Chapter 3: The King's Decree

The war council chamber had not seen such tension since the Battle of the Crimson Fields three centuries past. Caelan stood at the head of the obsidian table, his hands braced against its surface as he stared down at the reports scattered before him. Each parchment bore worse news than the last—crop failures spreading beyond the border villages, livestock dying in droves, and now the first confirmed cases of Withering Sickness among the palace staff.

"The northern provinces report that the Eternal Springs have begun to freeze," Lord Aldric, his chief advisor, said quietly. "If they solidify completely, we'll lose our primary source of healing waters."

"And the southern trade routes?" Caelan's voice was carefully controlled, but shadows writhed restlessly around his feet.

"Blocked by unseasonable blizzards. The merchant guilds are demanding compensation for lost goods." Lady Seraphina, the court's treasurer, shuffled through her ledgers with trembling hands. "My lord, our reserves won't last another month if this continues."

Caelan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the crown like a physical burden. In the two days since his confrontation with Lyra, three more servants had fallen ill with the Withering Sickness. The palace healers could slow its progression, but without the Queen's touch, they all knew how it would end.

"What of the Queen?" Lord Aldric asked carefully. "Has she reconsidered—"

"No." The word came out sharper than Caelan intended. "She remains... resolute in her position."

Resolute. What a diplomatic way to describe the woman who had once been his other half, now locked away in her crystal tomb, letting their world die rather than face her demons. The memory of their last encounter burned in his chest—the way she'd looked at him with such cold fury, the chaotic burst of power that had withered her beloved roses.

"My lord," Lady Seraphina ventured, "perhaps if we explained the severity of the situation more clearly—"

"You think I haven't tried?" Caelan's fist crashed down on the table, sending inkwells jumping. "You think I haven't spent every waking moment trying to reach her? She knows exactly what's happening. She simply doesn't care."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew Lyra cared—saw it in the way her hands trembled when she spoke of duty, in the haunted look that crossed her face whenever someone mentioned the ritual. But caring and acting were two different things, and his people were dying while his wife battled ghosts only she could see.

"There must be something we can do," Lord Aldric insisted. "Some way to compel—"

"Compel?" Caelan straightened, shadows beginning to coalesce around him like living armor. "You would have me force the Queen to perform the ritual against her will?"

"If it saves the realm, yes." The words came from Captain Thorne, the grizzled head of the palace guard. "Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

Silence fell over the chamber. Caelan stared at his assembled advisors, seeing the fear and desperation in their faces. These were good people, loyal subjects who had served the crown faithfully for decades. And they were asking him to become a tyrant.

But what choice did he have? Every day he delayed, more people fell ill. Every day he hesitated, their world crept closer to permanent winter. And Lyra—his stubborn, wounded, terrified Lyra—showed no signs of changing her mind.

"The Sunstone Chamber," he said slowly, the words feeling like stones in his throat. "If we were to... relocate the Queen there, closer to the source of her power..."

"It would be seen as imprisonment," Lady Seraphina warned. "The court would—"

"The court will understand necessity." Caelan's voice hardened, taking on the imperial tone he'd perfected over centuries of rule. "Draft the orders. Queen Lyra is to be moved to the Sunstone Chamber for her own protection and the good of the realm."

Lord Aldric leaned forward. "And if she refuses?"

Caelan's shadows seemed to darken the entire room. "Then she will be moved regardless. By royal decree."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Caelan felt something vital breaking inside him—the last vestiges of the man who had once courted a laughing summer goddess with shadow-woven flowers and moonlit serenades. What remained was only the King, making the choices that love had made impossible.

"See it done," he commanded, then swept from the chamber before anyone could see the regret carved into his features.

---

The Sunstone Chamber lay at the heart of the palace, three levels below the throne room and accessible only through a maze of warded corridors. Caelan had ordered it prepared hours ago, but now, standing before its sealed doors, he wondered if this was the moment his marriage would truly die.

The chamber itself was a marvel of ancient engineering—a circular room with walls of pure crystal that focused and amplified solar magic. At its center stood the Sunstone, the massive crystal formation that served as the focal point for the Winter Solstice ritual. Even now, in its dormant state, it hummed with barely contained power.

And there, standing with her back to the door, was Lyra.

She wore the same flowing white gown from their confrontation, but now it seemed more like a burial shroud. Her golden hair fell in waves down her back, and even from behind, he could see the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held herself as if preparing for battle.

"I should have expected this," she said without turning around. Her voice echoed strangely in the crystal-walled chamber. "When diplomacy fails, resort to force. How very... kingly of you."

"Lyra—"

"No." She whirled to face him, and he saw fury blazing in her summer-sky eyes. "Don't you dare try to justify this. You had me dragged from my chambers like a common criminal. Your guards handled me as if I were some mad prisoner to be contained."

The words hit him like physical blows. He had given strict orders that she be treated with respect, but he supposed it didn't matter. The act itself was violence enough.

"I'm trying to save our people," he said quietly. "Our realm. Everything we've built together."

"By making me a prisoner in the very place where I nearly died?" She gestured toward the Sunstone, and he saw her hands trembling. "Do you have any idea what it's like to stand here? To feel that thing calling to me, demanding that I feed it my essence again?"

"Then perform the ritual and end this." The words came out harsher than he intended, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "Stop hiding behind your fear and do what you were born to do."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. Lyra's face went very still, and when she spoke, her voice was deadly quiet.

"Hiding behind my fear?" Power began to emanate from her skin, unstable and wild. "Is that what you think this is? Cowardice?"

"What else would you call it?" The question exploded from him, months of helplessness and desperation finally finding voice. "You won't even try, Lyra. You won't even attempt to find another way. You're so consumed by what happened two years ago that you can't see past your own terror."

"TERROR?" The word came out as a scream, and suddenly the chamber was filled with chaotic solar energy. The crystal walls began to resonate, amplifying her power until the air itself seemed to burn. "You want to know about terror, Caelan? You want to understand what I experienced?"

She raised her hand, and suddenly he could feel it—an echo of the agony she had endured during the failed ritual. The sensation of being torn apart from the inside, of losing herself piece by piece to the hungry magic. It lasted only seconds, but it was enough to drive him to his knees.

"That," she said, her voice shaking with rage and remembered pain, "is what happens when I touch the Sunstone. That is what you're asking me to endure again. And you call it hiding?"

The power cut off abruptly, leaving them both gasping. Caelan struggled to his feet, his understanding of her refusal suddenly, horribly clear. But before he could speak, before he could apologize or take back his cruel words, the chamber doors burst open.

"My lord! My lady!" A guard stumbled in, his face pale with panic. "Forgive the intrusion, but there's been a development. A delegation from the Unseelie Court has arrived. They're requesting an immediate audience."

Caelan's blood turned to ice. The Unseelie Court—the Fae of winter and shadow, of frost and eternal night. They were not enemies, exactly, but they were certainly not friends. And their timing was far too convenient to be coincidental.

"Who leads the delegation?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"Lord Morwen of the Frostfang Court, my lord. He says he brings an offer of... assistance."

Behind him, Lyra made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "How perfect. The vultures have come to feast on the carcass of our realm."

Caelan turned to face her, seeing his own fears reflected in her eyes. Whatever Lord Morwen wanted, it would come at a price they could ill afford to pay. But with their kingdom dying and their marriage crumbling, did they have any choice but to listen?

"Send word that I will receive Lord Morwen in the throne room within the hour," he commanded the guard. Then, to Lyra: "You will remain here. Under guard."

"I wasn't planning to leave," she said bitterly. "After all, this is where you've decided I belong."

He wanted to say something more, to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. But the weight of the crown was too heavy, and the needs of the realm too urgent. So he simply nodded to the guards and left his wife alone with her fears and the hungry crystal that had nearly destroyed them both.

As the doors sealed behind him, Caelan wondered if he had just made the greatest mistake of his very long life. And somewhere in the shadows of the palace, Lord Morwen smiled, knowing that broken things were always easier to claim.