The garden had emptied, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chorus of night insects.
Ariana had returned to her chambers, Serena trailing dutifully behind her, and the palace corridors were settling into quiet rhythm.
King Ivan remained near the fountain, his dark cloak brushing against the cold stone, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and damp earth.
He did not speak.
He did not move.
He simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, watching the empty path where his youngest daughter had just passed, her fiery hair catching the last of the sun's fading warmth.
The memory of her laughter lingered in his mind, but it did little to lift the unease pressing on his chest.
It was the prophecy that weighed on him—its words carved into his thoughts like etched steel.
He had heard it when he was barely into his twenties, a young man thrust onto the throne of Ivanova, untested and unaware of the burdens that rule demanded.
