap.

"This prince congratulates General Turik on his ascension to the throne," came a voice—steady, dignified, heavy with meaning.

A man stepped forward in ceremonial robes, his expression serene, his presence like a blade concealed beneath silk.

Silence fell.

The nobles froze mid-bow, words dying in their throats. It was as if time itself held its breath.

Mira's hand tightened on Turik's arm.

"You," Turik breathed, the word slicing through the silence like a drawn sword.