Shadows of Crown

Prologue

It was a night that would be remembered in Marenor's history for generations—a night of celebration, joy, and music. The royal palace was alive, golden light spilling from its high windows into the cool night air as the kingdom gathered for the Harvest Ball. Inside, the grand ballroom shimmered with warmth, the glow of chandeliers reflecting off gilded walls and polished marble floors. Nobles and dignitaries had come from far and wide, eager to celebrate and toast to another year of peace under King Adrian's rule.

Adrian Valerius wasn't just any king. He was Marenor's king—wise, stubborn, the kind of man who made you feel safe just by standing in the room. He had a way of looking at you that said he'd seen things you'd never want to see, and he'd make sure you'd never have to. And he didn't laugh often, but when he did, the sound would fill a room, rich and resonant. Tonight, he was laughing, raising a glass high, confident. Unbreakable.

Beside him was Princess Lyra, his eldest daughter, regal and serene. She was the epitome of grace, with a mind sharp as a blade and a quiet strength that had won the hearts of the people. She wore a gown of deep emerald, her dark hair twisted into a crown, and there was a kindness in her eyes that never wavered. Lyra moved among the guests, her voice soft and steady as
she offered words of encouragement and listened to their concerns. She was a future queen in every way, a leader who could carry the weight of Marenor with dignity and grace.

And then there was Prince Alden. He was a soldier, a warrior—the kind of man who didn't know how to sit still, even when he was in a suit instead of armor. You'd catch him scanning the room even during a toast, eyes sharp, looking for danger. He was protective to a fault, with a fierce loyalty that came from somewhere deep. Tonight, though, he let himself smile. A little. Because he was here, with his family, and that meant something.

But if you asked the people, they'd tell you their favorite was the youngest, Prince Scipio. The boy who could do no wrong. The charmer, the one with the easy smile, the one who wore his title loosely, like a hat he might toss away on a whim. Scipio was dressed in a burgundy coat that hugged his shoulders, making him look older, more regal, but there was still that glint in his eye, the mischief, the spark. He raised his glass to anyone who caught his eye, laughing as if he didn't have a care in the world.

While his father was the mind, his siblings the heart and the sword, Scipio was the spark—the wild flame that danced unpredictably, lighting up the room with his presence. The people adored him for his humor, his unpredictability, and his ability to make even the most formal gatherings feel like a casual affair. He was the beloved prince of Marenor, the one who could do no wrong in the eyes of the people.

When his sister called out to him, half-amused, half-scolding, "Must you be quite so... boisterous?" Scipio only grinned wider, lifting his glass. "It's a celebration, Lyra. Isn't that the whole point?"

Alden just rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness there. "Some of us have duties, Scipio."

"Duties can wait." Scipio laughed, casting a wink. "Tonight, we live."

It would've been perfect, if not for the doors swinging open, letting in a sharp gust of cold that ran through the hall like a bad omen.

At first, no one noticed the figures entering. But then people started turning, the laughter dying out as they realized these weren't latecomers in fancy clothes but soldiers. Dark, masked, deliberate. Everything stopped. In an instant, that warmth, that joy—gone. Just gone.

And then came the screaming.

Scipio didn't understand, not at first. His glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the marble, and he just stood there, frozen, as people started running, guards clashing with the intruders. He watched helplessly as his father fought valiantly, shouting for the children to escape, and for the first time, Scipio saw something he didn't understand in his father's eyes. Fear.

"Scipio!" Lyra's voice, somewhere through the crowd, reaching for him. He turned to see her struggling, her hand outstretched, her eyes wide with terror.

And then they came for her. A dark figure grabbed her roughly, yanking her back, and she stumbled, her arms flailing as she fought against her captor. She turned, her hand reaching out for him one last time, eyes filling with despair that quickly turned to agony as the masked soldier struck her across the face.

But before he could move, the attacker's arm whipped forward, glinting steel in his hand, and plunged the blade into her side.

Lyra's face twisted in pain as the knife sank into her flesh, her mouth parting in a soundless scream. Blood seeped through her gown, dark and viscous, staining the fabric as her fingers clawed at the air, still reaching toward him. Her legs gave out, and she dropped to her knees, her gaze fixed on his, wide with pain and shock.

Scipio's stomach twisted, his insides lurching with a sickening dread. He could do nothing but watch, immobilized by a fear so raw it clawed at his throat. His voice, his legs, his entire being—paralyzed, as though the world had splintered, fractured into a nightmare he couldn't break free from.

No, no, no.

He tried to scream, to call her name, but the sound was stuck in his throat, strangled by the pressure in his chest. He was powerless. Trapped. Forced to witness the horror unfold like some twisted nightmare.

And then she was gone.

She was gone. And he'd done nothing to save her.

And before Scipio could take a single step, rough hands grabbed him from behind, wrenching him back. He twisted, desperate, but the soldier held him tight, dragging him through the blur of smoke and fire.

He tried to scream again, to shout, but his voice was lost, swallowed by the roar of flames and the clash of steel. The soldier's grip tightened, forcing him into a side hallway, dragging him away from the life he had known. Panic clawed at his chest, and he struggled against the suffocating fear, but then something sharp struck the side of his head, and the world began to blur.

As his vision dimmed, he caught one last, broken glimpse of the ballroom—his family locked in their desperate struggle, faces half-hidden by smoke and shadow. The kingdom they had once ruled together.

Then, everything went dark.

And when the people spoke of that night, they would remember the prince who had laughed and toasted them, who had brought light into their lives. But to Scipio, the rest was lost—a broken memory, a dream half-remembered, leaving Marenor to wonder if its youngest prince had perished in that inferno, or if he had simply vanished into the night.