(Eri's POV)
My mother died when I was fourteen.
The palace said the sickness finally took her. They said it had been a long battle. They said she suffered quietly. They said she was brave. They said many things.
But what I remember most is this—I never really saw her. Not properly. Not like a daughter should.
My clearest memory of her is from when I was eight. I had found a small stone in the garden that day. It shimmered under the sun, probably a fragment from the mineral-rich mountains of Kazunaga. I was proud of it. Excited. I ran to her chambers to show her.
The room always smelled of crushed herbs. She was sitting on the bed, thin against the cushions, her back supported by pillows. When I entered, her eyes moved toward me. She looked at me, but not the way a mother looks at her child. There was no warmth. No smile. Just distance. Almost… discomfort, as if my presence required effort.
I remember holding the stone out to her. I don't remember what she said. I only remember the feeling that I should not stay long. That was the last time I clearly saw her face.
After that, her bed was always hidden behind a thin curtain, a veil like a net surrounding her. I could hear her sometimes—a weak voice, a cough. Sometimes her hand reached out through the curtain, pale, too light. The healers said it was to protect her. The illness was strange, they said—contagious, perhaps, or misunderstood. No one truly knew.
In those days, people relied on herbs and hope. If the body weakened, they tried another mixture. Another remedy. Another prayer. Nothing worked.
When the queen finally died, the palace became silent. Not loud grief. Not chaos. Just silence. The funeral was grand. The casket was sealed. I was not allowed to see her one last time. The nobles said it preserved dignity.
But I remember staring at the closed coffin and thinking—I never knew who was inside it.
Kazunaga mourned. Aryanda sent representatives. Banners were lowered. Black silk covered the palace walls. But I was not watching the nobles. I was watching my father.
King Korei stood beside the sealed casket for hours. He did not cry. He did not speak. He did not move. His eyes looked hollow, like something had been taken from him. Everyone knew he loved her.
The court had suggested remarriage many times. The kingdom needed security. An heir. Stability. He refused, again and again. He chose Catherine. He chose her until the end.
I never knew what their life was like in private. But I knew this—my father loved my mother in a way that made the rest of the world irrelevant.
After her death, he changed. The kingdom continued. Meetings resumed. Trade agreements were signed. Military reports were delivered. But the king felt distant. Sometimes I would see him standing by the window, staring beyond the mountains for long stretches of time, like he was waiting for something that would never return.
Two years later, he died. The palace said his health had weakened. But I understood something else.
Grief can be patient. It does not need a sword. It only needs time.
When they buried him beside her, the bells rang for hours. I stood between two graves.
Fourteen when I lost my mother. Sixteen when I lost my father.
The crown of Kazunaga had no ruler. By law, I was the rightful heir. By law, I was too young to rule. The constitution was clear.
Until I reached the legal age, the kingdom would be governed by a regent. There was only one person powerful enough to take that position.
Princess Sato. My aunt.
And the moment she was named regent, the palace stopped feeling like a home. It became something else. Something quieter. Something sharper. Something that watched.
And for the first time in my life, I understood that losing my parents was not the most dangerous thing that could happen to me.