CHAPTER 2 : BENEATH THE SILENCE
The morning after the second trial dawned beneath a sky thick with storm clouds, their heavy bellies casting deep shadows over Maelric Keep. The wind whispered secrets through the narrow courtyards, unsettling the leaves and stirring the banners that hung above the palace gates. Servants scurried about their morning tasks with lowered gazes and hurried steps, as though they, too, feared the day’s unfolding.
In the western wing, where sunlight rarely lingered, Ilyana stood by her narrow window, watching the gray horizon. In her hands, the parchment from the night before trembled slightly. Its warning echoed in her mind: "The trials will end, but the war will not." Who had sent it? And what war waited beyond the palace walls?
A gentle knock broke her thoughts. Marin, her ever-loyal handmaid, slipped inside with a tray of spiced tea, her face etched with concern.
"They’ve summoned you," Marin said quietly, setting the tray down. "The council demands your presence."
Ilyana sighed, her fingers tightening around the parchment. "What do they question today?"
"Your worth," Marin answered softly. "Some say your mercy yesterday proved weakness. Others whisper it showed wisdom."
Ilyana closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath. "The burden of the crown is not to please them, but to lead them."
The council chamber awaited, austere and cold. Tall stained glass windows cast fractured light across the marble floor. Lords and ladies sat in semicircle, their faces unreadable masks. Duke Renard Vael stood at the forefront, his stance relaxed, but his smile sharp and watchful.
"Your Grace," Renard began smoothly, "the Second Trial has stirred questions among us all. You spared a stranger and exiled another. Was this compassion... or cowardice?"
Ilyana met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "It was choice. And all choices bear consequence."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
Lady Emeren, her voice calm but firm, rose from her seat. "The law binds us, Duke Renard. The trials are not yet complete."
Renard bowed slightly, though his eyes burned cold. "For now."
That night, unable to rest, Ilyana found herself drawn once again to the Royal Archives. Dust motes danced in the lamplight as she traced her fingers over ancient tomes, their worn spines holding the secrets of centuries. Her mother's scroll lingered in her thoughts, the words burned into her memory: "Beware the Broken Sun."
She searched until her hands trembled from exhaustion. Then, beneath a cracked ledger, she found it—a faded volume titled The Orders of the Old Kingdom.
Her pulse quickened as she turned the fragile pages. There it was, etched in black ink—a sun split down the center. The Broken Sun.
The Eclipse Order.
An ancient sect that once believed the kingdom could only be reborn through destruction. Their creed chilled her: "From ash, only the worthy rise."
And now they had returned.
The next morning, the Third Trial was announced.
The Hall of Glass awaited—a chamber of light and shadow, where colored beams from stained windows danced across polished stone.
Torvell met her at the entrance, his expression unreadable. "The Trial of Judgment," he said softly. "It is not others you will judge, but yourself."
Ilyana squared her shoulders. "I am ready."
"No one is ever truly ready," he replied, guiding her inside.
Within the hall, the world shifted. Light fractured into swirling visions, and suddenly, she stood in the gardens of her childhood. She was small again, watching her mother being dragged away in chains. Her cries for help fell upon deaf ears.
"You were powerless," a voice whispered.
The vision shifted—a throne room aflame, bodies strewn across the floor. She stood upon the throne, cold and distant, her crown heavy with guilt.
"This is what you become if you rule without love," the voice warned.
Tears burned in her eyes. "I will not become her."
Darkness gave way to light, and she knelt once more before the flame of Veritas.
Torvell's voice echoed through the silence. "What is your judgment?"
"I am flawed," she whispered, "but I will rise."
The light brightened, then softened.
"The throne accepts you," Torvell declared.
But peace did not follow.
That evening, while the halls fell silent beneath the approaching storm, Ilyana wandered to the moonlit gardens. The statues of former rulers watched her in eternal stillness. She found herself before Queen Alura's likeness once more.
"Was it always this lonely?" she asked the stone.
A rustle behind her made her turn sharply.
Marin appeared, breathless. "A rider from the North has arrived, bearing urgent news."
"Bring him to me," Ilyana ordered.
Soon, a dust-covered messenger bowed low before her.
"Your Grace, Halewatch has fallen."
Her breath caught. "Fallen? By whose hand?"
The rider's voice dropped. "The Broken Sun."
The words struck like a blade to the heart.
Before she could speak again, a shadow detached from the treeline. A figure cloaked in midnight, face hidden beneath a deep hood.
"And soon, the capital will follow," the stranger said.
Ilyana drew herself up. "Show your face."
The figure stepped into the moonlight and removed their hood.
A woman. Her face—a mirror of Ilyana's own. Same sharp cheekbones. Same fire in the eyes.
"Sister," the woman said, voice cool and sharp as steel.
The garden fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Ilyana's heart raced. "Who are you?"
"I am Solara," she replied, her smile bitter. "Daughter of Maelric. Like you."
Blood roared in Ilyana's ears. A sister she never knew existed—standing before her as an enemy.
"Why reveal yourself now?" Ilyana demanded.
"Because your trials mean nothing," Solara said, stepping closer. "The kingdom needs more than a ruler who passed the flames. It needs one who will tear down the lies and rebuild it from ash."
"Through war?" Ilyana challenged.
"Through truth," Solara answered. "And if war is the only truth they understand, then so be it."
A crack of thunder split the sky.
Solara turned away, her voice carried by the wind. "The Broken Sun rises. Choose your side, sister."
She vanished into the shadows, leaving Ilyana alone beneath the storm's first drops of rain.
The war she feared had found her.
And it bore her own face.