4 HOURS AGO — “WITH A BROKEN HEART…”
Four hours ago, the palace bells began to toll — not the bright peal of celebration, but the slow, hollow rhythm that makes the whole city fall still.
Servants froze in the corridors. Guards exchanged uneasy glances. Curtains were drawn, and the great bronze doors of the Grand Hall swung open with a lonely echo.
The King walked in alone.
His shoulders were hunched, as though the weight of the crown had finally become too heavy. The chamber, usually roaring with speeches and ceremony, was suddenly nothing but silence — the kind that presses against the ribs until it hurts to breathe.
At the edge of the dais, the Crown Prince and Princess stood rigid, eyes fixed on the floor. No reporters were allowed. No flashes. No whispers. Only the faint tap of the King’s cane as he reached the lectern.
In his hand: a single sheet of parchment sealed in black wax.
He took a breath — and failed. The next breath broke in the middle.
“With… a broken heart,” he began, his voice cracking, “we deeply regret—”
He stopped. His lips trembled. For a moment, he simply closed his eyes, as if hoping the words would dissolve if he refused to speak them aloud.
They did not.
“We received word at sunset,” he continued, slower now, each syllable carved out of grief. “The Queen was traveling with a small retinue to the winter abbey. A rockslide struck the mountain road. The carriage was forced from the path.”
Across the hall, a gasp rippled—soft, terrified, involuntary.
“She survived the impact,” he said, “but the storm rolled in faster than the scouts could reach her. Our physicians have not yet made it up the ridge. Communication is scarce. We know only this: she is injured… and missing.”
The Princess covered her mouth. The Prince’s hands curled into fists.
Someone in the back whispered a prayer.
The King looked down at the parchment, but the words were gone to him now; they had turned to water. He spoke from memory instead — and from love.
“She is not merely my Queen,” he said. “She is the steady heart of this house. The one who remembers every name, every promise, every quiet story of this nation. Tonight, we do not pretend to be strong. Tonight, we ask for strength.”
He lifted his gaze, eyes shining.
“Our soldiers are on the ridge. Our healers are ready. Our lanterns will burn through the night. And we—every one of us—will hold to hope like a rope across the dark.”
He folded the parchment with shaking fingers.
Then, slowly, the people in the chamber bowed their heads — not out of duty, but out of aching solidarity. It was a bow that said: She belongs to us, too. Bring her home.
Outside, the wind howled across the palace roofs. Torches flickered. Snow began to drift sideways like ash. The search parties rode out, their silhouettes swallowed by the storm, carrying lanterns that looked, from a distance, like a chain of stars.
The King turned from the lectern.
“Until dawn,” he said quietly. “And if dawn brings no answer — then again after dawn.”
He placed the parchment on the table beside him and rested his hand there, as if leaving a promise with it.
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