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The metallic click of the padlock echoing through the ancient stone cathedral sounded less like a mechanism opening and more like a final judgment. As the king lifted the heavy iron-and-wood shell away, the suffocating silence of the crowd was instantly pierced by a collective intake of breath so sharp it felt like a physical wind. / Chapter 3 / 20

Chapter 3 - The Bloodless CoupNews of the faceless princess spread through the kingdom of Oakhaven like wildfire. Pamphlets were hastily printed, merchants abandoned their stalls in terror, and religious zealots gathered in the town squares, screaming that the royal family had harbored a demon spawn that would bring the wrath of the heavens down upon them all.

Seizing upon the public hysteria, Duke Malakor—the king’s ambitious, silver-tongued cousin—made his move.

Surrounded by a heavily armed phalanx of elite royal guards who had sworn allegiance to his growing faction, Malakor marched straight into the throne room. He found the aging king sitting alone upon the obsidian throne, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the grand entrance.

"It is over, Your Majesty," Malakor declared, his voice dripping with false sympathy and unmistakable malice. "Your experiment with the iron helmet has failed. The kingdom is on the brink of civil war. The people will not be ruled by a mad king who tries to marry a star-spawned abomination to an unsuspecting prince."

The king slowly stood up, his hand resting on the pommel of his ceremonial sword. "You forget yourself, Malakor. I am still your sovereign."

"Not anymore," Malakor sneered, snapping his fingers.

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Arthur Sterling tapped his leather-wrapped fingers against the steering wheel of his matte-black Bentley, staring at the imposing wrought-iron gates of his own estate. To the world, the Sterling name was synonymous with untouchable wealth, bleeding-edge tech investments, and a picture-perfect modern family. But as the automated gates slid open with a soft, expensive hum, Arthur didn't feel like a master of a universe; he felt like a stranger walking into a trap he had built with his own hands.

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Before the king could draw his blade, three crossbows twanged in unison. Bolts embedded themselves deep into the king’s chest. He staggered, coughed up a spray of dark blood, and collapsed onto the dais, his life-blood pooling across the stone floor.

"Lock the castle down," Malakor commanded, stepping over his cousin's body with cold indifference. "Bring me the girl. Today, Oakhaven gets a new ruler—and the monster in the tower gets a public execution."

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