The silence of the room was shattered by heavy boots. Lord Kaelor Drayen burst in, his face glowing with the news of his own son's birth. But the sight of the empty bed and the broken King stopped him cold.
"She is gone, Kaelor," Aetheron's voice was a hollow ruin. He looked down at the baby girl. "I have a daughter. My kingdom is a house of cards. The law will tear Solthera apart before the sun sets."
The Drazhin law was ancient and cruel: No daughter could sit upon the throne. If Zhalver found out the Vaeltheron line had no male heir, they would strike before the night was over.
Kaelor's mind moved with the speed of a soldier on a battlefield. He looked at the baby, then at the doorway. "Give her to me," Kaelor said, his voice suddenly cold and focused. "No one knows yet. Only the midwives. Come with me."
They reached the Drayen wing, where Lady Seraphine lay with her newborn son. When she heard the news of Lysara's death, she wept, but she understood the terrifying choice before them.
"From this moment," Kaelor declared, taking his own son from the midwife and placing him in Aetheron's trembling hands, "this is your son. The heir to the throne. The Prince who will save us all."
Aetheron stared at the boy—Kaelor's blood, Kaelor's firstborn. "I cannot ask this of you, Kaelor. I am stealing your son's true name."
"He is Drazhin blood," Kaelor replied, his gaze unyielding. "Solthera needs a King. My son will be that King. Your daughter will be safe with us. We will raise them together."
Seraphine reached for the baby girl, pressing her to her chest. "Lysara was my sister. Her blood is in my arms now. Do not let her sacrifice be for nothing, Aetheron."
In that dimly lit room, the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms was rewritten in a lie.