Cracks in the Crown

The days after the announcement were quiet.

Too quiet.

Seraphina had always said that silence was never neutral. It was either a shield… or a trap. And this silence? It felt like bait.

Elian kept to his schedule: lectures in political history and comparative magical theory, debates in the southern court, evening practice exams. But something hung in the air now — a waiting. A stillness so sharp it hummed beneath his skin.

Then, on the sixth day, the summons came.

A royal courier arrived at the Academy gates at dawn, flanked by two palace guards and carrying a sealed scroll stamped with the Queen’s personal sigil.

The entire school watched Elian open it.

“You are to appear at the Winter Tribunal, before the Crown and Council, to address allegations of insubordination and improper association.”

He lowered the scroll slowly. No one spoke. Even Darius Mavelle, who had delighted in Elian’s discomfort for weeks, said nothing.

Seraphina didn’t wait for him to come to her.

She found him that night in the west gardens, where frost glazed every petal.

"You should have been warned," she said without greeting.

"I’m surprised you weren’t stopped."

"Oh, I was," she said, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "But I have a habit of ignoring locked doors."

He turned to face her fully.

"What is the Tribunal?"

"An ancient formality. A public hearing. In truth, it’s political theater. They want to shame you. Maybe even exile you."

He swallowed. "Will they succeed?"

"Not if I burn the stage before they take the curtain down."

He managed a weak laugh. "You always did like dramatic imagery."

She looked at him seriously.

"Elian, listen to me. No matter what happens at the Tribunal — you speak the truth. All of it. They want you to shrink. If you give them defiance instead, they’ll be the ones who break."

He reached for her hand.

"Will you be there?"

She hesitated.

"They’re going to try to keep me away. But I’ll find a way. I swear it."

He nodded, hand still holding hers.

The morning of the Tribunal came heavy with snow.

Elian stood before a long panel of royals, ministers, and judges seated beneath the glass dome of the Council Hall. Sunlight refracted above them, casting fractured beams across the cold marble floor.

The hall was packed. Nobles in velvet, scholars in formal robes, even a handful of foreign ambassadors. Eyes from every part of the kingdom watched.

Queen Lavinia sat centered, her expression unreadable. To her left, King Cador, silent as ever. And to her right — an empty seat. Seraphina’s.

Elian’s heart dropped.

But he didn’t let it show.

"State your name," one of the judges barked.

"Elian Thorne."

"Your station?"

"Scholarship student at the Royal Academy. Son of Ada Thorne, seamstress, and the late Gerin Thorne, craftsman."

"Do you admit to consorting with the Crown Princess?"

He looked directly at the queen.

"Yes."

A ripple of whispers.

"Do you believe yourself her equal?"

Another pause. Then:

"Yes."

Louder murmurs.

"On what grounds?"

Elian straightened his spine.

"On the grounds that worth is not measured by birth, but by choice. I do not claim her blood. I claim the right to stand where my actions place me."

Gasps. A few people clapped — quickly silenced.

The queen held up a hand.

"And do you love her?"

Elian’s voice did not waver.

"Yes."

"And would you, if necessary, abandon your studies and leave the kingdom to protect her position?"

He hesitated.

Then shook his head.

"No. Because that would teach the world that love is shameful. That my place beside her is an accident. It’s not. We chose each other. And I will not pretend otherwise."

There was silence.

Then a second voice rose from the back of the hall.

"Neither will I."

The doors opened.

Seraphina strode in, flanked by two guards trying and failing to stop her. Her hair was braided in the royal style, her cape flowing behind her like a stormcloud. Her presence was thunder.

She walked to Elian’s side and took his hand.

"If you exile him," she said clearly, "then you will do the same to me."

Gasps. The queen’s hand curled into a fist.

"You stand against your crown?"

"I stand with what the crown should be," Seraphina said. "A symbol of unity. Not division. A protector of all people — not just those born behind walls of gold."

The hall exploded into arguments. Shouts. Debate. Cheers.

The queen rose.

"Enough. This Tribunal is adjourned."

She turned and left, robes billowing like judgment.

But the damage — or perhaps the healing — had already begun.

Elian squeezed Seraphina’s hand.

"You found a way in."

She smiled.

"You thought I wouldn’t?"

He laughed, finally, as snow fell softly against the windows.

Together, they stepped down from the Tribunal floor.

The world was watching.

But this time, it was listening too.