The Royal Palace was a mess. Not physically—everything still gleamed with that trademark Gold Land shine—but the vibe? Absolutely suffocating. Every single person living within those golden walls, from the servants scrubbing floors to the ministers scheming in corridors, walked around like they were waiting for an execution. And in a way, they were. Because if Princess Reloua didn't come back safe? Heads were gonna roll.
Three weeks. Three whole weeks since she vanished, and still nothing. No ransom letter, no body, no closure. The Kingdom of Ankh kept denying they had anything to do with it, which only made King Donkeu Sichom angrier. The man was losing it—slowly but surely coming apart at the seams. People who'd served him for decades said they'd never seen him like this. His legendary cool-headedness? Gone. Replaced by a short fuse and eyes that looked like they hadn't seen sleep in days.
Everyone could feel it—war was coming. The question wasn't if anymore, just when.
The ministers whispered behind closed doors, voices hushed and urgent. Some wanted to mobilize the armies immediately, strike Ankh before they could prepare. Others pushed for diplomacy, though those voices got quieter every day. The palace guards stood at their posts with hands never straying far from their weapons, sensing the tension like animals before a storm. Even the servants moved through the halls like ghosts, afraid that one wrong step, one loud sound, might be the thing that finally made everything explode.
To keep things from spiraling completely out of control, the higher-ups had locked down information tight. Only a handful of government officers knew the full story about what happened to Princess Reloua. As far as the common people knew? Everything was fine. Business as usual. Markets still bustled, merchants still haggled, kids still played in the streets—all of them completely clueless that their kingdom was one bad decision away from full-blown war.
"Trust in his words, husband. Has the All-Knowing Kinte ever been wrong before?"
Cynthia Sichom sat in a chair of ivory and gold in their massive bedchamber, watching her husband with eyes that radiated concern. Her voice was soft, gentle—the kind of tone you'd use with a wounded animal. "He wouldn't speak if his divinations were uncertain."
Cynthia had made herself indispensable these past few weeks. She positioned herself as Donkeu's rock, his one source of stability in a world that had gone completely sideways. And she was good at it. Every word, every touch, every sympathetic look—all calculated to perfection. She knew exactly when to speak, when to stay silent, when to offer comfort. The king was drowning, and she was the only lifeline he could see.
"You're right," Donkeu said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. His face looked like it had aged ten years in three weeks. "But it's been three weeks since I consulted him, and still... maybe she's..." He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say the words out loud. Maybe she's dead.
Cynthia stood smoothly and moved to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The All-Knowing Kinte saw her alive in his visions, husband. You have to trust that. Our daughter will return."
The word our slipped out so naturally, even though everyone knew Reloua wasn't her blood. But that was part of Cynthia's game—claim the girl as her own, play the devoted stepmother, wrap the king so tight in her web that he couldn't see straight anymore.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Enter," Donkeu said, his voice flat.
The doors swung open, and in walked Old Tai—bent with age, hair white as snow, looking about a hundred years old and a hundred percent exhausted. He bowed low, joints creaking.
"Stand up and tell me what you want," the king ordered, though there wasn't much authority in his tone anymore.
Tai straightened slowly, every movement an effort. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and dry. "My King, the young Prince still refuses to leave his chambers. A full week has passed, and I'm really worried about him." His voice shook. "He won't eat properly, won't see sunlight, won't talk to anyone. I'm begging you—please visit him."
These past weeks had destroyed Tai. The old man had served the royal family his entire life, swore an oath to the late Queen to protect both her children no matter what. And he'd failed. Completely and utterly failed. The elder daughter vanished, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Now the younger one, Prince Gyan, had locked himself away like a hermit, drowning in grief over his mother's death and his sister's disappearance.
Tai had tried everything. Stood outside Gyan's door every morning, calling to him, pleading with him to come out. Sometimes he'd hear crying from inside—quiet, muffled sobs that ripped his old heart to pieces. Other times, just silence. Which was somehow worse. He'd brought the prince's favorite meals, left them outside the door, only to find them untouched hours later. He'd sent in Gyan's childhood friends, his tutors, trusted servants—all turned away.
The kid who used to run through the palace gardens laughing, who'd climb trees and ask a million questions about everything, now existed as a ghost behind a locked door. And Tai had run out of ideas. Only one card left to play—maybe if the boy's own father showed up, maybe that would break through.
Hearing Tai's words, Donkeu's expression darkened even more. As if things weren't bad enough already—his wife dead, his daughter missing—now his son was falling apart too. The kid he'd hoped would grow up strong and capable was wasting away behind closed doors.
How did everything go so wrong? he thought. Did I fail as a father? Was I so focused on being a king that I forgot to be a parent?
The questions haunted him. When was the last time he'd actually spent time with Gyan? Not just a formal dinner or a quick greeting, but real quality time? Weeks ago? Months? There had always been something more urgent—meetings, treaties, ministers demanding attention, crises needing immediate judgment. He'd told himself he was building a future for his kids. But what good was that future if his son had already given up?
But I swore the sacred oath of kingship, Donkeu reasoned, trying to justify it to himself. That duty comes first. I can't face him—not until I have answers about what happened to Reloua. He'll hate me even more if I show up with nothing.
"I won't go to him," the king said, his voice final.
"But my King, the young Prince desperately needs you," Tai pressed, voice cracking. "He's alone. Completely alone."
"I said I won't visit him," Donkeu repeated, each word dropping like a stone.
"My King, please—think about the Prince's suffering," Tai pleaded, losing his composure. "He needs your support more than ever. Everyone who truly cared about him is gone, and he—"
"GET OUT!"
The king's voice exploded through the chamber like a thunderclap, silencing Tai mid-sentence. His fist slammed down on the armrest, the sound echoing off the walls.
Tai recoiled like he'd been slapped. For a moment, he just stood there, frozen, face showing shock and pain. Then, slowly, he bowed—not the respectful bow of a loyal servant, but a stiff, mechanical gesture completely empty of warmth.
Tai's words had hit the rawest nerve possible—the implication that Donkeu had never really been there for his son. The old man left the chamber with fury burning in his chest, hands trembling from barely contained rage.
As he stepped into the corridor, his eyes landed on Cynthia standing in the shadows. And the smirk on her face—that subtle, venomous little smile—confirmed every suspicion that had been festering in his mind. The fury inside him blazed even hotter. He muttered a curse under his breath, swearing she'd pay for what she'd done.
He paused just out of sight of the chamber, allowing himself a moment of weakness. His old eyes burned with tears he refused to shed—tears of frustration, helplessness, rage at the injustice of it all.
He couldn't name exactly what evil she'd done or what good she'd left undone, but one truth was crystal clear: everything started falling apart the moment she set foot in the Golden Kingdom. The Queen's death, the Princess's disappearance, the Prince's breakdown, the King's deterioration—all of it traced back to her like threads in a spider's web. Everything would've been fine if she'd never come to Gold Land.
Behind him, through the still-open doorway, he heard Cynthia's voice—soft, soothing, weaving her web around the broken king once again. Tai clenched his fists and walked away, each step heavy with failed oaths and vengeance he couldn't yet claim.