The grey sky over Solthera didn't bring the usual morning warmth. Instead, it hung heavy, as if the heavens themselves were braced for a tragedy. Inside the palace, the air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the sound of hushed whispers.
King Aetheron stood by the window of the Queen's chambers. He had built high walls and a mighty army, but as he listened to Lysara's labored breathing, he realized that all the steel in the world couldn't protect the heart of his kingdom.
When the head midwife finally approached him, she wasn't smiling. In her arms was a bundle wrapped in white silk. "A daughter, My King," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Aetheron felt a jolt of shock, but it was quickly swallowed by a deeper terror. He rushed to the bedside. Lysara looked as pale as winter ash. Her eyes were distant, fixed on a horizon only she could see. With a final, soft sigh, she gave everything she had left to the world.
In the ancient tradition of Drazhin royalty, her body did not stay to decay. It began to break apart into thousands of tiny, glowing sparks of white light. Aetheron reached out, his fingers desperately trying to catch the stardust that was once the woman he loved. But she drifted away through the open window, carried by the wind.
He was left standing in the silence, holding a daughter he wasn't supposed to have, while his Queen vanished into the stars.