MIDNIGHT DRAMA — The King’s Heartbreak
Black clouds loomed over Buckingham Palace as midnight struck. Lightning flared above the ancient towers, and rain lashed against the gilded windows. Inside, the corridors were silent, save for the echo of hurried footsteps and the rustle of velvet curtains being drawn. Something terrible had happened — everyone could feel it.
In the great hall, cameras flickered to life. Reporters had been summoned without warning, their faces pale with confusion. The doors opened slowly, and King Alaric III entered, his figure stooped, his crown heavy upon his trembling head. For a moment, he said nothing. The air itself seemed to stop moving.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Tonight,” he said, “our family has suffered a loss that words cannot bear.” A murmur rippled through the room. The king’s hand shook as he reached for the statement before him. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and the paper in his grasp trembled. “It is with deepest sorrow that I confirm…” His voice broke. He paused, breathing shallowly, his chest rising with the effort of control.
Behind him stood Queen Helena, motionless and ashen. Her gloved hands were clenched tightly together, her eyes fixed on the floor. When the king spoke the name of the one they had lost — a name loved by millions — a gasp filled the hall. Cameras clicked wildly, voices rose, and reporters stumbled backward in disbelief. Outside, word spread like wildfire. Within minutes, crowds began to form at the palace gates. Someone shouted, “My God… so it’s true!” and the cry echoed through the rain.
Inside, the royal family gathered in grief. Prince Rowan, the heir, entered quietly, his face pale and streaked with tears. He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Father,” he whispered, “you shouldn’t have faced them alone.” The king looked at him with hollow eyes. “A crown means nothing when the heart is broken,” he murmured.
The palace chapel bells began to toll, each strike heavy with sorrow. Outside, hundreds of mourners held candles beneath umbrellas, their faces wet with rain and tears. Across London, landmarks dimmed their lights in silent tribute. Television screens everywhere replayed the king’s trembling words, the moment history turned to heartbreak.
Inside her private chamber, Queen Helena wept silently. The soft glow of candlelight fell across a framed photograph — smiling faces, now just memories. A courtier approached softly and whispered, “Your Majesty, the people are waiting for your message.” She closed her eyes and whispered back, “Tell them we thank them for their prayers. Tell them love endures, even in the storm.”
At dawn, the storm finally eased. The black clouds drifted away, leaving the palace bathed in gray morning light. The king stood alone at the balcony, looking down at the sea of flowers laid before the gates. His voice, soft and broken, carried in the wind: “We have lost a light within our family — but may that light guide us still.”
And as the sun rose over London, its pale rays breaking through the last of the darkness, the people lifted their candles high. In that fragile light, grief and love became one — a nation mourning together, a crown bowed by sorrow, and a father, a king, left whispering to the dawn:
“You will never be forgotten.”
