Chapter Text
The needle pierces through taut red cloth, adding another slither of detail to your embroidery work. You are lounging comfortably in the tower block of your home, the royal castle known as Croftvalley. You've seated yourself by the arched window, having opened the stained glass a tad to allow in some fresh air. With it wafts in the gentle scent of Spring, the flowers are finally in their full bloom. A myriad of colours embellish your room through the decorated window, specks of dust dancing within the rays.
Idle company of chatter from the townfolk and birdcalls makes for pleasant background noise whilst you commit to your task. You weave the golden thread in and out, slowly building the portrait of a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Once finished, it will make a fine accessory to be fashioned onto one of your dresses.
A gentle breeze flowing in through the window disturbs the delicate tulle on the long skirt of your purple dress, curling underneath to send a small chill across your shins. You shift your legs, repositioning your skirt. Placing your work in progress down to your lap, you take a momentary break to gaze out of the window across the vast landscape of the land.
The feeling of tranquillity flows through your veins as you take in the sights, admiring all that has been built. The sun is cast, blessing every structure with Her radiant beauty. Rivers flow with gentle glimmers, markets thrive with visitors, and children laugh and play.
Velantra is a nation of peace, stability, and order. You were born into this world as the King and Queen's sole heir, and you have been raised under the values of conciliation and equity for all. Each day you learn more, you gather more experience, readying yourself for the day that you eventually succeed the King in sovereignty of the realm you call home. Since you could form your first thought, you have been educated in politics, history, the arts, languages, and even a small amount of magic. Some humans that are born in these lands have a natural aptitude for magic, but your abilities did not flourish as much as the King and Queen had hoped for.
This place has been governed as such for many millennia under the powerful royal house, which has been steadfast in its lineage since civilisation first settled on this previously abandoned land. The royal house is benevolent and takes the concerns of its citizens with high priority. Peace has managed to prosper in these lands thanks to the kindness that oversees it, the diplomacy that laid the foundation of everything every citizen lives by. Your ancestor, the first Queen, was not considered a conqueror, but a respectable woman who united everyone and everything that gathered here. She was a leader who was forthright and strong, so she was elected to the highest position through democracy.
Every creature and being that inhabits this land does so with full autonomy and freedom. The population is diverse; elves, dragons, dwarves, humans, and mages alike all co-inhabit without any conflict. The people are treated fairly, their labour is compensated in kind, and no singular individual profits more as a result of another's work. This has been the law of the land long before you were born, and it will continue to be so long after you are gone.
Your eyes draw away from the views outside, instead moving to study your quarters. The green chiffon curtains billow softly from the breeze, your bed is perfectly made, and the acacia wood flooring is sparkling clean. Gold and silver accents decorate every detail, with intricate details carved into the walls and furniture. Everything is uniquely ornate, catered specifically to your tastes. You acknowledge the privilege that comes with being a royal, and you'll never take a moment of it for granted.
As though the higher powers are seeking to disturb your peaceful morning, a knock sounds from your towering, dark oak double doors. Your eyes flit over to look, tracing the vine-like carvings that stretch up the middle of them.
"You may enter," your voice says clearly.
The doors open, creaking slightly as your visitor becomes visible to you.
"Master Ephri," you greet. He's an older gentleman, trained under the very best and capable of remarkable feats in medicine. He is stationed at the castle permanently and acts as a personal healer to anyone in the royal household. The man holds himself well, with a near-perfect posture and immaculate appearance, with long silver hair which is often tied back in a low ponytail.
"My Princess," he replies, his tone bordering on solemn. "It is Dame Ronnin. Please, the matter is urgent, so your haste attention would be appreciated."
Dame Ronnin is your personal Knight. She has served you since the day you were born, sworn to be your sword and shield. To protect you at all costs, to ensure your safety. She is more like a mother to you than anything, often taking it upon herself to teach you lessons that one might learn from a parent.
An equal mix of confusion and concern paints your features as you put your embroidery work next to you on a plush cushion. You stand, moving through the room with urgency to accompany Master Ephri. Your skirt flows in your path, almost making it look as though you are floating. The expression the healer wears is grave, and you begin to fear the worst.
"What has happened?" You dare to ask as you leave the room with him.
The guards situated outside your quarters close your doors, returning to their firm standing position to keep watch. Master Ephri keeps with your pace as you take yourself down the long hallway, assuming that Ronnin is likely to be in the sanatorium.
"I will explain further once we get there," Ephri tells you, somewhat averting your look. This only lends to the idea that something has gone catastrophically wrong. Someone will rarely refuse you information that you ask for, but you're well-mannered enough not to push the topic.
Your heart rate starts to accelerate as a tingling feeling pools in your fingertips and settles in your teeth. You look down the long hallway, picking up the pace to reach your faithful Knight. The midday sun stretches past the pillars to cast shadows which you quickly pass through.
Master Ephri struggles to keep up with your pace, slowly falling behind. You can hear the rasping of his robes as he paces his breathing through his mouth, but it's of little concern to you in this moment.
Turning the corner so quickly that you almost lose your footing, you regain your composure as you journey the short distance to the third door down. Two Knights stand outside, turning their heads to see you.
"My Princess," one speaks, sidestepping further in front of the door. "I must advise against this."
"Stand down, Ser. You will not prevent me from entering this room," you declare sternly, on your mission to reunite with your beloved protector. The Knight currently standing between you and the door shows an uncertain expression, but soon sees Master Ephri approach from behind you. The healer nods, reaffirming that the Knight should step aside.
And so, he does. With a modicum of hesitation, he permits you entry.
You push open the doors, quickly slipping into the room. The sight you're greeted with is one that you never imagined you'd have to face.
Ronnin is resting on a marble slab, adorned in her silver armour. You have to bite back the gasp at the puddle of blood spoiling the brilliant marble, her pale complexion only just able to meet your gaze. A substantial gash has torn through the chainmail that pieces the side of her chestplate together, the wound so grotesque that removing the armour would have done more harm than good. The blood grows larger and thicker, bleeding through every strip of gauze wound around her.
Her burnt orange hair is dishevelled and messy, wisps sticking to her clammy face and neck. Her lips are dried to the point of cracking, already showing a chilling blue tint. Her lashes are clumped together; from sweat or tears, you can't tell. You've never seen her in such a weakened state, and it strikes a fear within you that is trying to claw its way out of your ribcage.
The moment feels like it lasts a lifetime, your body as still as stone. The weight of your heart keeps you rooted in place, unable to process what you're witnessing. Your eyes are wide, your lips parted a fraction. Master Ephri enters the room, drawing to your side. He looks upon you with concern and sympathy, unsure if he should utter any condolences yet, considering the light of Ronnin's life is still flickering. Barely.
"Ronnin…" You whisper, "What are you doing? What is this? Get up, Ronnin."
She sighs a shaky breath with what little strength she has left. She slides her hand across the blood-soaked slab, unable to lift it, but reaching out for you. Her chest falls and rises shallowly, clawing for each breath. Your heart begins to recognise an absence before your mind can process it, your sense of gravity entirely shifting.
"Come to me, Princess," she feebly asks.
Despite her plea, your feet will not take you any further. Your jaw clenches as your throat swells, the tingling sensation in your fingers spreading up your arms like an infestation. Master Ephri places a delicate hand on your shoulder, trying to imbue you with the courage to step forward.
"Dame Ronnin has held onto life so that she could say goodbye to you," he whispers softly into your ear.
A breath hitches in your throat as your nose and eyes start to tingle as well, your entire body succumbing to this new sensation. You clench your fingers into fists at your side, trying to quench your fears. Finally, your body moves. Not because you intended to, but because you needed to. Your heart was in control, but your mind seized the power to do what was necessary.
You come to her side, reaching for her bloodied hand. She's cold to the touch, but you hardly flinch. You wrap both hands around it, bringing it close to your chest. Glassy, teary eyes peer down at her as you hold back the urge to cry uncontrollably.
"Your dress," she hushes, regretful of the blood that is getting over the beautiful material. One as delicate as you should never know the harshness of bloodshed, nor should you be subject to dirtying yourself with it. That was always her job, to protect you from the harsh realities that sometimes befall this world.
"I don't care about the dress," you reply, your voice cracking. "I care about you, and you must stay strong for me. You will fare this, you've weathered tougher storms."
Your Knight smiles weakly, rolling her head over the marble in pain which she is trying, and failing, to hide from you. The foundation of all you know is slowly being removed from beneath you, brick by brick. You become more unstable by the minute, unable to find your centre.
"My sweet child," she murmurs, "I'm afraid that this is my end."
"No!" You reply desperately, holding her hand tighter. You begin to shake, knowing that you won't be able to hold it together any longer. Her blood smears over the tulle sleeves of your dress, sure to ruin this garment beyond repair. "No, Ronnin! You are sworn to me, and I have not given you leave!"
"You will make a remarkable Queen," she utters through a struggle, disregarding your outburst. "I'm sorry I will not be there to see it. Rest assured, I will admire your rule from The Divine Domain with utmost pride."
Every word she speaks drains her energy further, but she's determined to commit every last breath to you. Through clenched teeth, you suck in a sharp breath. You shake your head adamantly as tears start to fall over your waterline, pulling her hand to your cheek. You cradle your head in her palm, seeking the maternal comfort she has given you unconditionally for so many years. She cannot leave you like this, not so soon, not in such a way. She is deserving of a more graceful death than this. The Fated Speakers play a cruel game, never showing respect where respect is due.
"I can't be Queen without you," you say with a shaky voice, "You are my strength."
"Nonsense," she whispers.
One last smile is all she can manage before the life deflates from her lungs. You watch the light in her blue eyes fade looking straight at you. It's as though you're watching the sun decide to never rise again, lurching you into a territory no one could have prepared you for. She cradled you in her arms when you were just a babe, and she's passing on peacefully, knowing that you are the last person she got to see.
You sniffle as more tears flow from you, feeling your heart crack in your chest. Lowering down, you place a delicate kiss on her forehead.
Master Elphi comes up behind you, placing a consoling hand on your back. You pull away from your deceased protector, looking over your shoulder at the senior healer.
"Please have my assurance that I did everything within my capability to save her," he says quietly with a sorry look.
You look back to Ronnin, parting one hand from hers to brush her auburn hair from her freckled face. You smooth your hand over the roots of her hair as your tears fall onto her cheeks. The hands that taught you how to hold the world are now letting go of it, the roots of your oldest tree turning to ash beneath the soil. Your tears stain your cheeks as you look at her, hoping that the flame of her candle will relight any moment now so that she may return to you.
"I am deeply sorry, Princess," he continues.
Standing straight, you wipe your tears with your bloodied hand, refusing to let your other hand leave hers. Your bottom lip trembles, feeling as though you have lost a vital part of yourself in this moment.
"You did all you could, Master Ephri. You have my thanks for that. I'm sure you worked tirelessly, so please, excuse yourself for the rest of the day so that you may rest," you speak with a tremble.
Despite your grief, you try to be as benign as Ronnin always taught you to be. The greatest rulers do not obtain loyalty through fear, but instead cultivate it with kindness, until devotion becomes stronger than chains. You try to live by this, modelling yourself day by day into the eventual monarch you wish to be.
"We should allow the Daughters of Myre to handle things from here," he suggests gently. You peer over to the corner of the room, seeing three women standing there in the same stance, their hands crossed loosely over their front with their fingers laced. It's possible they were there the entire time, but you never noticed them.
The Daughters of Myre are a mystical entity. They are identical in appearance, with deathly pale skin, tall stature, straight, long black hair and pointed ears. From what you understand, they act somewhat as a hive mind, but they're hard to get any conversation out of. They are also known as the Keepers of Death, handling the deceased and overseeing the transition of the spirit to the care of The Fated Speakers so that they may enter the afterlife peacefully.
You sniffle once again, bringing Ronnin's limp hand to your lips to give her one last farewell. It is done with anguish and heartbreak as you hear the voice that always called you home becoming nothing more than an echo.
"Rest well, my dear Knight."