The air was thick with incense and whispers as Ayanis, a girl of barely eleven, stood at the end of her father's bed. She was the youngest of the emperor's bastards, along with her twin sister, Alanna, who was being fostered by their uncle in Bellhall for a marriage betrothal. She felt out of place amongst the throngs of lords, ladies of the court, and knights who had gathered to witness her father's final day.

Ayanis’s small hands clutched at the folds of her ill-fitting black dress, a plain, coarse fabric compared to the fine silks and jewels of others in the room. She felt a light, calming hand on her shoulder. It was her half-sister Treania, a girl of sixteen.

"Stand with me," Treania said sweetly, pulling her closer.

Treania, the oldest of the king's bastards, carried herself with the confidence of someone who had always belonged. Her long, golden curls streaked with silver framed a face that seemed to wear mourning like a crown. She was dressed in black lace, with silver embroidery curling around the fabric like vines, and on her chest was the crowned gryphon of House Doran.

Ayanis nodded silently, meeting her sister's gentle gaze, and moved closer to her. Her eyes shifted toward a figure leaning against a marble pillar. His face was half obscured by his long dark curls, but she could tell who it was by his crimson cloak. It was Olanis, her half-brother.

Olanis stood with his arms crossed, his crimson cloak draped over his shoulder, his face half-hidden by his dark hair. He seemed more statue than man, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.

Her mother stood stiffly across the room, dressed in a simple black gown. Her shoulders were back, her expression unreadable. Lady Morgan had said very little to Ayanis since they had entered the room, her sharp eyes flickering between the assembled lords and ladies like a hawk watching its prey.

The courtiers whispered amongst themselves in hushed tones. Lord Dalton, the treasurer, fidgeted with the golden chain around his neck, his small eyes darting nervously. Lord Gresby, the admiral, stood rigid in ceremonial armor, while Lord Rosewood muttered something to Lord Sands, the royal advisor. Lord Northington, the master-at-arms, was the only one who seemed unbothered by the stifling air. His hulking frame towered over the others as he stood with arms crossed, waiting.

Ayanis turned her attention to her father, the emperor, who lay propped up on pillows. His once-vibrant face was pale and drawn. His glowing emerald eyes, so much like Treania’s, were clouded and dull. His breaths were shallow and labored. The bells of the imperial tower had been tolling since dawn, a mournful dirge that seemed to seep into the very stones of the palace.

She flinched as the emperor stirred, a weak cough rattling in his chest. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. He struggled to speak, his lips moving without sound. Treania stepped forward, taking his hand with practiced grace.

Ayanis watched as the lords and ladies pressed closer, their faces masks of feigned concern and thinly veiled greed. She felt a pang of something—fear, anger, perhaps even sadness—but it was swallowed by the weight of the moment. She was too young to understand the full gravity of what was happening but old enough to sense that whatever came next would change everything.

"Your Grace," spoke Lord Sands, breaking the thinly veiled silence. "An heir must be named," he continued, moving closer to the bed.

As the emperor’s voice finally broke through the silence, rasping and faint, Ayanis caught only fragments of his words. A name. A plea. The lords exchanged glances, their whispers resuming with renewed intensity. Treania’s grip on his hand tightened, her expression unreadable.

Ayanis stood frozen at the foot of the bed, her small frame dwarfed by the grandeur and despair around her. She thought of her father’s emerald eyes, once sharp and commanding, now dimming with every shallow breath. She thought of the crowned gryphon stitched into Treania’s dress, of Olanis’s silent vigil by the pillar, and of her mother’s cold, distant gaze.