Tired Crowns

It had been three weeks since Alistair died.

The physicians murmured in clusters near the door. Deep melancholy, they called it. Wasting away, they shook their heads.

The Empress was dying. She sat in her bed, surrounded by expensive embroidered pillows, did not ask for water, nor ate food. Her cheeks had sunk, skin turned grey, eyes fixed on something Ilyra could not see.

She did not turn her head when Ilyra entered. Ilyra sat beside the bed, watched her mother’s chest rise and fall, and felt nothing.

The last real thing her mother had said to her, nearly two years ago, was “you understand nothing of ruling”. It felt distant, like a memory of a dream.

She searched for words and found none. What would she say? I understand ruling now, Mother. I understand everything you were afraid of. But the woman in the bed would not hear her. Had not heard anyone since Alistair died.

A bitter thought surfaced, she never saw what I became. Ilyra couldn’t tell if it came from relief or grief. She sat with it until the thought dissolved.

The Empress’s hand lay on the coverlet, thin and blue-veined. Ilyra reached toward it and stopped. Her gloved hand hovered, then withdrew.

She left the chamber. The physicians bowed, deeper than they used to.

She told them to keep her informed.

A servant arrived at dawn with the news.

“Her Imperial Majesty passed in the night.”

She nodded, asked about arrangements, lowered her head and pressed her hand to her chest.

The Emperor did not leave his chambers. Did not see his wife’s body. Did not respond to messages. Servants reported he sat in his chair, staring at the wall.

It was held in the Great Cathedral, beneath the same vaulted ceiling where Ilyra would soon be crowned. Red light from the southern window caught the dust above the altar. Incense smoke hung like a veil in the still air. Though the summer heat pressed outside, the cathedral held its cold, the mourning veil made the faces around her blur.

Ilyra took her place as the chief mourner.

She spoke the formal words. Her voice did not break.

When the choir sang a hymn from the Light of the Crown, she heard her mother again, correcting her posture before a formal dinner. Stand straight. You represent this family.

Ilyra’s back straightened.

Evander was one step behind her. His hand rested between her shoulder blades, steadying, and she leaned into it without thinking.

After the ceremony, nobles approached with condolences, shaking her hand clad in black lace, and she received them with practised grace, knowing every name, every title, every allegiance.

Ilyra visited her father’s door days later.

She did not enter.

The servants said he sat in silence, refused food, turned away visitors. The physicians called it grief sickness.

She remained there a while. I should go in. I should say something. But she could not imagine what. After a long moment she walked away.

The palace that week was almost deathly quiet. Servants moved without speaking, fires were lit, meals arrived, the routines of the household continued. It felt like theatre performed for an empty house. By the end of it, the servants nearest his door lowered their voices, checked the room more often.

Within the week, he simply stopped. There was no dramatic final goodbye, no last words. A servant found him still in his chair, the fireplace had gone cold.

Ilyra presided again, her hands moved through the motions of the ceremony, the formal words left her mouth. She did not remember choosing them.

She remembered Cassian’s curse at his trial. The house of Aurelius will devour itself.

Ilyra was alone in her chambers. The family portrait hung above the fireplace, all seven faces rendered in oils surrounded by a gold frame.

A list formed unbidden. Dorian. Cassian. Seraine. Alistair. Mother. Father. Six names in less than two years.

She told herself: This is mercy. She believed it about Dorian. She believed it about Cassian. She had to believe it about the rest.

The fire had burned down without her noticing. The room had grown cold, it smelled of ash and curtains drawn shut for too long. Outside, the city slumbered. No footsteps in the corridor, no voices from the servants’ wing.

Ilyra called out for Mira to light a fresh fire. An unknown maid appeared. Ilyra looked at her, “Where is Mira?”

The maid curtseyed, looking at the floor, “I’m sorry, Your Imperial Highness, I do not know a Mira. Would you like me to go and ask around?”

Ilyra’s head whipped to the corner of the room, where she expected Mira to be sitting with embroidery, yet the chair was empty. She realised she couldn’t remember when she last saw her handmaid. The room seemed to tilt around her, fingers turning cold in her gloves, breath quickening. A moment later she closed her eyes, let out a deep breath, and pushed the thought away. She dismissed the maid with a gesture.

As the maid exited, Evander entered the room.

He stood beside her, waited.

After a while, he said, “you bore more than they noticed.”

Her tears finally broke free. He held her and stroked her hair.

“It’s over now,” he said. “We can build something different.”

“The coronation preparations,” she began.

“Do not worry about the details,” he said. “Rest. I will take care of it.”

She closed her eyes and let her head rest against his chest, her shoulders dropping for the first time in days.

Council sessions resumed.

Ilyra attended in mourning black, the formal weight of it heavier in the summer heat, sitting at the head of the table in her father’s chair, her mother’s place.

No one questioned when she spoke. No one glanced past her toward an absent authority.

Ministers deferred to her. The proposals laid before her were thorough, carefully prepared.

She read the room, filed away leverage, knew when to speak and when to wait.

One of the ministers turned to Evander with a question. Evander listened, then inclined his head slightly toward Ilyra. “Her Imperial Highness will advise on that.” The minister turned to her at once. She answered. The minister nodded, satisfied.

Walking through the palace corridors afterward, she passed a window and caught her reflection. Black dress, gold gloves, upright posture. She looked like her mother.

The coronation date was announced, three weeks hence. The court stirred with preparation.

The coronation robes were fitted on a morning when the summer light came through the dressing room windows in long, amber shafts.

Heavy gold fabric, sun symbols in thread so old it had tarnished brown at the edges. The neckline cut in the old style, high and severe. The hem was reinforced where generations of empresses had knelt. The stiff robes dragged over the floor when she shifted. They had been worn by every Aurelian empress since the founding.

She looked at her reflection. Gold robes, gold gloves, weight settling onto her shoulders. She was only missing the crown.

The seamstresses adjusted hems, pinned fabric. Their hands worked around her.

Evander was in the doorway, watching her for a moment before she noticed him.

“The ceremony is ready,” he said. “The priests are prepared.”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Tomorrow.”

She studied her reflection. She almost couldn’t recognise the young woman looking back. Evander stood behind her in the reflection, smiling.

Tomorrow she would speak the oath that would crown her.