The Music Box Chronicles

Chapter 2: The Queen's Lament

The air in the royal palace was sweet with the scent of lavender and jasmine, a stark contrast to the stench of desperation that wafted from the protests below. Queen Violet paced the length of her luxurious bedroom, her silk gown trailing behind her, the deep purples and blacks of her attire matching the opulence of the room. The grand windows, framed in velvet drapes, stretched from floor to ceiling, offering her a panoramic view of the people below—people who had dared to challenge her rule.

The royal bedchamber was nothing short of magnificent. The walls, painted in dark hues of violet and onyx, shimmered under the light of a crystal chandelier that cast intricate patterns across the floor. The bed itself was an extravagant affair, draped in fine silks and adorned with ornate golden frames. It was a room designed for power and indulgence, a fitting throne for a queen who ruled with an iron fist. Every corner of the room radiated wealth—gilded mirrors, plush carpets, and intricately carved furniture, all standing in stark opposition to the crumbling ruins and hunger outside the palace walls.

Violet’s gaze drifted to the people gathered in the courtyard below, their desperate cries barely reaching her ears through the thick glass. Her lips curled into a small, cruel smile as she watched the guards—dressed in the pristine uniforms of the Kingdom of Orin—march forward, batons raised and swords drawn. The villagers, many of them sobbing and pleading for mercy, were swiftly gathered and shackled, dragged toward the castle gates where the executioner’s block awaited.

“Fools,” Violet muttered, turning away from the window with a sigh of boredom. “Do they really think their cries will reach me?” She walked toward her vanity, where a tray of fine porcelain sat with an untouched cup of steaming tea. Her silk slippers made no sound on the thick rugs as she sat down in an elegant chair, her hands absently stroking the fabric of her gown.

She picked up the cup of tea, the warm porcelain comforting in her palm, and took a slow sip. The tea was delicately spiced, a blend made specially for her—rich and complex, much like her reign. She glanced at the ornate end table beside her, where a small stack of official documents lay awaiting her attention.

“I suppose I’ll need to come up with another excuse for the spokesperson,” Violet mused aloud, her voice laced with irritation. “Something about protecting the kingdom... the usual nonsense. Maybe something about their treasonous behavior threatening the peace. Yes, that will work.”

She smirked as she thought about the families of the protesters, soon to be mourning their loved ones—all because she had decided their fate. The weight of their deaths didn’t trouble her; if anything, the thought amused her. It was all part of maintaining control, after all.

As Violet continued to sip her tea, her attention was drawn to the newspaper on the table. She flipped it open, her eyes scanning the headlines with mild interest. Most of the news was predictable—more rumors of rebellion, a few petty crimes in the lower districts—but then her gaze stopped on a single line.

"Yoro’s Mystical Goods: Special Night Booth Appearance."

The teacup nearly slipped from her grasp as her breath caught in her throat. “Yoro?” she hissed, her eyes narrowing as she read the words again. The infamous trader, the one who had dared to sell forbidden relics of the long-lost kingdom that predated Orin, was back. Violet could still remember the last time Yoro had appeared in her kingdom, years ago—selling magical artifacts from the forgotten empire, relics that she felt should be long forgotten to all. She had been furious then, and now... now he dared to return.

“Cursed merchant,” Violet spat, her voice low and venomous. She slammed the newspaper down onto the table, the pages crumpling under her hand. With a sharp motion, she threw the paper to the floor, her tea splashing over the rim of her cup as she placed it down roughly.