Veil of the crown

Crown of Shadows

The council chamber buzzed with the fervor of political intrigue as Prince Francis made his entrance. The room, once dominated by the Queen Mother's influence, now felt the cold, calculated gaze of the new ruler. Francis, his presence commanding and his demeanor steely, took his place at the head of the table. The Queen Mother, who had been the acting regent, found herself sidelined, her authority eclipsed by the rising tide of support for Francis.

All other advisors, sensing the shift in power, quickly aligned themselves with Francis. Their once-enthusiastic support of the Queen Mother faded as they offered their eager agreement to his decrees. Francis's eyes, dark and unreadable, swept over them, his expression a mask of icy control. He could almost taste the power that was slipping into his grasp, but the shadows of old fears loomed large.

"We have little time," Francis declared, his voice cutting through the murmur of agreement. "The news from the council speaks of war on the horizon. We must act decisively. Any hesitation could mean the end of our stability."

A palpable tension filled the room. The air was thick with anticipation as the advisors, their faces a mix of apprehension and resolve, began to follow his commands. The Queen Mother, once the unchallenged matriarch, was now relegated to a silent observer.

The palace atmosphere crackled with unease. War wasn't the only shock whispers oftreachery; the scandalous affair between Prince Edward and Lilith had surfaced. Their plot to have Francis eliminated was exposed, sending ripples through the court. Francis felt the weight of betrayal pressing down on him, the familiar chain tightening creeping digging into his neck .

Later In a rare moment of royal unity, the king, frail and waning, hosted a grand feast. The hall, once vibrant with the echoes of laughter and lively conversation, was now tinged with a sense of foreboding. The table was set with elaborate dishes and fine wines, but the merriment felt forced. The king, attempting to mask his discomfort with a facade of joviality, addressed his family.

"How precious it is," the king said, his voice hoarse and strained, "to have my family gathered together like this. It warms my heart to see you all in one place."

Francis watched, his eyes cold , as the king spoke of unity and family. The meal proceeded with a veneer of cheerfulness, but the tension was almost tangible. Francis's interactions were clipped and distant, his mind racing with thoughts of power and betrayal. The king, oblivious to the underlying currents, continued to recount stories and offer toasts.

When the feast ended, the king retired to his chambers, his movements slow and labored. Francis watched him go, a shadow of thoughts darkening his expression. The king's frailty was a stark contrast to the image of the powerful ruler he once was.

Hours later when the castle grew still, Francis entered the king's chambers. The room was dimly lit, the shadows cast by flickering candles creating a somber atmosphere. The king lay in his bed, his breathing shallow and irregular. Francis approached, his figure a dark silhouette in the gloom, his face obscured by his long, disheveled curls.

The king stirred as he sensed Francis's presence. "Francis?" he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Come closer."

Francis stepped forward, his movements deliberate. The king's eyes, clouded with confusion and pain, searched for reassurance. "Father," Francis said, his voice a dark murmur. "You're weak. The whispers of what's to come to our shores have surely reached even your bedside."

The king's face twisted with a mix of concern and fear. "I hear the murmurs," he admitted, his voice trembling. "In my weakness, I wonder if I made the right choice in naming you heir."

Francis's response was a chilling, echoing laugh that filled the room. "Kings aren't chosen, Father," he said, his voice a sharp contrast to the king's fragile tone. "They are made. Fate and lineage are mere illusions. History is written by the victors. You allowed your queen to rule you while you drowned yourself in your cups. You wouldn't recognize an heir if he stood right in front of you."

The king's eyes widened in shock, his body trembling as he tried to grasp the betrayal unfolding before him. "Son...?"

"Son?" Francis mocked, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "So I am now a son? How quaint." His eyes gleamed with a sinister light as he moved closer to the bed.Smiling for the first time in over a decade a tear falls down his eye ."he whispers to himself I am a son ..".

The king's weak attempts to sit up were met with Francis's cold indifference. "Father, you should rest," Francis said softly, his tone carrying an edge of finality. He placed his hand over the king's nose and mouth, his expression remaining cold and unfeeling.

The king's eyes bulged with terror, his struggles growing more frantic as he realized the depth of his son's resolve. His muffled cries were a pitiful sound, the last echoes of a once-great ruler fading into silence. Francis's face remained expressionless as he watched the light drain from his father's eyes, his hand pressing down relentlessly.

The room grew quiet as the king's struggles ceased. Francis pulled back, his face illuminated by the dim light of the candles. His smile was a dark and wicked thing, his eyes reflecting the depth of his resolve.

"I am the crown," he said softly, his voice a chilling promise to the empty room. "The game is over."