The moment Athler begins to change, the entire hall seems to come alive.

Candles flicker violently in their holders. A sudden wind coils through the chamber, though every window is shut tight. Streaks of golden light bleed from the stained-glass windows above, casting dancing halos across the stone floor. Something old and unseen thrums in the air—raw magic responding not to the king, but to Janeal.

The palace seems to breathe. The walls tremble, not with fear, but as if exhaling after holding something in for centuries.

Outside, vines twist and bloom in full color, defying the season. Birds flock to the windows, wings fluttering, beaks tapping on the glass. The natural world leans toward her, pulled by an unseen current. Janeal doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She feels it in her bones—something immense is shifting.

The golden threads in her gown glow for a fleeting second, and she swears she hears them whisper. Not with words she knows, but with a rhythm older than language.

Gasps rise in the crowd. Janeal slowly lifts her head—and freezes.

Where Athler once stood, there is a young man now. Strong. Radiant. Unscarred by time or suffering. Her eyes widen. It’s still him. His soul hasn’t changed—but his body has.

Her aunt stares too, jaw slack with disbelief.
“King Athler,” a noble stammers, voice shaking, “your skin… it’s changed.”

Athler looks down at his hands. He turns them over, inspecting the smooth flesh. Panic rises in his eyes. He stumbles back from the altar and rushes toward the grand mirror behind the throne.

The hall falls into stunned silence.

Staring at his reflection, Athler touches his face as if it might not be real. “What’s happening to me?” he breathes.

No one answers.

They were all expecting something else. A union. A political statement. Maybe even Janeal’s death. But this? This was never part of anyone’s plan.

Then a voice speaks, hesitant but certain.

“It’s her,” a noble whispers. “The curse… it’s unraveling. The Averna bloodline curse—it’s breaking.”

All eyes fall on Janeal. She stands beneath the stained glass, crowned in gold, light pooling around her like sunlit water. For the first time since she stepped into the palace, something in her loosens. Her heartbeat slows. Her death... may not come tonight after all.

Then—

“You can’t be his queen!” Aunt Lillian shouts, her voice sharp with fury.

She surges forward, reaching for the crown on Janeal’s head. But the moment her fingertips brush the metal, a surge of light flashes—bright and violent. A loud crack echoes through the hall.

Lillian screams as she’s thrown backward, crashing to the floor. Her hand is red and blistering.

Gasps erupt. A few nobles lurch forward, unsure whether to help or run.

Janeal rushes to her. “Aunt, are you hurt?”

But Lillian scrambles back, eyes wide with something Janeal has never seen in her before—terror.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, clutching her scorched hand. Her voice shakes. “What are you?”

The crowd ripples with noise. Voices rise in whispers, fast and frantic.

“She’s dangerous.”

“This isn’t natural.”

“What breaks a curse might carry something darker.”

"This could doom us all.”

Janeal’s breath catches. She feels their fear, their awe, their growing uncertainty. The room spins with judgment.

Then Athler speaks.

“Enough.”

His voice cuts through the chaos. It’s different now—stronger, steadier. Young, but full of command. The nobles go silent.

“You do not speak for the throne,” he says. His gaze sweeps the crowd before settling on Janeal. “She saved me. And she is my wife. You will show her the respect owed to your queen.”

His words ring out like iron.

No one argues. One by one, the nobles bow their heads. Some in respect. Others in reluctant surrender.

Janeal stands frozen. The weight of the crown presses heavier now. And Athler—though he defends her—looks at her with something close to sorrow.

“You’ve saved me,” he says softly, barely loud enough for her to hear. “But at what price?”

Then he turns to the guards. “See that she’s treated with honor. Escort her to her chambers.”

Janeal walks through the crowd in silence, guided by a maid. Her legs feel hollow. Her body, like it’s moving without her will. Whispers follow her like shadows. She doesn’t look back.

In her room, the silence is deafening.

She reaches for the velvet drape along the far wall, brushing her fingers against a royal tapestry—the image of Averna’s founding queen stitched in gold and crimson. As her hand passes, the queen’s eyes seem to move. Just slightly. But enough to make Janeal flinch.

For a second, the embroidered queen stares back at her.

Then—stillness.

A shiver travels down Janeal’s spine. She backs away slowly, staring at the tapestry.

“What am I becoming?” she whispers.

That night, the stars return—stars not seen in generations. The sky burns silver above the sleeping palace.

Janeal lies awake beneath silk sheets, the crown resting on the stand beside her. It hums softly, like a heartbeat.

Everything has changed. The world, the king… and her.