Izzy's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

The palace was quiet, but Eric could feel the tension beneath the silence. Tomorrow. He would not simply be Prince Eric. Tomorrow the crown would pass to him, and the kingdom would look to him for answers he was not certain he had. The morning light barely reached his chambers, slipping through the tall windows in thin golden lines. The room remained dim, shadows stretching across the stone floor like they were reluctant to leave. On the chair across from his bed lay the ceremonial robes he would wear for his coronation. Black. Heavy. Waiting. They looked less like clothing and more like a shadow preparing to settle over his shoulders. Eric sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Every moment felt different today. Every breath carried the knowledge that nothing would be the same. He crossed the room and stopped before the tall mirror near the window. The person staring back at him looked familiar. But not entirely. A young man stood there, nearly grown, yet the weight in his eyes belonged to someone much older. Someone who had spent years carrying things he was never meant to hold alone. His fingers brushed the edge of the black robes. Then the crown resting nearby. The gold caught the morning light, gleaming sharply from its velvet cushion. Beautiful, Cold, Unforgiving. Exactly how his father had worn it. Eric looked away as a knock sounded at the door. Before he could answer, it opened, and Isabella stood in the doorway. “Eric I have been yelling out here waiting for you to open the door-” She stared quietly, as she always did when she sensed something was wrong, but her presence filled the room immediately. She wore a simple noble dress, her hair neatly arranged, though he knew her well enough to know she had probably complained about the process. Her eyes swept over him. “-You look like you’re about to be executed, not crowned.” Eric’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Might be the same thing in the end.” The teasing in her expression faded slightly. “Don’t say that.” She stepped closer and reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’ll be brilliant.” He wanted to believe her. More than anything, he wanted to believe her. But the crown on the table seemed heavier every time he looked at it. Isabella took his hand. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself.” The words should have comforted him; Instead, they touched the fear he had been carrying for years. Kindness was weakness. That was what his father had always believed. And what if his father had been right? Or worse, what if the crown changed him? What if one day he looked into a mirror and saw the same coldness staring back? Eric pushed the thoughts away and forced a grin. “You’re right. I’ll simply remain my handsome old self. You agree, don’t you?” Isabella immediately rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother. Didn’t you receive enough humbling as a child?” Eric placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I think you humbled me quite often.” “Well, it clearly didn’t stick.” “It stuck directly to my heart, dear cousin,” he declared dramatically. “All the battles and squabbles, the tricks and embarrassments. Right. To. The. Heart.” She laughed, shaking her head. “I’m going to breakfast and then the library,” she said. “And don’t you dare spoil another book for me.” A small smile tugged at Eric’s mouth. Those were the good days. The days when their greatest problems were thrown slippers, ruined endings, and losing at chess. Isabella left, and the quiet returned. Eric remained there for a moment longer before finally leaving his chambers. He did not have a destination. Not really. He simply needed to move. The palace halls were nearly empty. Servants passed like shadows, their footsteps soft against the stone floors, their voices lowered out of respect for the weight of the day. Eric walked until he reached the study. The boy he had been seemed far away. Somewhere between his father’s funeral and tomorrow’s coronation, he had become someone else. And he wasn’t sure he liked him. “You should be eating breakfast.” Eric turned. Queen Elara stood several steps behind him, the silver of her gown catching the morning light. She looked exactly as a queen should—graceful, composed, untouchable. But her eyes softened when they met his. “I don’t have the stomach for it,” he admitted. She approached quietly. “The night before your father’s coronation,” she said, “he snuck out of the palace and went riding.” Eric looked at her. “He did?” She nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. “I found him hours later. Drenched from the rain and furious at the storm.” A quiet laugh escaped Eric. “What did you say to him?” “I told him, ‘Next time, bring a cloak.’” Eric smiled faintly. “He probably hated that.” “He thought I didn’t understand the weight of what was being handed to him,” she continued. “He thought none of us did.” “Did you?” Her expression softened. “I understood the fear. But I also knew the man he could become if he allowed himself to try.” Eric lowered his gaze. “It seemed he didn’t try.” Something tightened in her expression. “He changed when his sister died.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness beneath it. “And now he can rest.” Eric swallowed. “What if I’m not ready?” Queen Elara looked at him. “No one is.” He studied her face. She had changed since his father’s death. The years had left their mark. The lines around her eyes were deeper. The weight she carried was visible but she had not broken. Not completely. “Do you miss him?” Eric asked quietly. The question hung between them. Finally, she answered. “Every day.” “How?” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Some silences could only exist between people who understood grief. She touched his shoulder. “Come. The council waits.” Eric let out a quiet breath and followed her.