The setting sun casts its shadow through silent corridors as a young maid hurries to bring the king his evening meal. The savory aroma of roasted meat and fresh herbs trails behind her through the halls, where flickering candles illuminate the portraits of long-dead royals.
Anxiety flutters through her chest; rarely is she given the task of serving King Alaric, but tonight, with no one else available, the responsibility falls to her.
As she arrives at the king’s chambers, she notices how unusually quiet it is, with no guards stationed nearby or voices from the palace’s other inhabitants. Swallowing nervously, she knocks on the heavy wooden door. It swings inward from her touch as if inviting her in.
“Your Majesty?” she calls out hesitantly through the open crack.
Silence answers. The chilling feeling of dread creeps down her spine. With caution, she pushes the door open and steps inside. At first glance, everything appears normal, yet as she walks further, the scene shifts abruptly. Chairs are overturned, papers are strewn haphazardly across the carpet, and ink is spilled on the desk, likely staining the wood.
The maid’s heart quickens. She carefully sets the tray of food down and follows the chaotic trail throughout the room. Her pulse is loud in her ears as a sharp gasp escapes her lips. Sprawled out on the floor, pale and unmoving, lies the king’s lifeless body.
A scream of terror rips from her throat, and without a second glance, she bolts from the room. Frantically, she runs through the corridors searching for the nearest guard. When she finds him, she nearly collapses in his arms as she tells him of the horror she’s come across.
“The king—he’s dead!” she gasps, her voice trembling, eyes widened in shock. “I found him on the floor, he’s not moving!”
Immediately, orders ring out through the halls, echoing rapidly from one corridor to the next. Soon after, several guards gather outside the king's chamber, blocking the view from curious onlookers who crowded the hallways after hearing all the commotion.
Within minutes, the king’s royal advisor, Sorren Thorne, arrives. He is quickly followed by the captain of the guard, Rowan Callen, and the royal healer Irving. Faces grim, they step through the crowd and pass the guards into the room, closing the door behind them.
On the floor, King Alaric’s body lies sprawled out and twisted unnaturally. His eyes, glassy and vacant, have rolled back, leaving only the whites staring upwards. His skin is pale, drained of all warmth and color. A glass of wine is shattered nearby, a thin trickle of its rich red contents drips from the corner of his mouth onto his once white collar and down to the carpet underneath him. Nearby, a nearly empty bottle stands atop his desk, surrounded by various documents bearing the royal seal.
Advisor Sorren and Captain Rowan search the room for any clues of foul play as Healer Irving examines the king’s body. He presses gently against his neck, looking for a sign of life, though it’s already clear that none would be found.
“Looks like there was a struggle,” the captain points out.
The advisor glances towards the spilled wine. “Could it have been poison? Healer—what to you think?”
The healer turns from the king’s body with a grim expression on his face. “Poison,” he confirms. “Without question his majesty has been poisoned.”
<<link "Chapter 1""Chapter 1">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 1">><</link>>It’s been a week since King Alaric’s death.
Now you’re on the way to his funeral. You sit beside Isolde, the king’s only legitimate child and heir. Across from you sits her older half-brother, Lucian. No one has spoken a word since the carriage began its slow procession through the capital from the palace to the church.
Just ahead of you in a glass coffin, the king’s body lies on display. The streets are packed with citizens in mourning. You watch from the window as cries of grief ring out, the volume rising above the sounds of tolling bells.
Despite the somber occasion, [[Renara, the goddess of the sun]] has granted the sunniest day the kingdom has seen in weeks. You remember that before his death, the king would complain about the gloomy weather that seemed to plague [[Valoria]] constantly. How ironic that the sun finally comes out when he’s no longer able to enjoy it.
Turning away from the window, you take a glance at Isolde. You’re surprised at how well she’s holding herself together.
She was inconsolable the night her father died. She refused to leave her room and speak to anyone except you. In the days leading up to the funeral, you stayed by her side, tending to her, making sure she ate, and aiding with preparations for the ceremony with what little you could get out of her.
When the day finally arrived, you didn’t think she’d be willing to come, let alone get out of bed, but this morning she awoke and dressed as if it were any other day.
Now she sits beside you in silence, with perfect posture, her pale hands crossed in her lap, and a blank expression on her face.
She's wearing a new, finely tailored mourning gown modeled after one of the many others she owns. It’s made from deep black velvet; its square bodice is embroidered with a shiny silver thread. A sheer black veil is pinned to the back of her red hair, which has been braided into an updo held in place by pins with black gems on them.
Next, your gaze shifts towards Lucian. Despite living in such proximity to him for so long, you don’t know much about him. Isolde considers him to be a nuisance, and from what you hear from her, he isn’t too fond of her either. You’re surprised to see him riding to the funeral with you two, and even more surprised Isolde hasn’t said anything about it yet.
Lucian is dressed in black from head to toe, wearing a high-collared doublet made of brocade, fastened with silver clasps. His long, dark brown hair is tied up neatly away from his face.
[[next|funeral2]]
tba
<<back>>tba
<<back>>Your observations are interrupted as the carriage comes to a stop. Through the window, you see the cold gray walls of the church where the funeral is being held.
Lucian steps out first, leaving the door open behind him. Isolde gathers her skirt in her hands and follows him.
As she does this, she turns towards you and asks, “Are you coming?”
[[Masculine Names]]
[[Feminine Names]]
[[Unisex Names]]
[[Enter your own name]]<<link "Alexander""Alexander">><<set $name to "Alexander">><</link>>
<<link "Julian""Juilian">><<set $name to "Julian">><</link>>
<<link "Tobias""Tobias">><<set $name to "Tobias">><</link>>
<<link "Cullen""Cullen">><<set $name to "Cullen">><</link>>
<<link "Alistair""Alistair">><<set $name to "Alistair">><</link>>
<<link "Celeste""Celeste">><<set $name to "Celeste">><</link>>
<<link "Adeline""Adeline">><<set $name to "Adeline">><</link>>
<<link "Liora""Liora">><<set $name to "Liora">><</link>>
<<link "Sera""Sera">><<set $name to "Sera">><</link>>
<<link "Cassandra""Cassandra">><<set $name to "Cassandra">><</link>>
<<link "Emery""Emery">><<set $name to "Emery">><</link>>
<<link "River""River">><<set $name to "River">><</link>>
<<link "Sage""Sage">><<set $name to "Sage">><</link>>
<<link "Morgan""Morgan">><<set $name to "Morgan">><</link>>
<<link "Wren""Wren">><<set $name to "Wren">><</link>>
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
The warmth of the sun is gone the moment you enter the church. The cool air is heavy with the scent of incense and fresh-cut flowers. Above, you light blue and silver banners hang from the ceiling displaying the royal family crest—a silver stag beneath a crescent moon.
In the center of the room, the king’s coffin now rests atop a raised platform, surrounded by an arrangement of white lilies, roses, and carnations. On top of the glass lid, his crown rests on a velvet pillow.
You follow Isolde and Lucian down the aisle to the front row of seats—a place typically reserved for family. Despite your protest, Isolde insisted you’d sit with her.
//“You’re family,” she’d said. “You’ve always been there.”//
As you sit, you take a glance at the guests behind you. Rows of different nobles stretch back in descending order of importance. Among them, you spot Sorren Thorne, the king’s now former advisor. Sitting beside him is his daughter Lyra, whom you haven’t seen since she left to study at [[Solarian Institute of Mystical Arts]].
She wears a flowing black gown with long sleeves that flare out at the end. Her long black hair has been styled into an elegant braid.
For as long as you can remember, she has never liked you. Perhaps it’s because when you came along, Isolde decided she had no need for her anymore, or maybe she has no reason at all. You never cared to find out why.
Your gaze drifts away from the nobles to the king’s guards, who stand silent and unmoving around the perimeter of the chamber. They all wear a matching ceremonial armor of polished silver plates and a light blue cape draped over one shoulder.
Among the guards, one stands out to you, Garrick Hale—Isolde’s personal guard.
He stands taller than most, making him easy to spot in a crowd.
He was appointed to Isolde’s protection after a close call with one of her many unsanctioned trips into the city. Since then, he hasn’t left her side.
Over the past week, he’s been instrumental in keeping people away from her while she grieved, passing along messages and turning away members of the court who wish to offer empty condolences.
You turn away from him as the priest steps forward. The room falls silent as he clears his throat.
“We gather here today in remembrance of King Alaric Valebrook, a ruler of wisdom and open heart,” he begins. “His leadership guided Valoria through many seasons of peace. He was a loving father to his children, a protector to his people, and a friend to those who knew him well.”
As the priest retells stories of the king, your own memories of the man begin to stir.
[[next|funeral4]]
tba
<<back>>Long before he was king, your father served in the military with King Alaric. During one of many skirmishes against the [[Empire of Solara]] over the border between the two lands, your father saved his life. That day, a bond was forged between the two that went beyond rank or status. In all but blood, they were brothers.
Years later, your father fell ill with what he believed was just a winter sickness, but it turned out to be far more serious. Within weeks, he was gone. Your mother had died years earlier during childbirth, and the baby hadn’t survived either. With your father’s passing, you believed you were truly alone in the world.
In most cases, orphans were either taken in by the church, put up for adoption, or made to work for a small wage until they turned eighteen and could live on their own. You expected the same fate.
But that never happened.
Unbeknownst to you, before his death, your father had written a letter to King Alaric, asking him to care for you. And just one week after your father passed, the king himself arrived in your quiet village to fulfill that final request.
It wasn’t easy to be a common-born child suddenly thrust into a life of silks and fancy titles. But King Alaric had done all he could to make the transition easier.
[[You cared for him]]
[[You never liked him]]
[[You didn’t really know him]]
tba
<<back>><<set $kingLiked = true>>
He treated you like family, making sure you’d want for nothing. In the end, he was like a father to you.
The rest of the funeral passes by in a blur, and before you know it, it has finally come to an end.
The priest raises his hands to the sky as his voice echoes through the room.
“As we lay King Alaric Valebrook to rest, let us offer a prayer to the [[god of death]], so that his soul may find peace in the after life.”
Around you, the rest of the congregation begins to pray.
[[You bow your head and join in]]
[[You bow your head and join in despite not believing]]
[[You remain silent.]]
<<set $kingDislike = true>>
Despite everything he’s done and the effort he put in to bond with you, you couldn’t bring yourself to see him as anything more than the king.
The rest of the funeral passes by in a blur, and before you know it, it has finally come to an end.
The priest raises his hands to the sky as his voice echoes through the room.
“As we lay King Alaric Valebrook to rest, let us offer a prayer to the [[god of death]], so that his soul may find peace in the after life.”
Around you, the rest of the congregation begins to pray.
[[You bow your head and join in]]
[[You bow your head and join in despite not believing]]
[[You remain silent.]]
<<set $kingUnsure = true>>
Despite living in the same halls for so long, you’d never grown close to him the way you did his daughter.
The rest of the funeral passes by in a blur, and before you know it, it has finally come to an end.
The priest raises his hands to the sky as his voice echoes through the room.
“As we lay King Alaric Valebrook to rest, let us offer a prayer to the [[god of death]], so that his soul may find peace in the after life.”
Around you, the rest of the congregation begins to pray.
[[You bow your head and join in]]
[[You bow your head and join in despite not believing]]
[[You remain silent.]]<<set $name to "unknown">>
<<set $chapter to "Prologue">>
<<set $belief to "no">>
<<set $height to "unknown">>
<<set $body to "unknown">>
<<set $skin to "unknown">>
<<set $eyes to "unknown">>
<<set $hcolor to "unknown">>
<<set $htexture to "unknown">>
<<set $hlength to "unknown">>
<<set $gender to "unknown">>
<<set $pronouns to "unknown">>
<<set $attire to "unknown">>
<<set $item to "unknown">>
<<set $confidence to 50>>
<<set $ambition to 50>>
<<set $diplomacy to 50>>
<<set $charm to 50>>
<<set $idealism to 50>>
<<set $compassion to 50>>
<<set $persuasion to 50>>
<<set $deception to 50>>
<<set $insight to 50>>
<<set $leadership to 50>>
<<set $knowledge to 50>>
<<set $IsoldeFriendship to 50>>
<<set $IsoldeRomance to 0 >>
<<set $garrickFriendship to 50>>
<<set $garrickRomance to 0>>
<<set $lucianFriendship to 50>>
<<set $lucianRomance to 0>>
<<set $lyraFriendship to 50>>
<<set $lyraRomance to 0>>
//chapter 2 stuff//
<<set $lyrachat1 to "false">>
<<set $lyrachat2 to "false">>
<<set $lyrachat3 to "false">>
<<set $lucianchat1 to "false">>
<<set $lucianchat2 to "false">>
<<set $lucianchat3 to "false">>
<<set $garrickchat1 to "false">>
<<set $garrickhat2 to "false">>
<<set $garrickchat3 to "false">>
<<set $firstPick = "">>
<<set $L1 = false>>
<<set $L2 = false>>
<<set $L3 = false>>
<<link "Character""Character">><</link>>
<<link "Relationships""Relationships">><</link>>
<<link "Codex""Codex">><</link>>
<<link "Credits""Credits">><</link>>
<<link "Back">><<if tags().includes("game-info")>><<goto $return>><<else>><<run Engine.backward()>><</if>><</link>>!!Profile
Name: $name Kitt
Age: 23
Gender: $gender
Pronouns: $pronouns
!!!Appearence
Height: $height
Body Type: $body
Skintone: $skin
Eye Color: $eye
Hair Color: $hcolor
Hair Texture: $htexture
Hair Length: $hlength
Fashion: $attire
Hobby: $hobby
!!!Personality
Confidence:<<if $confidence eq 50>>Sometimes you're able to speak up and sometimes you can't.<</if>><<if $confidence gt 50>> You know your worth and don't hestiate to show it.<</if>><<if $confident lt 50>>You second-guess yourself more often than not.<</if>>
Ambition:<<if $ambition eq 50>> You're fine with what you have but wouldn't argue against more.<</if>><<if $ambition gt 50>> You're never satisfied with what you have, always chasing more.<</if>><<if $ambition lt 50>> You're satisfied with what you have and where you are.<</if>>
Diplomacy:<<if $diplomacy eq 50>> You walk the line between tact and blunt truth, knowing when to adapt to a situation.<</if>> <<if $diplomacy gt 50>> You'd rather keep the peace and choose your words with care.<</if>><<if $diplomacy lt 50>> You say what needs to be said no matter who it offends.<</if>>
Charm:<<if $charm eq 50>> Some days you shine, some days you don't.<</if>><<if $charm gt 50>> You have a natural magenetism. People tend to flock to you.<</if>><<if $charm lt 50>> Social grace isn't your strength.<</if>>
Idealism:<<if $idealism eq 50>> You're a realist with a hopeful streak—or a dreamer with both feet on the ground.<</if>><<if $idealism gt 50>> You see the best in anything and everything.<</if>><<if $idealism lt 50>> You see things for what they are.<</if>>
Compassion:<<if $compassion eq 50>> You care...in your own way.<</if>><<if $compassion gt 50>> You feel deeply and act with care.<</if>><<if $compassion lt 50>> You keep your distance from other people's problems.<</if>>
!!!Skills
<<if $persuasion eq 50>> You can convince people into seeing things your way, it just takes some nudging.<</if>><<if $persuasion gt 50>> Your voice carries weight; people listen to you.<</if>><<if $persuasion lt 50>> You struggle to win people over.<</if>>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Persuasion:</strong>
<progress @value="$persuasion" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<<if $deception eq 50>>You can twist the truth when you need too, though it takes effort to keep your story straight.<</if>><<if $deception gt 50>> Lies roll off your tongue with ease.<</if>><<if $deception lt 50>> Lying isn't your strong suit.<</if>>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Deception:</strong>
<progress @value="$deception" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<<if $leadership eq 50>> You can take charge when needed but other times you hesitate.<</if>><<if $leadership gt 50>> When you step up, people follow.<</if>><<if $leadership lt 50>> You'd rather follow than lead. Command doesn't come naturally to you.<</if>>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Leadership:</strong>
<progress @value="$leadership" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<<if $knowledge eq 50>> You know enough to hold your own, but there's gaps that could be filled.<</if>><<if $knowledge gt 50>> Your mind is a vault of information.<</if>><<if $knowledge lt 50>> Information goes in one ear and out the other.<</if>>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Knowledge:</strong>
<progress @value="$knowledge" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<<back>>[[Empire of Solara]]
[[god of death]]
[[Renara, the goddess of the sun]]
[[Solarian Institute of Mystical Arts]]
[[Valoria]] ''Isolde Valebrook''
<div class="skill">
<strong>Friendship:</strong>
<progress @value="$IsoldeFriendship" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Romance:</strong>
<progress @value="$IsoldeRomance" max="100"></progress>
</div>
''Garrick Hale''
<div class="skill">
<strong>Friendship:</strong>
<progress @value="$garrickFriendship" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Romance:</strong>
<progress @value="$garrickRomance" max="100"></progress>
</div>
''Lucian''
<div class="skill">
<strong>Friendship:</strong>
<progress @value="$lucianFriendship" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Romance:</strong>
<progress @value="$lucianRomance" max="100"></progress>
</div>
''Lyra Thorne''
<div class="skill">
<strong>Friendship:</strong>
<progress @value="$lyraFriendship" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<div class="skill">
<strong>Romance:</strong>
<progress @value="$lyraRomance" max="100"></progress>
</div>
<<back>>tba
<<back>><<set $belief to "Yes">>
You lower your head in quiet reverence, allowing yourself to be part of the shared grief and tradition.
When the final words fade into silence, the priest quietly exits the room. Moments later, the church doors open, and the guests begin to rise, filing out one by one. The guards lift the king’s coffin once more, carrying it through the same door the priest used. Beyond it, his body will be prepared for entombment in the royal mausoleum.
You walk beside Isolde and Lucian as you make your way back to the carriage. Outside, the sun still shines as brightly as when you arrived. The streets are now empty, the crowds long gone. The only sound that accompanies your journey home is the steady clatter of horse hooves on the stone road.
[[next|palace 1]]
<<set $belief to "not really">>
Though you don't share their faith, you bow your head out of respect. This moment isn't about belief—it's about honoring the fallen king and showing solidarity.
When the final words fade into silence, the priest quietly exits the room. Moments later, the church doors open, and the guests begin to rise, filing out one by one. The guards lift the king’s coffin once more, carrying it through the same door the priest used. Beyond it, his body will be prepared for entombment in the royal mausoleum.
You walk beside Isolde and Lucian as you make your way back to the carriage. Outside, the sun still shines as brightly as when you arrived. The streets are now empty, the crowds long gone. The only sound that accompanies your journey home is the steady clatter of horse hooves on the stone road.
[[next|palace 1]]
<<set $belief to "no">>
You remain still, head unbowed, choosing not to take part.
When the final words fade into silence, the priest quietly exits the room. Moments later, the church doors open, and the guests begin to rise, filing out one by one. The guards lift the king’s coffin once more, carrying it through the same door the priest used. Beyond it, his body will be prepared for entombment in the royal mausoleum.
You walk beside Isolde and Lucian as you make your way back to the carriage. Outside, the sun still shines as brightly as when you arrived. The streets are now empty, the crowds long gone. The only sound that accompanies your journey home is the steady clatter of horse hooves on the stone road.
[[next|palace 1]]
Once back at the palace, you and Garrick, who has returned to Isoldes' side for the day, walk with her back to her room. She’s gone back to not speaking, having not said a word to you or anyone since the funeral. You're halfway there when a familiar voice cuts through the corridor.
“Your Majesty” calls Sorren, standing at the intersection ahead. “The council is convening, We ask that you join us.”
Isolde stiffens at the title, a grim reminder of her new role in life.
“I will come,” she answers, turning towards him, “but I want $name to come with me."
She looks at you next, “Please?”
You nod, “Of course.”
Garrick, understanding he’s not needed at the moment, gives a nod goodbye as you and Isolde walk arm in arm to the council chambers.
[[next|council1]]
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<ul>
<li>Fonts <a href="https://fonts.google.com/">Google fonts</a></li>
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<h1>Anything for the Crown</h1>
<<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<link "Resume Game">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</link>> | <</if>><<link "New Game" "Prologue">><</link>> | <<link "Load Game">><<run UI.saves()>><</link>> | <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</link>>An interactive fiction game.
You’ve barely entered the room when the meeting begins.
“We must begin preparations for the coronation,” Sorren says.”Valoria cannot remain without a ruler for long.”
You look to Isolde, who is slumped down in her chair, a grim expression on her face. You can tell she doesn’t want to discuss this just yet, but she shows no sign of speaking up, so you do it for her.
“We’ve only just buried her father; she should be given time to grieve.”
“And how much time should we wait—days, weeks, months?” Sorren replies. “The longer the throne sits empty, the more vulnerable we are to our enemies.”
A ripple of murmurs follows after his words as the members of the council agree with his words.
The meeting continues—talks of preparations, costs, and noble attendance. There's no input from Isolde, not that she was asked for any.
When the council disperses, it’s only you, Isolde, and Sorren who remain. He rises from his seat and turns towards her.
“Your majesty, I hoped to speak with you about this in private,” he says, casting a quick glance in your direction.
“Whatever you wish to speak about, you can say in front of $name,” Isolde replies firmly.
Sorren nods. “Very well,” he clears his throat. “I wanted to let you know that I will be stepping down as royal advisor.”
Isolde’s eyes widen—it’s the most emotion you’ve seen on her face all day.
“This seems all so very sudden, are you sure?” she asks.
“It is not a decision I make lightly,” Sorren replies, “but I believe you will be able to find someone much more suited to guide you in the days ahead.”
Isolde gives a solemn nod.“Well then, I wish you the best of luck where ever life takes you.”
Sorren bows deeply before quietly leaving the room.
The doors close behind him with a heavy thud. You and Isolde are the only ones left now.
She lets out an exhale of breath, you think she’s been holding in all day.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t be queen.”
“You won’t be alone, Isolde,” you say gently, resting a hand upon her own.
She turns to you with a small smile on her face.
“I know I won’t, I have you.” She pauses.”I think I want you to be my advisor.”
“You want me…?”
“Yes,” her eyes light up, “Sorren was more than just an advisor to my father; he was a confidant, someone he could rely on. I can’t think of anyone else in the world who could fit that role better than you.”
You’re at a loss for words.
Yes, living in the palace granted you an education far greater than that of any commoner, but you know nothing of what it takes to help run a kingdom.
“You don’t have to answer now,” she adds quickly. “Just find me when you're ready. And if you say no, I won’t be upset. I’ll understand.”
And with that, she makes her exit.
<<link "Chapter 2""Chapter 2">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 2">><</link>>After a week of planning, it’s finally the day of Isolde’s coronation.
You awaken early in the morning, sunlight is just beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your bedroom. Outside, the castle is already alive with activity. Servants come to and fro carrying various floral arrangements and other decor into the palace.
You're still surprised how fast everything came together.
With no time to waste, you swing your legs out of bed, feet meeting the cool floor as you make your way over to the bath. Beside it, a fresh basin of water sits waiting for you. You take a moment to warm it up over the fire. Once ready, you step into the bath and begin to wash.
When finished, you step out of the bath and into the view of the full-length mirror against the wall. As you dry your body, you study your reflection, taking in the view of the
<<link "Man in front of you.""creation.1">><<set $gender to "Man">><</link>>
<<link "Man in front of you, though you weren't always seen that way.""creation.1">><<set $gender to "Transman">><</link>>
<<link "Woman in front of you""creation.1">><<set $gender to "Woman">><</link>>
<<link "Woman in front of you, though you weren't always seen that way.""creation.1">><<set $gender to "Transwoman">><</link>>
<<link "Person in front of you.""creation.1">><<set $gender to "Nonbinary">><</link>>
<<silently>>
<<if $pronouns is "She/Her/Herself/Her/Hers/She's">>
<<set $she to "she">>
<<set $her to "her">>
<<set $herself to "her">>
<<set $hers to "hers">>
<<set $her2 to "her">>
<<set $shes to "she's">>
<</if>>
<<if $pronouns is "He/Him/Himself/His/His/He's">>
<<set $she to "he">>
<<set $her to "his">>
<<set $herself to "himself">>
<<set $hers to "his">>
<<set $her2 to "his">>
<<set $shes to "he's">>
<</if>>
<<if $pronouns is "They/Them/Themself/Their/Their's/They're">>
<<set $she to "they">>
<<set $her to "them">>
<<set $herself to "themself">>
<<set $hers to "theirs">>
<<set $her2 to "their">>
<<set $shes to "they're">>
<</if>>
<</silently>>
<<if $gender is "Man">> You’ve always been seen as a man, that's who you are.<</if>><<if $gender is "Transman">>You are a man now, though it took some time for the world—and yourself to see it.<</if>><<if $gender is "Woman">>You’ve always been seen as a woman, that's who you are.<</if>><<if $gender is "Transwoman">>You are a woman now, though it took some time for the world—and yourself to see it.<</if>>
<<if $gender is "Nonbinary">>You choose not to identify as simply a man or woman. You are simply yourself.<</if>>
''PRONOUNS''
<<cycle "$pronouns" autoselect>>
<<option "She/Her/Herself/Her/Hers/She's">>
<<option "He/Him/Himself/His/His/He's">>
<<option "They/Them/Themself/Their/Their's/They're">>
<</cycle>>
''SKIN TONE''
<<cycle "$skin" autoselect>>
<<option "Fair">>
<<option "Olive">>
<<option "Tan">>
<<option "Brown">>
<<option "Dark Brown">>
<</cycle>>
''BODY TYPE''
<<cycle "$body" autoselect>>
<<option "Slender">>
<<option "Chubby">>
<<option "Curvy">>
<<option "Muscular">>
<<option "Athletic">>
<<option "Lean">>
<<option "Stocky">>
<</cycle>>
''HEIGHT''
<<cycle "$height" autoselect>>
<<option "Short">>
<<option "Average">>
<<option "Tall">>
<</cycle>>
''EYE COLOR''
<<cycle "$eye" autoselect>>
<<option "Amber">>
<<option "Black">>
<<option "Blue">>
<<option "Bluish-gray">>
<<option "Dark brown">>
<<option "Gray">>
<<option "Green">>
<<option "Hazel">>
<<option "Light brown">>
<<option "Light-blue">>
<<option "Light-gray">>
<</cycle>>
''HAIR LENGTH''
<<cycle "$hlength" autoselect>>
<<option "Shaved">>
<<option "Buzzed">>
<<option "Above ears">>
<<option "Below ears">>
<<option "Above shoulders">>
<<option "Short">>
<<option "Below shoulders">>
<<option "Mid-back">>
<<option "Lower back">>
<<option "Waist-length">>
<</cycle>>
''HAIR TEXTURE''
<<cycle "$htexture" autoselect>>
<<option "Coily">>
<<option "Curly">>
<<option "Wavy">>
<<option "Straight">>
<</cycle>>
''HAIR COLOR''
<<cycle "$hcolor" autoselect>>
<<option "Platinum blonde">>
<<option "Light blonde">>
<<option "Blonde">>
<<option "Strawberry blonde">>
<<option "Ginger">>
<<option "Brown">>
<<option "Ash brown">>
<<option "Sandy brown">>
<<option "Dark brown">>
<<option "Black">>
<<option "Jet black">>
<</cycle>>
[[next|dressing]]Once dry, you head over to your closet. Inside sit three options for you to wear today.
<<link "Feminine Attire""dress.done">><<set $attire to "Feminine">><</link>>
<<link "Masculine Attire""dress.done">><<set $attire to "Masculine">><</link>>
<<link "Neutral Attire""dress.done">><<set $attire to "Neutral">><</link>>
<<if $attire is "Feminine">>You select a gown with long, flowy sleeves made from rose-gold silk fabric. Pearls line the square neckline, and you wear a delicate chain of jewels that leads down, drawing eyes to the underneath of the skirt where a gold fabric peeks out, shining in the light as you move. <</if>>
<<if $attire is "Masculine">>You select a well-tailored doublet made from dark velvet fabric worn over an off-white shirt with sleeves that cuff at the end. You drape a formal cape over your shoulder, clasping its silver chain closed over the opposite side.<</if>><<if $attire is "Neutral">>
You select the midnight blue colored robe with slightly puffed sleeves and embroidered with gold thread that flows to the floor. A wide matching belt decorated with the same thread cinches your waist.<</if>>
Before leaving your room, you adjust your clothing one last time, smoothing down the fabric, checking fastenings, and plucking away any stray threads.
The halls are surprisingly quiet compared to when you woke up this morning. The only sound you can hear is the soft echo of your footsteps as you make your way to Isolde’s room.
You remember the first time you met her. It had only been a few days since you had moved into the palace. She found you sitting alone in the gardens, crying with a scraped knee. She sat down beside you and asked what was wrong.
You told her that a few of the other children who lived there at the time had been making fun of you for your low-born status and pushing you around. When you finally managed to get away from them, you’d run off so far you didn’t know how to get back.
When you finished, sniffling through the last part of your story, she offered you the sleeve of her dress to wipe your face, and told you she’d decided you were going to be friends.
From that day forward, you two did everything together. Sneaking pastries from the kitchen, climbing the trees in the courtyard, whispering under the covers long after you should have been asleep.
Somewhere between the shared lessons and late-night escapades, your feelings began to change. What was just friendship blurred into a romantic kind of love, but Isolde, ever the oblivious, never seemed to notice.
[[next|isolde.room]]When you reach her room, you knock gently on the door.
“Isolde it’s me,” you call softly.
“Come in,” answers her voice from within.
You open the door and step inside. She’s standing in front of the window, bathed in pale morning light. It spills over her, catching in her hair and casting soft shadows across her face. For a moment, she looks almost otherworldly—like something from a dream or a painting, too beautiful to be real. And all you can do is stand there, struck by the way the light clings to her, like even the sun can't help but reach for her.
She’s already dressed for the day in a gown that can only be described as a masterpiece. It’s made from a pale blue silk. The bodice is fitted and adorned with pearls and silver gems that sparkle when they catch the light. The sleeves that rest slightly off her shoulders puff up at the sides before tapering into long, draping fabric.
The full skirt brushes the floor, with a front panel that splits open to reveal the cream colored underskirt. A silver headpiece rests against her wavy hair, and a blue gem sits in the center, flanked by carefully placed pearls pinned to her head. A matching pair of earrings dangle from her ears, and a pearl-draped necklace encircles her neck and shoulders.
<<link "❤️ You look beautiful""isolde.room2">><<set $IsoldeRomance +=5>><</link>>
<<link "You look great""isolde.room2"<<set $IsoldeFriendship +=5>><</link>>“I should hope so,” she says dryly, “considering how long it took to get ready.”
She adjusts one of her sleeves, peeking at herself in the mirror with a critical eye.
“Are you nervous?” you ask.
“Yes. Gods, yes.” She walks toward the bed and carefully flops down onto it, mindful not to wrinkle her dress. “I didn’t think I’d be queen so soon. My father was already married with children by the time he was crowned.”
Her voice tightens as she continues.
“I’ve spent so much time fooling around when I should’ve been learning how to rule. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this unprepared in my entire life.”
You sit beside her, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“No one expects you to know everything,” you say gently. “And whatever gaps there are, the council will help you fill them.”
“I know,” she sighs. “That’s one of the only things keeping me from running off into the night.”
A soft knock sounds at the door. It seems your time with her is over—for now.
Isolde rises from the bed and smooths her skirt with practiced grace. Then she turns to you. Without a word, you step forward and wrap her in a hug. She leans her head against your shoulder, arms tightening around you. The two of you stand there holding each other for a moment.
Then, gently, she pulls back, straightening her dress and lifting her chin.
“I’ll see you at the ceremony,” she says, her voice steadier now.
“I’ll see you there,” you reply, before slipping out the door and leaving her behind.
[[next|coronation.1]]When you step into the throne room for Isolde’s coronation, it’s almost unrecognizable.
Banners of blue and silver hang between columns and balconies. Candles burn brightly in tall iron sconces, casting light over freshly polished floors. White flowers, like the ones from the king’s funeral, line the aisle.
You find your seat among the front rows, close enough to see the royal dais. On a podium, a velvet cushion rests a crown made of silver. The band is narrow and slightly curved, with pointed tips that rise like small, curved thorns. Each point is shaped like a sharp feather bending gently outward. The metal is smooth and dark, with a subtle shine.
The dull chatter suddenly comes to a hush when the royal guards enter. Walking in pairs, they move with perfect synchronicity. Their silver armor is polished to a mirror-like finish, and their capes ripple behind them like flags in the wind.
Step by step, they walk the length of the aisle. When they reach the end, they split down the middle, turning sharply to face one another. The doors open once again, and Isolde enters the room.
She holds her head up high, her face the perfect picture of calm, cool, collected, but you know just how anxious she is deep down.
At the foot of the throne waiting for her the high priest stands waiting for her. When she reaches him, she lowers herself the best she can in her dress into a deep bow.
At the foot of the throne waiting for her the high priest stands waiting for her. When she reaches him, she lowers herself the best she can in her dress into a deep bow. When she rises, the priest takes the silver crown in his hands. He lifts it overhead and begins to speak.
“Before the gods and the people of this kingdom, I name thee the rightful ruler of Valoria. May you bear the crown with great wisdom, courage, and grace.”
With the crown now on her head, Isolde turns to face the crowd as the entire room rises in unison.
“All hail Isolde Althea Valebrook, Queen of Valoria,” you all proclaim. “Long may she reign.”
[[next|after.coronation.1]]
With the ceremony complete, the throne room gradually begins to empty. Echoes of praise fill the halls as the guests make their way to the grand ballroom, where the day’s festivities will continue.
A collective gasp of awe escapes the crowd as they enter. The ballroom is nothing short of magnificent. From the vaulted ceilings, chandeliers ablaze with hundreds of candles hang. Long tables curve around the room, filled with roasted meats, candied fruits, fine cheeses, and goblets of wine.
The nobles have already splintered off into their usual groups, their conversations full of forced smiles and false niceties. At the far end of the room, Isolde is surrounded by courtiers, each vying to pledge their loyalty and curry favor. It reminds you that you still owe her an answer.
The thought of becoming her advisor still doesn't feel real. All that power, all that pressure—it's overwhelming. If you take this job, it's not just a title, it's a commitment, even more serious than marriage, that would tie your life to hers for as long as she's queen. You exhale as you glance around the room. There’s time for you to think still and perhaps even speak to someone about this.
<<link "Speak with Lucian""lucian.chat">><<set $lucianspokenfirst to "true">><</link>>
<<link "Speak with Lyra""lyra.chat">><<set $lyraspokenfirst to "true">><</link>>
<<link "Speak with Garrick""garrick.chat">><<set $garrickspokenfirst to "true">><</link>>
[[Speak with no one|no.one]]You spot Lucian near one of the columns at the edge of the room—alone, of course. As you approach, something about him looks different. It takes you a moment to realize: it’s his hair. He’s cut it short. The once long waves that used to frame his face are gone, now trimmed above his ears.
"You cut your hair,” you say as you come to stand beside him.
He glances at you sideways. "Felt like a change.”
<<link " ❤️ It suits you""lucian.chat2">><<set $lucianRomance +=5>><</link>>
<<link "Looks nice""lucian.chat2">><<set $lucianFriendship +=5>><</link>>
<<link "Looks more manageable, at least.""lucian.chat2">><<set $lucianFriendship -=5>><</link>>
Lyra is exactly where you expected her to be—alone at a table with a book in hand as far from everyone else as possible. Even as children, no matter the event or how rude it looked, she always had some giant tome about magic with her to read instead of socializing.
“Wow, you haven’t changed a bit,” you say, approaching her.
“Neither have you, apparently,” she says, not even bothering to look at you. “Still showing up where you’re not wanted.”
She slams the dusty old book shut and finally looks up at you.
“What do you want?” she asks flatly.
“Isolde asked me to replace your father as royal advisor,” you say, “And I’m trying to figure out what I should do.”
She laughs out like you’ve told her a joke.
“She really asked you?” she says, incredulous.“ You are //literally// the least qualified person I can think of for the job.
Her lip curls into a bitter smile.
“But thats probably the point, isn’t it? If she screws up, she can just point the finger at you and no one would be the least bit surprised.”
You roll your eyes. “Let me guess—you think she should’ve picked you instead? Think you could do better?”
“Maybe she should have,” she snarls. “I know how the court works. I studied at the most elite magical school in the realm. I’d do a far better job than you.”
“You forget, Lyra,” You reply cooly, “I may be a commoner, I’ve had an education better than most nobles. And unlike you, I haven’t been away for the past four years. I doubt half the people on that dance floor even remember your name.”
Her fist slams against the table, loud enough to startle the nearby musicians and dancers.
“You know what she only offered you the job because the two of you are so codependent you can’t go five minutes without each other!” she spits.
Snatching up her book, Lyra storms out of the ballroom, leaving you alone at the table.
<<if $lyraspokenfirst is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Garrick">><<set $garrickafterlyra to "true">><<goto "garrick.chat">>
<</link>>
<<link "Speak to Lucian">><<set $lucianafterlyra to "true">><<goto "lucian.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $lyraaftergarrick is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Garrick">><<set $garricklastchat to "true">><<goto "garrick.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $lyraafterlucian is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Lucian">><<set $lucianlastchat to "true">><<goto "lucian.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $lyralastchat is "true">>
[[Speak to Isolde|isolde.chat]]
<</if>>Garrick, as always, stands less than a foot from Isolde. He’s posted just outside the balcony doors, where Isolde and a small group have gathered to talk. His armor gleams in the light from outside, every piece polished to perfection.
“There you are,” he says as you approach. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you sooner.”
“You know how these things go with so many people around.”
You take up a spot beside him at the door.
“It’s been a strange two weeks, hasn’t it?” you say.
Garrick chuckles. “You could say that again. A funeral, then a coronation.” He gestures to his armor. “I’ve worn this more in the last few days than I have in the last two years on the guard. At this point, I might as well start sleeping in it.”
<<link " ❤️ At least you look good in it""garrick.chat2">><<set $garrickRomanace +=5>><</link>>
<<link "At least you look good in it""garrick.chat2">><<set $garrickFriendship +=5>><</link>><<set $spokenoone to "true">>
You slip away from the crowd and find an empty table near the edge of the ballroom, where the music isn’t as loud. It’s the perfect place to think.
From your seat, you watch Isolde as she moves gracefully through the room, drifting from conversation to conversation. With her perfect smile and posture, she looks every bit the queen she’s just become.
A queen who wants you by her side.
She’s asked you to stand by her side as something more than a friend, but not as what you want. No, you don’t think she’ll ever see you that way. Instead, she’s asked you to fill the role of an advisor. But is that something you can do?
She’s asked you to stand by her side—not just as a friend, but as something more. Just not in the way that you want. Instead, she’s offered you the role of royal advisor, but is that really a role you can take on?
<<link "You've never wanted any power""no.one2">><<set $ambition -=5>><<set $nopower to "true">><</link>>
<<link "You're afraid it'll change your friendship""no.one2">><<set $Isoldefriendship +=5>><<set $friendchange to "true">><</link>>“Wasn’t looking for your approval.”
He shifts his weight and turns to face you, one brow raised. “We don't usually talk, so this must be important. What do you want?”
“It’s about Isolde,” you say hesitantly. “She’s asked me to be her advisor, and I don’t know what to do.”
His face contorts in a mix of surprise and disbelief.
“You,” he says, pointing his finger at you. “Are you asking me about something to do with Isolde? Has the moon turned blue?”
“Yes, I know it sounds strange, but I really don’t know what to do and thought a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.”
He pauses, fingers tapping lightly against the goblet in his hands.
“Well, I don’t particularly care what you decide,” he says. "But if there’s anyone Isolde would want to listen to for the rest of her life, it’s you. Honestly, I think she’d jump off a bridge if you told her to.”
With that, he walks off without another word, making it clear the conversation is over.
<<if $lucianspokenfirst is "true">><<link "Speak to Garrick">><<set $garrickafterlucian to "true">><<goto "garrick.chat">>
<</link>>
<<link "Speak to Lyra">><<set $lyrafterlucian to "true">><<goto "lyra.chat">><</link>><</if>><<if $lucianaftergarrick is "true">><<link "Speak to Lyra">><<set $lyralastchat to "true">><<goto "lyra.chat">><</link>><</if>>
<<if $lucianafterlyra is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Garrick">><<set $garricklastchat to "true">><<goto "garrick.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $lucianlastchat is "true">>
[[Speak to Isolde|isolde.chat]]
<</if>>
<<if $spokenoone is "true">>The sun is just beginning to set when you find Isolde. She sits alone on the stone bench out on the balcony. The gentle evening breeze blows through her hair, catching the loose strands of hair that have slipped from their pins.
“I’ve given some thought to your request,” you say, settling down beside her.
She turns to look at you, her earrings jangling with the movement.
“And?” she asks. “What have you decided?”
You hesitate for a moment, letting out a breath.
“I’ll do it. I’ll be your advisor.”
Her eyes widen, and before you can say another word, her arms are around you. The fabric of her dress crumples beneath your fingers as she pulls you into a tight embrace.
“I was so afraid you’d say no,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had.”
You hold her tighter, resting your chin against her shoulder.
“You won’t have to find out,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”<<else>>
With everyone spoken too you've finally made your decision it's time to speak with Isolde.
The sun is just beginning to set when you find Isolde. She sits alone on the stone bench out on the balcony. The gentle evening breeze blows through her hair, catching the loose strands of hair that have slipped from their pins.
“I’ve given some thought to your request,” you say, settling down beside her.
She turns to look at you, her earrings jangling with the movement.
“And?” she asks. “What have you decided?”
You hesitate for a moment, letting out a breath.
“I’ll do it. I’ll be your advisor.”
Her eyes widen, and before you can say another word, her arms are around you. The fabric of her dress crumples beneath your fingers as she pulls you into a tight embrace.
“I was so afraid you’d say no,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had.”
You hold her tighter, resting your chin against her shoulder.
“You won’t have to find out,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”<</if>>
You spend the rest of the night in her arms, speaking about what tomorrow—and all the uncertain days that follow it will hold.
<<link "Chapter 3""chapter 3">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 3">><</link>><<if $nopower is "true">>
You couldn’t imagine yourself as someone sitting at the council table, making big decisions that shape the kingdom. You were fine with never reaching a status higher than commoner.
<<elseif $friendchange is "true">>
To be an advisor means making hard decisions—choices that won’t always be popular, even with her, and you don’t know if you could do that, not if it means putting your friendship with Isolde at risk.
<</if>>
But if not you, then who?
Your thoughts darken as you imagine the kind of person who could take the position—someone, cold, calculating, and deceptive. Gods know Isolde can be too trusting. Someone like that could whisper anything in her ear—good or bad and she’d believe it.
For the good of the kingdom and Isolde, you can’t let someone like that have the chance at that kind of power.
With your decision made, you rise from your seat and look for Isolde.
[[Speak to Isolde|isolde.chat]]The sun is just beginning to filter in through the windows as you wake up. It’s early—earlier than you’re used to—but your new role doesn’t allow for sleeping in.
You sit at a small table in your chambers, steam from your breakfast curling gently toward your face. Beside the plate, a thick leather-bound journal—the last thing Sorren left behind when he stepped down as advisor.
He had prepared it for Isolde, but she handed it off to you the night before.
“You’ll need it more than I do,” she said.
You open the cover and skim the first few pages. Written down in the former advisor’s neat cursive script is a carefully organized table of constants. The first two sections listed are:
<<link "Public Works""publicworks">><<set $publicworks to "viewed1">><</link>>
<<link "Postponed Court Cases""courtcases">><<set $courtcases to "viewed1">><</link>>He smirks, “Then I guess I’ll have to start wearing it everywhere.”
The conversation falls into a brief silence before you speak again.
“I don’t know if she’s told you yet, but Isoldes asked me to be her royal advisor.”
“Good,’ he says simply.” You’re the right choice.”
He turns to you with his earnest expression.
“This job requires more than knowing the right words to say or making smart decisions. It takes trust and there’s no one Isolde trusts more than you.”
You nod considering his words.
"Now go on and enjoy the party." he adds.
You huff a quiet laugh and step away, leaving him to his post.
<<if $garrickspokenfirst is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Lyra">><<set $lyraaftergarrick to "true">><<goto "lyra.chat">>
<</link>>
<<link "Speak to Lucian">><<set $lucianaftergarrick to "true">><<goto "lucian.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $garrickafterlyra is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Lucian">><<set $lucianlastchat to "true">><<goto "lucian.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $garrickafterlucian is "true">>
<<link "Speak to Lyra">><<set $lyralastchat to "true">><<goto "lyra.chat">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $garricklastchat is "true">>
[[Speak to Isolde|isolde.chat]]
<</if>><<if $publicworks is "viewed1">>
You flip past the earlier sections until you reach the part labeled pubic works. In the area, three projects are listed that request funding from the Crown.
The first request is to repair the roads of the kingdom’s most vital trade routes. These paths connect the capital to outer towns and beyond. Of them, the most crucial is the [[Silver Crescent]], a route that borders the empire of Solaria. It has suffered the worst after decades of conflict over the region.
In the margins of the page, Sorren notes:
“Merchants report significant delays, causing goods to spoil before they reach their destination. Others refuse to even make the trip, citing safety concerns over past attacks and thefts from bandits coming from Solaria.”
The second is a request that comes from the Church, asking for aid for the poor. A letter from the High Priestess is attached.
“Already have the winds turned cold, We ask in [[Eira]]’s name, that the crown provide funding to organize shelters, distribute wool and firewood, and deliver rations to ensure no family goes without this winter.”
The final proposal is submitted by a collective of artists, the king often commissioned. They wish to build a monument in honor of the king in the heart of the capital. They’ve included detailed sketches of the king in a variety of poses and a list of costly materials that would be needed.
<<link "Postponed Court Cases""courtcases">><<set $courtcases to "viewed2">><</link>>
<<else>>
You flip back to the section labeled pubic works. In the area, three projects are listed requesting funding from the crown.
The first is a proposal to repair the roads of the kingdom’s most vital trade routes. These paths connect the capital to outer towns and beyond. Of them, the most crucial is the [[Silver Crescent]], a route that borders the empire of Solaria. It has suffered the worst after decades of conflict over the region.
In the margins of the page, Sorren notes:
“Merchants report significant delays, causing goods to spoil before they reach their destination. Others refuse to even make the trip, citing safety concerns over past attacks and thefts from bandits coming from Solaria.”
The second is a request that comes from the Church, asking for aid for the poor. A letter from the High Priestess is attached.
“Already have the winds turned cold, We ask in [[Eira]]’s name, that the crown provide funding to organize shelters, distribute wool and firewood, and deliver rations to ensure no family goes without this winter.”
The final proposal is submitted by a collective of artists, the king often commissioned. They wish to build a monument in honor of the king in the heart of the capital. They’ve included detailed sketches of the king in a variety of poses and a list of costly materials that would be needed.
You spend the rest of your breakfast time reviewing the other sections marked in the journal—resource management, foreign relations, etc. Before you know it, your plate is empty, and it's time to get dressed.
[[next|getready]]
<</if>><<if $courtcases is "viewed1">>
You flip past the earlier sections until you reach the part labeled postponed court cases. A long list of names and summaries fills the pages, but three are marked Urgent in bold ink.
The first case concerns a land dispute between two brothers—one legitimate and the other a bastard born out of wedlock. The bastard son claims their late father left him half of a sizable, untouched stretch of forested land. The legitimate son contests this, calling the claim a lie and insisting the other has never even met his father.
The second case comes from the mayor of a small village just outside the capital. He claims that for the past two months, a series of grave desecrations has plagued the village. According to him, several graves have been disturbed, and the bodies within have been found dismembered or missing entirely. The mayor's also brought with him a mage who’s now held in the palace dungeon. He claims he caught the man himself at the scene of the crime, while the mage insists on his innocence.
The third case is a dispute between two ladies of the court. One accuses the other of theft of a sapphire ring gifted to her from a lover. The other says it's a false accusation and a result of petty jealousy. It doesn’t seem nearly as urgent as the others to you, but it must be there for a reason.
<<link "Public Works""publicworks">><<set $publicworks to "viewed2">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $courtcases is "viewed2">>
You flip past the earlier sections until you reach the part labeled postponed court cases. A long list of names and summaries fills the pages, but three are marked Urgent in bold ink.
The first case concerns a land dispute between two brothers—one legitimate and the other a bastard born out of wedlock. The bastard son claims their late father left him half of a sizable, untouched stretch of forested land. The legitimate son contests this, calling the claim a lie and insisting the other has never even met his father.
The second case comes from the mayor of a small village just outside the capital. He claims that for the past two months, a series of grave desecrations has plagued the village. According to him, several graves have been disturbed, and the bodies within have been found dismembered or missing entirely. The mayor's also brought with him a mage who’s now held in the palace dungeon. He claims he caught the man himself at the scene of the crime, while the mage insists on his innocence.
The third case is a dispute between two ladies of the court. One accuses the other of theft of a sapphire ring gifted to her from a lover. The other says it's a false accusation and a result of petty jealousy. It doesn’t seem nearly as urgent as the others to you, but it must be there for a reason.
You spend the rest of your breakfast time reviewing the other sections marked in the journal—resource management, foreign relations, etc. Before you know it, your plate is empty, and it's time to get dressed.
[[next|getready]]
<</if>>trade route
<<back>>harvest, growing, life, beauty very bountiful
<<back>><<if $attire is "Feminine">>Rising from the table, you make your way to the bed, where the outfit you laid out earlier waits.
You slip into a long, light green velvet gown, the fabric shimmering softly in the light. The bodice fits snugly to your figure, lacing up the front with simple white ribbons. The skirt falls straight before flaring out towards the hem.
Around your waist, you fasten a light gold belt adorned with gems the color of green grapes. <</if>>
<<if $attire is "Masculine">>Rising from the table, you make your way to the bed, where the outfit you laid out earlier waits.
You dress in a charcoal-colored jerkin, its fabric detailed with silver embroidery in the shape of winding vines. Beneath it, you wear a high-collared linen shirt in a soft beige color, the sleeves billowing before tightening at the cuffs.
Your breaches are a deep, muted shade of brown, fitted to your body and tucked into a pair of knee-high black boots.<</if>><<if $attire is "Neutral">>
Rising from the table, you make your way to the bed, where the outfit you laid out earlier waits.
You pull on a tunic made of cotton in a light blue shade. It hangs loosely at the shoulders and falls to mid-thigh with wide bat-wing-like sleeves. Around your waist, a dark brown leather belt cinches the top to your waist. It’s fastened with metal buckles and reinforced with lacing at the sides for a secure fit.
Beneath the tunic, you wear a pair of gray leggings that contour to the shape of your legs and a pair of sturdy dark brown leather boots.<</if>>
Once dressed, you pause before the mirror, smoothing out any wrinkles. When you're satisfied with your appearance, you turn and head out of the room, ready to face your first task of the day.
[[next|hallwaytocouncil]]The reality of your new role settles in with every step as you make your way to the council chambers for your first official day as Isoldes' advisor. Not only will you be meeting the other members formally for the first time, but you’ll also be leading the meeting. The idea of being in charge of people twice your age is… jarring, to say the least.
You’re still caught up in your thoughts about how the day might go when a voice calls out to you.
“$name wait up!”
You turn to see Isolde hurrying down the corridor, clutching the skirt of her black dress in both hands, the sound of her heels echoing against the marble floor. When she finally reaches you, she's grinning from ear to ear. It’s the first smile you’ve seen from her in a while that doesn’t look forced.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” you say, falling into step beside her.
She laughs, brushing strands of red hair from her flushed face as she catches her breath.
“I decided to start my first day as queen on a positive note,” she says. “So no more moping around for me, and as soon as it’s socially acceptable for me to wear bright colors again, I’m breaking out every pastel colored dress I own. I don’t even care if it’s not in season.”
[[♥️It's nice to see you smile again. It's even prettier than I remember.]]
[[Thats the spirit, it's good to see you smile again.]]<<set $IsoldeRomance +=5>>
“That's so sweet of you, $name. “You’ve got a nice smile too!” she says brightly, beaming as she gives you a friendly pat on the back, completely unaware of the deeper meaning behind your words.
The conversation slips into a comfortable silence after that as the two of you continue down the corridor. Only the sound of your footsteps echoes through the hall as you reach the large oak double doors of the council chamber.
The guards standing post there give a small nod before pulling the doors open.
Inside, the council members already there rise from their seats as Isolde steps through. You follow closely behind the doors as they shut behind you.
“You may sit now,” Isolde says as she takes her seat at the head of the long circular table at the center of the room.
As you and the rest of the council take your seats, you glance around the room, studying the faces of those in attendance. Sorren’s notes included their names, roles on the council, and brief descriptions of how they look, so you have no trouble putting names to faces.
Seated across from Isolde is Lady Elara, the master of Coin. She’s older than you but younger than the rest of the council. If you had to guess her age, you’d say late 20s to early 30s. She has olive-toned skin and long black hair pulled back into a simple braid. She wears a loose red gown that drapes over the curve of her pregnant belly.
Lady Elara is on the council because her family owns the largest bank in Valoria—the very one the crown relies on for funding the kingdom.
To the left and right of Lady Elara sit Lord Issac, the Master of Laws, and Lady Ester, the Master of Ships.
Lord Isaac is a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early sixties; his once black hair is starting to grey. There’s no mistaking his military background—not with the way he sits so rigidly in his seat.
It reminds you of your father.
According to Sorren’s notes, he was offered the position as Master of Laws not for his legal background but for his reputation as a man of discipline and impartial judgment.
Lady Ester appears far more delicate by comparison to the man she sits beside. She’s a frail-looking woman in her forties with pale skin and light brown hair that she wears pinned up. She inherited her title after the death of her husband, who previously held the position. Many doubted her ability to handle the kingdom’s naval affairs, but she’s since proven herself more than qualified for the role. In fact, her success has fueled many rumors in court that she may have been the one making the decisions all along.
Sitting closer to your end of the table are Guard Captain Rowan Blackwall and Spymaster Dorian Stroud.
You’ve seen Captain Rowan around the palace before—usually clad in bulky metal armor, barking orders—but you’ve never spoken to him directly. From what Garrick said, he’s a hardass who runs a tight ship and doesn’t tolerate excuses. Today, though, he looks almost like a different man. Dressed down in a simple leather jerkin over a plain shirt, with his dark hair neatly styled.
Though he holds no formal council title, he was invited to join the meetings to offer a more grounded perspective given his commoner roots.
Dorian, compared to everyone else, is a complete mystery. Sorren's notes offer only a sparse description: long curly black hair, piercing green eyes, and tan skin. That's all. You suppose that’s the mark of a good spymaster.
Once everyone is seated, the room falls to a hush, and all eyes turn to you. They’re waiting for you to start the meeting. It makes you feel
<<link "Confident""meeting.start">><<set $confidence +=5>><</link>>
<<link "Nervous""meeting.start">><<set $confidence -=5>><</link>><<set $IsoldeFriendship +=5>>
"Thanks, $name. It's nice to smile again." she says giving you a friendly pat on the back.
The conversation slips into a comfortable silence after that as the two of you continue down the corridor. Only the sound of your footsteps echoes through the hall as you reach the large oak double doors of the council chamber.
The guards standing post there give a small nod before pulling the doors open.
Inside, the council members already there rise from their seats as Isolde steps through. You follow closely behind the doors as they shut behind you.
“You may sit now,” Isolde says as she takes her seat at the head of the long circular table at the center of the room.
As you and the rest of the council take your seats, you glance around the room, studying the faces of those in attendance. Sorren’s notes included their names, roles on the council, and brief descriptions of how they look, so you have no trouble putting names to faces.
Seated across from Isolde is Lady Elara, the Master of Coin. She’s older than you but younger than the rest of the council. If you had to guess her age, you’d say late 20s to early 30s. She has olive-toned skin and long black hair pulled back into a simple braid. She wears a loose red gown that drapes over the curve of her pregnant belly.
Lady Elara is on the council because her family owns the largest bank in Valoria—the very one the crown relies on for funding the kingdom.
To the left and right of Lady Elara sit Lord Issac, the Master of Laws, and Lady Ester, the Master of Ships.
Lord Isaac is a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early sixties; his once black hair is starting to grey. There’s no mistaking his military background—not with the way he sits so rigidly in his seat.
It reminds you of your father.
According to Sorren’s notes, he was offered the position as Master of Laws not for his legal background but for his reputation as a man of discipline and impartial judgment.
Lady Ester appears far more delicate by comparison to the man she sits beside. She’s a frail-looking woman in her forties with pale skin and light brown hair that she wears pinned up. She inherited her title after the death of her husband, who previously held the position. Many doubted her ability to handle the kingdom’s naval affairs, but she’s since proven herself more than qualified for the role. In fact, her success has fueled many rumors in court that she may have been the one making the decisions all along.
Sitting closer to your end of the table are Guard Captain Rowan Blackwall and Spymaster Dorian Stroud.
You’ve seen Captain Rowan around the palace before—usually clad in bulky metal armor, barking orders—but you’ve never spoken to him directly. From what Garrick said, he’s a hardass who runs a tight ship and doesn’t tolerate excuses. Today, though, he looks almost like a different man. Dressed down in a simple leather jerkin over a plain shirt, with his dark hair neatly styled.
Though he holds no formal council title, he was invited to join the meetings to offer a more grounded perspective given his commoner roots.
Dorian, compared to everyone else, is a complete mystery. Sorren's notes offer only a sparse description: long curly black hair, piercing green eyes, and tan skin. That's all. You suppose that’s the mark of a good spymaster.
Once everyone is seated, the room falls to a hush, and all eyes turn to you. They’re waiting for you to start the meeting. It makes you feel
<<link "Confident""meeting.start">><<set $confidence +=5>><</link>>
<<link "Nervous""meeting.start">><<set $confidence -=5>><</link>><<if $confidence gt 50>>You meet their gazes unflinchingly, steadying your breath as you lift your chin and begin to speak.
“To start, we’ll be reviewing the three public works projects requesting funding: the repair of roads along the major trade routes, the Church’s request for aid ahead of the upcoming winter, and the artists who wish to build a memorial for King Alaric.”
Lady Elara is the next to speak, unfolding a neatly creased parchment and laying it flat in front of her.
“I’ve reviewed the requested budgets for each project,” she says calmly. “The road repairs, factoring in labor and materials, will cost 2,400 gold. The church’s provisions for winter—food, shelter, and warm clothing come to 1,750 gold. And the memorial proposed by the artists will require 5,000 gold in materials alone.”
“If I may,” Lady Ester speaks up. “Lack of incoming shipments has taken a toll on my harbors. Many of the ships docked there have seen significant of wear and tear.”
She folds her hands together. “Without the reliable roads for the traders travel on I fear we’ll be forced to scarp them all togther.”
“Valoria’s winters are no joke.” Captain Rowan says gruffly. “We should be helping the poor first, roads and statues can wait.”
“And just how do you expect that supplies to get here?” Lady Ester questions sharply.
“Well, I believe a memorial to the king is exactly what the people need right now.” Lord Isaac says. “Something to lift their spirits—a reminder that they’re part of something greater.”
“The only thing that statue will remind people of is that they’re cold, poor and hungry.” Dorian coolly interjects.
That's all it takes for the room to erupt.
Lord Isaac and Captain Rowan raise their voices at each other while Lady Ester berates Dorian with an uncharacteristic fury.
“Enough!” you shout out, slamming your hands on the table.
The room falls silent. All eyes shift to you.
No one dares to speak—until Isolde, who’s remained quiet this whole time breaks the silence.
“Well, $name,” she says, trying to hide the amusement in her voice. “Since everyone is sharing their opinion, what do you think?”<</if>>
<<if $confidence lt 50>>You try not to show your fear as you begin to speak
“S-so um… to start, we’ll be reviewing the three public works projects requesting funding: the repair of roads along the major trade routes, the Church’s request for aid ahead of the upcoming winter, and the artists who wish to build a memorial for King Alaric.”
Lady Elara offers a sympathetic smile as she prepares to speak next, unfolding a neatly creased parchment and laying it flat in front of her.
“I’ve reviewed the requested budgets for each project,” she says calmly. “The road repairs, factoring in labor and materials, will cost 2,400 gold. The church’s provisions for winter—food, shelter, and warm clothing come to 1,750 gold. And the memorial proposed by the artists will require 5,000 gold in materials alone.”
“If I may,” Lady Ester speaks up. “Lack of incoming shipments has taken a toll on my harbors. Many of the ships docked there have seen significant of wear and tear.”
She folds her hands together. “Without the reliable roads for the traders travel on I fear we’ll be forced to scarp them all togther.”
“Valoria’s winters are no joke.” Captain Rowan says gruffly. “We should be helping the poor first, roads and statues can wait.”
“And just how do you expect that supplies to get here?” Lady Ester questions sharply.
“Well, I believe a memorial to the king is exactly what the people need right now.” Lord Isaac says. “Something to lift their spirits—a reminder that they’re part of something greater.”
“The only thing that statue will remind people of is that they’re cold, poor and hungry.” Dorian coolly interjects.
That's all it takes for the room to erupt.
Lord Isaac and Captain Rowan raise their voices at each other while Lady Ester berates Dorian with an uncharacteristic fury.
You try to interject, but your words are lost beneath the rising voices.
Noticing your struggle, Isolde, who has remained quiet till now, slams her hand on the table and calls out.
“Enough!”
The room falls silent at once, every head turning to her.
She then speaks up again.
“Well, $name,” she says. “Since everyone is sharing their opinion, what do you think?”<</if>>
[[Fund the road repairs]]
[[Fund the church]]
[[Fund the monument]]<<set $ambition +=5>><<set $funding to "roads">>
“If we want to keep the kingdom running, we should focus on repairing the roads. Without safe and reliable trade routes, no one can get anything they need.
Isolde nods in agreement.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
With the larger matters settled, the rest of the meeting continues without issue. You start to think you might even be able to end early, when suddenly, the doors open and Healer Irving steps inside.
“Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing deeply. “I have new information to share regarding your father’s death.”
“You may speak,” Isolde replies, gesturing him forward.
“As you know,” he begins, “I confirmed King Alaric’s death to be poisoning on the day he passed. At the time, however, I couldn’t determine the exact nature of the poison.”
He unfurls a scroll and places it gently on the table in front of Isolde.
“I took a sample of the wine His Majesty was drinking and sent it to colleagues of mine at the Solarian Institute of Mystical Arts. They were able to identify traces of a rare flower known as the Velmara Bloom. It only grows in Solaria. When ingested, it causes the throat to swell, leading to suffocation.”
“How could someone have given that to the king?” you ask. “Let alone get it into the palace?”
In an instant, all eyes shift to Captain Rowan.
“I heard there were no guards nearby when the king’s body was found,” Lady Ester whispers to Lady Elara.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Rowan mutters, rolling his eyes.
“Good,” Lady Ester replies without flinching, “You were meant to.”
Rowan bristles, jaw tightening.
“My guards were mid-shift rotation when the king was found. Maybe if this place weren’t so fucking massive, they’d have gotten there faster.”
He turns sharply towards Dorian, who sits back in his chair, unbothered.
“If we’re pointing fingers,” he growls, “Maybe we should point them at the spymaster. You’re supposed to be the eyes and ears of this place. How did this slip past you?”
Dorian’s expression shifts, his lips beginning to part with a retort—but before he can speak, Isolde slams her hand on the table.
“You’re all sitting here arguing while whoever killed my father could still be in the palace!” she snaps.
She turns to Dorian, eyes narrowed.
“I want you to bring $name a full report on every single person who’s entered the palace in the last few months. I don’t care how minor they may seem.”
Then she turns to Captain Rowan.
“And you—double the guards. Every room, every hall.”
She takes a breath.
“As for the rest of you—this meeting is over.”
The rest of the council doesn’t hesitate to leave. They file out of the room one by one in silence.
You stay seated beside Isolde, watching as she leans over the table, tangling her fingers tightly in her hair.
“Isolde, are you—”
“I’m fine,” she cuts you off. “Just go, I’ll see you in court later.”
Not wanting to be a bother, you gather your things and leave quietly, softly closing the door behind you, leaving her alone in the chamber.
[[next|freetime]]<<set $compassion += 5>><<set $funding to "church">>
“Roads and statues can wait, but our people can’t. Without the things the church wants to provide, most of them won’t make it through the winter.”
Isolde nods in agreement.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
With the larger matters settled, the rest of the meeting continues without issue. You start to think you might even be able to end early, when suddenly, the doors open and Healer Irving steps inside.
“Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing deeply. “I have new information to share regarding your father’s death.”
“You may speak,” Isolde replies, gesturing him forward.
“As you know,” he begins, “I confirmed King Alaric’s death to be poisoning on the day he passed. At the time, however, I couldn’t determine the exact nature of the poison.”
He unfurls a scroll and places it gently on the table in front of Isolde.
“I took a sample of the wine His Majesty was drinking and sent it to colleagues of mine at the Solarian Institute of Mystical Arts. They were able to identify traces of a rare flower known as the Velmara Bloom. It only grows in Solaria. When ingested, it causes the throat to swell, leading to suffocation.”
“How could someone have given that to the king?” you ask. “Let alone get it into the palace?”
In an instant, all eyes shift to Captain Rowan.
“I heard there were no guards nearby when the king’s body was found,” Lady Ester whispers to Lady Elara.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Rowan mutters, rolling his eyes.
“Good,” Lady Ester replies without flinching, “You were meant to.”
Rowan bristles, jaw tightening.
“My guards were mid-shift rotation when the king was found. Maybe if this place weren’t so fucking massive, they’d have gotten there faster.”
He turns sharply towards Dorian, who sits back in his chair, unbothered.
“If we’re pointing fingers,” he growls, “Maybe we should point them at the spymaster. You’re supposed to be the eyes and ears of this place. How did this slip past you?”
Dorian’s expression shifts, his lips beginning to part with a retort—but before he can speak, Isolde slams her hand on the table.
“You’re all sitting here arguing while whoever killed my father could still be in the palace!” she snaps.
She turns to Dorian, eyes narrowed.
“I want you to bring $name a full report on every single person who’s entered the palace in the last few months. I don’t care how minor they may seem.”
Then she turns to Captain Rowan.
“And you—double the guards. Every room, every hall.”
She takes a breath.
“As for the rest of you—this meeting is over.”
The rest of the council doesn’t hesitate to leave. They file out of the room one by one in silence.
You stay seated beside Isolde, watching as she leans over the table, tangling her fingers tightly in her hair.
“Isolde, are you—”
“I’m fine,” she cuts you off. “Just go, I’ll see you in court later.”
Not wanting to be a bother, you gather your things and leave quietly, softly closing the door behind you, leaving her alone in the chamber.
[[next|freetime]]<<set $idealism += 5>><<set $funding to "monument">>
“King Alaric’s death left a hole in this kingdom. A monument to honor him would serve as the perfect symbol to show how much he meant to the people.”
Isolde nods in agreement.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
With the larger matters settled, the rest of the meeting continues without issue. You start to think you might even be able to end early, when suddenly, the doors open and Healer Irving steps inside.
“Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing deeply. “I have new information to share regarding your father’s death.”
“You may speak,” Isolde replies, gesturing him forward.
“As you know,” he begins, “I confirmed King Alaric’s death to be poisoning on the day he passed. At the time, however, I couldn’t determine the exact nature of the poison.”
He unfurls a scroll and places it gently on the table in front of Isolde.
“I took a sample of the wine His Majesty was drinking and sent it to colleagues of mine at the Solarian Institute of Mystical Arts. They were able to identify traces of a rare flower known as the Velmara Bloom. It only grows in Solaria. When ingested, it causes the throat to swell, leading to suffocation.”
“How could someone have given that to the king?” you ask. “Let alone get it into the palace?”
In an instant, all eyes shift to Captain Rowan.
“I heard there were no guards nearby when the king’s body was found,” Lady Ester whispers to Lady Elara.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Rowan mutters, rolling his eyes.
“Good,” Lady Ester replies without flinching, “You were meant to.”
Rowan bristles, jaw tightening.
“My guards were mid-shift rotation when the king was found. Maybe if this place weren’t so fucking massive, they’d have gotten there faster.”
He turns sharply towards Dorian, who sits back in his chair, unbothered.
“If we’re pointing fingers,” he growls, “Maybe we should point them at the spymaster. You’re supposed to be the eyes and ears of this place. How did this slip past you?”
Dorian’s expression shifts, his lips beginning to part with a retort—but before he can speak, Isolde slams her hand on the table.
“You’re all sitting here arguing while whoever killed my father could still be in the palace!” she snaps.
She turns to Dorian, eyes narrowed.
“I want you to bring $name a full report on every single person who’s entered the palace in the last few months. I don’t care how minor they may seem.”
Then she turns to Captain Rowan.
“And you—double the guards. Every room, every hall.”
She takes a breath.
“As for the rest of you—this meeting is over.”
The rest of the council doesn’t hesitate to leave. They file out of the room one by one in silence.
You stay seated beside Isolde, watching as she leans over the table, tangling her fingers tightly in her hair.
“Isolde, are you—”
“I’m fine,” she cuts you off. “Just go, I’ll see you in court later.”
Not wanting to be a bother, you gather your things and leave quietly, softly closing the door behind you, leaving her alone in the chamber.
[[next|freetime]]You stand in the hall for a moment, the tension of the meeting still clinging to you. The palace feels different now, off in a way you can’t quite name. Since Healer Irving revealed how the king was poisoned, you can’t help but think that danger could lurk just around the corner. The fighting between the other council members and Isolde’s dismissal only adds to the sudden weight pressing on your chest.
Overall, it’s been a long morning, but at least you have the afternoon to yourself now. How should you spend it?
[[Head to the library]]
[[Head to the garden]]
[[Head to your room]]
<<set $sawLyra to "true">>
The palace library is quiet as you step inside. It’s warm, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and leather. The entire room is wrapped in dark oak paneling, with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling—every one lined with books of all sizes, collected from across the ages.
Above you, iron chandeliers hang low, casting golden light in soft halos through the aisles. As you walk between the towering shelves, your fingers trailing along the worn spines, old memories surface.
You remember the lessons you shared with Isolde here as children. She always found a way to make the dullest afternoon lectures entertaining, telling wild stories about the portraits on the walls, turning history lessons into theatrical performances, sneaking behind the shelves for impromptu games of hide-and-seek.
It used to drive your poor old tutor mad.
Lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the figure ahead of you until you crash into them.
“Gods—watch it!”
A tower of books tumbles to the floor, and you just barely manage to avoid getting hit. The person you ran into isn’t so lucky.
To your surprise, Lyra is now sitting on the floor in front of you, rubbing her head with one hand while scrambling to gather the scattered books with the other.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
“I live here,” Lyra replies dryly. “Did one of those books hit you in the head?” she raises an eyebrow. “And thanks for the help, by the way.”
“Right— sorry,” you say, crouching down to gather the fallen books.
The two of you collect them in silence, stacking them back into a tower in her arms.
“So, seriously—why are you still here? I thought you’d have left with your father after the coronation.”
Lyra straightens, clutching the books to her chest.
“Why? She asks, eyes narrowing. “Does my presence bother you that much?”
[[♥️Yes]]
[[Yes]]<<set $sawLucian to "true">>
You step through the archway and into the palace gardens, where the cold air greets you. It’s sharp and brisk against your skin, slipping through the layers of your clothes.
<<if $funding is "church">>You shiver, pulling your arms closer to your body, silently cursing yourself for not grabbing a cloak before stepping outside. Just a few weeks ago, the weather had been deceptively warm.
This sudden shift is a harsh reminder of what’s coming once the season changes. It makes you certain that helping the church was the right thing to do. The people will need food, warmth, and shelter more than ever.
<<else>>
You shiver, pulling your arms closer to your body, silently cursing yourself for not grabbing a cloak before stepping outside. Just a few weeks ago, the weather had been deceptively warm.
This sudden shift is a harsh reminder of what’s coming once the season changes.
It makes you think that helping the church would have been a better choice to make. The people will need food, warmth, and shelter more than ever.<</if>>
You begin down the gravel path that leads deeper into the garden. It winds like a river through the manicured hedges and carefully shaped shrubs. Some are shaped like animals frozen mid-motion, others twist upwards in elegant, spiraling forms.
The flower beds are filled with rare and vibrant flowers in shades of purples, oranges, and blues. Some bloom from climbing vines that snake their way up the marble trellises, while others sit low to the earth.
When you reach the end of the path, you find yourself near a familiar pond. It’s small, perfectly circular, surrounded by flat stones, and filled with ducks.
The ducks weren’t always in the man-made pond.
A few years ago, during an unsupervised trip to the market, you and Isolde stumbled across two of them—huddled in a cage, feathers ruffled, destined to be someone's dinner. Isolde wouldn’t stand for it. She spent every coin she had to buy them, then convinced you to help smuggle them into the palace under your clothes.
She wanted to keep them in her room originally, but that lasted all of one day when a maid walked in to clean and nearly fainted at the sight of them. After that, her father had the pond built just for them.
Since then, two ducks have become ten as they happily populated their new home.
Deciding to head over to the pond, you spot Lucian at the water’s edge, kneeling with his back to you. He’s quiet as he tosses bits of crumbs from a small cloth pouch into the water. The ducks gather eagerly around him, quacking softly.
Not wanting to startle them, you approach carefully, your footsteps light on the gravel.
<<link "❤️Feeding the ducks? How cute of you""lucian.duck">><<set $lucianRomance +=5>><</link>>
<<link "Didn't expect to find you out here""lucian.duck">><</link>>
<<set $hadLunch to "true">>
The door to your chambers swings open just as two maids step out, their arms full of linens and empty trays. You stop one of them as she passes by.
“Could you bring some lunch to my room?”
She nods with a smile. “I shall bring it right away.”
With the maids gone, you step into the quiet room, taking in the freshly swept floor and neatly made bed. Even after all these years, you're still not used to other people handling your space.
Back when your parents were still alive, you were the one responsible for your room—tucking in the corners of your blanket, sweeping away dust, and keeping your things where you could find them. Moving into the palace changed that. The idea of strangers coming in and cleaning while you were away was… unsettling. Even now, whenever you see the maids leaving, you can’t help but check that everything is still in its place.
First, you start with the.
[[Jewelry box]]Lucian jolts upright, startled. The pouch of crumbs flies from his hands and spills across the path.
“Shit—”
He drops back to the ground, scrambling to gather the crumbs as the ducks begin to swarm him.
“Greedy little bastards,” he mutters.
Lucian shoots you a glare as he stands, brushing the dirt from his knees.
“What are you doing here?” he grumbles.
“Sorry for the scare,” you say, trying—and failing not to laugh. “The council meeting just ended, and I needed a break from the palace.”
“Oh, right that was today,” he says, walking towards a nearby bench. “How did it go? Or do I not want to know?”
You follow him to the bench, your footsteps slow as you think of what to tell him.
How do you even start a conversation like this?
You could ease into it—start with the safer details: the bickering, the funding, etc.
Or…
Maybe it’s better to just rip the bandage off. Let him know that someone from Solaria killed his father and might still be in the palace.
[[Ease into it]]
[[Just tell him]]<<set $compassion +=5>><<set $lucianFriendship +=5>><<set $diplomacy +=5>>
Your gaze focuses on the ducks swimming around as you begin to speak.
“Well, as I’m sure you know, today was my first meeting as royal advisor. I thought I’d prepared enough for today, but… gods, I wasn’t ready to handle the council and how much they talk over each other. It’s a miracle they get anything done.”
Lucian chuckles softly beside you, which encourages you to keep going.
“We went over a few proposals in need of funding—the roads, the church, and a monument for your father. They all had their own opinions on everything of course.”
“That's not surprising at all,” he comments.
You go quiet for a moment as the air suddenly feels colder.
“Then something else came up.”
You hesitate, fingers tugging on each other in your lap.
“Healer Irving brought forward some new information about… about your father’s death.”
Lucian stiffens beside you.
“It was indeed poison that killed him,” you continue carefully. “That much we already knew. But today, he confirmed exactly what kind of poison, and where it came from.”
Turning to face him, you watch as the weight of your words hits him.
“It was a flower called Velmara Bloom. A rare poisonous plant that only grows in Solaria. Someone slipped it into his wine, but we aren’t sure who. Isolde thinks whoever it is could still be in the palace.
Lucian doesn’t respond right away.
He just stares ahead at the pond, his expression unreadable.
You watch him in silence for a few seconds before gently resting your hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
The contact seems to snap him out of it. He blinks, eyes focusing again, and turns his head to you.
“Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “Yeah… thanks for asking.”
He lets out a shallow breath in an attempt to steady himself.
“I think I need a moment. Alone.”
Without another word, you rise and leave him alone by the pond. He doesn’t look up as you go—his gaze remains fixed on the water, watching the ripples trailing behind the ducks.
[[Next|back.inside]]<<set $compassion -=5>><<set $lucianFriendship -=5>><<set $diplomacy -=5>>
Your gaze focuses on the ducks swimming around as you begin to speak.
“The poison that killed your father came from Solaria,” you say flatly. “Healer Irving confirmed it this morning. It was a flower called Velmara Bloom. A rare poisonous plant that only grows there. Someone slipped it into his wine, but we aren’t sure who. Isolde thinks whoever it is could still be in the palace.”
Lucian leans forward slightly, fingers curling into his knees. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
Unsure of what to do, you stay quiet.
After a long breath, he finally exhales and turns to you, his expression unreadable.
“You really don’t ease into things, do you?”
You offer a half-hearted shrug.
“Would you rather I sugarcoat it?”
He pauses, how tight.
“No…” His voice is low. “Thanks for telling me, I think I need a moment alone.”
You nod and rise to your feet, leaving him on the bench. He doesn’t look up as you go—his gaze remains fixed on the water, watching the ripples trailing behind the ducks.
[[Next|back.inside]]
Your free time is over.
It’s back to work now.
You make your way to the throne room, now stripped of the regal finery from the coronation. The grand banners have been taken down, and the orante seating cleared away. What remains is a space that feels colder, less celebratory, more austere—a place of duty rather than joy.
Lords and ladies line the walls, donning their finest silks, velvets, and jewelry that glitters under the chandelier light. They murmur to one another in a current of polite small talk.
In the middle of it all, a troupe of performers moves with careful precision: tumbling, miming, juggling to faint laughter from the crowd. It's a moment of levity before the serious business of court begins.
Just beside the throne, you spot Garrick in his usual uniform. Leather underlayers topped with a silver half-plate armor. When he sees you, he offers a small nod as you approach.
“What’s with all the extra security?” he mutters under his breath.
You glance around, then lean in slightly.
“You haven’t heard?”
He shakes his head, brow furrowing. You hesitate, but the matter is too serious to dance around.
“We know how the king was poisoned,” you whisper. “Someone slipped a lethal Solarian flower into his wine, but we don’t know who?”
Garrick’s expression tightens. His voice spikes in alarm.
“The killer could still be in the palace?!”
“Quiet—!”
You hush him, eyes darting to the crowd. You worry you might have been overheard, but the crowd’s laughter covers the sudden rise in his voice.
Garrick's lips press in a thin line. Full of more questions, but before he can ask them—
“Her Majesty, Queen Isolde Valebrook!”
The herald’s voice rings out, silencing the room.
All heads turn to Isolde as she steps through the wide doors. She wears a black gown, different from the simpler one she wore this morning. This one is much more elaborate—the bodice is elegantly structured, its square neckline trimmed in black pearls and silver embroidery that glimmers faintly in the light. Draped around her arms is a sumptuous black fur mantle, a reminder of the season’s chill. The sleeves are voluptuous, lined with satin and edged with delicate silver lace.
Her skirt flows outwards, as she moves through the room revealing a front panel of damask brocade in a charcoal and jet-black pattern. On her waist lies a belt of ornate silver medallions and dark gemstones that fall to the center.
Around her neck, a layered necklace of black pearls and a sapphire pendant hangs.
Half of her auburn colored hair is tied up in an intricate crown of twists that wrap around her head, while the rest cascades down her back in soft waves.
The expression on her face is cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth she carried this morning.
She ascends the steps and lowers herself into the throne. Garrick stands at attention, and all eyes shift towards you.
You step forward and lift your voice, letting it carry.
[[Court is now in session.]]
<<textbox "$name" "Type answer here">>
[[next|own.name]]You nod and follow her. Just as you step out of the carriage, the sun blinds you just for a moment. Once your vision returns, you watch along with other attendees as the king’s coffin is lifted from its wheeled platform by the guards. The growing crowd falls silent as they carry his body past the grand doors of the church.
Isolde follows the coffin swiftly. You and Lucian fall in step right behind her. The rest of the nobles and foreign dignitaries who could make the trip also began their ascent up the steps to the church.
[[next|funeral3]]
<<set $lyraRomance +=5>>
“Yes,” you say with a smirk. “I find it hard to focus when you’re around.”
Lyra blinks, caught off guard by the comment before scoffing.
“Spare me.” She says, rolling her eyes.
But you can see the light flush to her cheeks.
You glance at the titles of the books in her hands. They’re all about herbs and toxins.
“Whats with the books anyway?” you ask.
“If you must know, I’ve taken up an apprenticeship under Healering Irving.”
“A healer? Are you sure you’re qualified for that?” you say, thinking back to when she questioned your own appointment as royal advisor.
“I studied healing at the Institute and was the top student in every class. I am more than qualified,” she brags.
“Well then, if you’re working with the healer, I guess you already know about the king’s poisoning.”
Lyra beams
“Of course I know. I was part of the discovery. Irving would have never considered a foreign toxin if I hadn’t suggested it.”
She starts walking, and without thinking, you follow.
“And guess what,” she adds with a smug look over her shoulder. “I was right.”
As she leads you past a narrow row of windows, Lyra looks to you again.
“So, what’s Isolde planning to do about it?”
You explain the increase in security and Dorian’s investigation into it.
Lyra clicks her tongue.
“It’s not enough. You want answers? You need to start interrogating people. Starting with the maid who found him.”
“The maid?”
“Yes, her story has way too many holes. “Oh, I knocked on the door and it opened on its own.” She mimics in a sing-song voice. “Convenient, isn’t it?”
You stare at her in disbelief.
“You know that maid is like twelve, right?”
Lyra pauses, turning your way.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps. “ Solaria has been trying to invade us for years. I wouldn’t put using child spies to weaken our country past them.”
With that, she adjusts the stack of books in her arms and strides out of the library, the doors swinging open ahead of her with the flick of her wrist.
[[Next|back.inside]] <<set $lyraFriendship -=5>>
“Yes,” you say flatly. “I don’t like you.”
Lyra rolls her eyes.
“The feeling is mutual.”
You glance at the titles of the books in her hands. They’re all about herbs and toxins.
“Whats with the books anyway?” you ask.
“If you must know, I’ve taken up an apprenticeship under Healering Irving.”
“A healer? Are you sure you’re qualified for that?” you say, thinking back to when she questioned your own appointment as royal advisor.
“I studied healing at the Institute and was the top student in every class. I am more than qualified,” she brags.
“Well then, if you’re working with the healer, I guess you already know about the king’s poisoning.”
Lyra beams
“Of course I know. I was part of the discovery. Irving would have never considered a foreign toxin if I hadn’t suggested it.”
She starts walking, and without thinking, you follow.
“And guess what,” she adds with a smug look over her shoulder. “I was right.”
As she leads you past a narrow row of windows, Lyra looks to you again.
“So, what’s Isolde planning to do about it?”
You explain the increase in security and Dorian’s investigation into it.
Lyra clicks her tongue.
“It’s not enough. You want answers? You need to start interrogating people. Starting with the maid who found him.”
“The maid?”
“Yes, her story has way too many holes. “Oh, I knocked on the door and it opened on its own.” She mimics in a sing-song voice. “Convenient, isn’t it?”
You stare at her in disbelief.
“You know that maid is like twelve, right?”
Lyra pauses, turning your way.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps. “ Solaria has been trying to invade us for years. I wouldn’t put using child spies to weaken our country past them.”
With that, she adjusts the stack of books in her arms and strides out of the library, the doors swinging open ahead of her with the flick of her wrist.
[[Next|back.inside]] Sitting atop your dresser is a small carved jewelry box. The wood is dark, etched with simple floral motifs, and the metal clasp has dulled with age. It once belonged to your mother.
You open it gently.
Inside are a few ribbons, some old rings, and a single opal pendant—once the centerpiece of a necklace your father gave her.
You still remember the day he bought it. It was the first market day of spring. He’d taken you along to sell the wood carvings he’d made during the winter. Once everything was sold and it was time to head home, he spotted the necklace. After some spirited haggling, he spent nearly everything he’d earned to buy it. Said it was worth it.
Your mother didn’t agree.
She lit into him the moment to gave it to her. She was already a few months pregnant then, and money was tight. She listed all the things that gold could’ve gone toward—food, supplies, baby clothes—and demanded he return it the next day.
But by then, the merchant was long gone.
Your father took that as fate—that the necklace was meant to stay with her. And though she protested, she wore it every day until the day she died.
The chain is long gone now, and the opal doesn’t shine the way it used to. But you keep it anyway, tucked safely away. Maybe one day, you’ll pass it on to someone you love.
The next thing you check is the.
[[Bookcase]]Your shelves are full of books borrowed and never returned from the palace library over the years. History tombs, old poetry, books on politics and even a few romance novels. You tell yourself you’ll return them eventually, but that day just never comes.
Out of all the books, your favorites are the
[[History books]]
[[Romance books]]
[[Political books]]
[[Poetry books]]<<set $knowledge +=10>>
There’s something you love about uncovering how the world came to be, why nations rise and why they fall, and the lessons left behind.
You move on from the bookcase to the
[[Sword]]
<<set $idealism +=10>>
No matter how dark the world gets, you hold on to the idea that love will win in the end. That soulmates exist and their hearts will find each other, no matter the odds.
You move on from the bookcase to the
[[Sword]]
<<set $leadership +=10>>
You’re drawn to the workings of power, the art of negotiation, and how every decision can change the fate of nations.
You move on from the bookcase to the
[[Sword]]
<<set $charm +=5>><<set $persuasion +=5>><<set $deception +=5>>
Poetry speaks to you in a way normal speech can’t. Whether to charm, persuade, or deceive, you’ve always had a way with language.
You move on from the bookcase to the
[[Sword]]
Mounted on the wall toward the far end of your room is your father’s sword. The hilt is worn smooth from years of use, shaped by the grip of his hand. Faint notches run along the blade—marks left behind that could have ended his life, but didn’t. When you left for the palace, it was one of the few things you brought with you.
[[You know how to use it]]
[[You never learned how to use it]]<<set $knowsSword to "true">>
You were taught when you were younger to wield the sword. Your father believed everyone should know how to defend themselves. You’re no master, but you can handle a blade if needed.
The next place you check is the
[[Desk|desk]]<<set $knowsSword to "false">>
He always meant to teach you, but there was never enough time. After he passed, you kept the sword anyway as a reminder of the man who carried it.
The next place you check is the
[[Desk|desk]]You thank her and she sets it down on the small table before taking her leave. The scent of roasted meat and spiced vegetables fills the air, a welcome comfort after a long morning.
You sit, fork in hand, but as you begin to eat, your thoughts drift back to the council chambers.
What will happen now that the truth of the king’s death has been revealed?
Sooner or later, word will spread through the halls, merchants on the road, and once the people know, they won’t stay quiet. They’ll want justice for their king. They’ll demand action from the crown. Grief will give way to anger, and that anger will turn towards Solaria.
The last true war with Solaria happened decades before you were born. It was a brutal, drawn-out, and left both sides scarred. Since then, it's been territorial disputes that have flared up and fizzled out in a few years.
But this—this is different.
If Valoria calls for vengeance and Solaria answers, there will be no easy retreat or calls for a truce.
You stare down at the plate in front of you, now cleared of your meal, your face warped in its reflection. It hasn’t even been a full day in your new role, and already the weight of it feels suffocating.
You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temples. All you can do now is hope things don’t get worse.
[[Next|back.inside]] <<set $hobby to "Writing">>
i'll put something here soon.
A knock comes from the door—it's the maid with your lunch. You turn from the desk and open it to let her in.
[[next|lunch]]<<set $hobby to "Art">>
i'll put something here soon.
A knock comes from the door—it's the maid with your lunch. You turn from the desk and open it to let her in.
[[next|lunch]]<<set $hobby to "Music">>
i'll put something here soon.
A knock comes from the door—it's the maid with your lunch. You turn from the desk and open it to let her in.
[[next|lunch]]“The first case to be heard concerns a dispute over land inheritance between the legitimate son of the late Lord Renwick and a man claiming to be his bastard.”
From the back of the room, two men approach the throne, walking side by side but looking worlds apart. The younger man on the left wears a plain tunic, ill-fitting brown trousers, and dust-covered boots. Beside him, the other man is dressed in a tailored navy doublet trimmed with silver, the crest of House Renwick sewn proudly at the breast.
The difference in status is unmistakable.
Garrick’s eyes track their movements as they come to a stop before the throne.
Isolde leans forward, one elbow resting on the armrest. She nods faintly.
“You speak first.”
The bastard steps forward and bows awkwardly.
“Your Majesty,” he begins. “The late Lord Renwick was my father. He… wrote to me before he died. Said he regretted how things were. Promised me a portion of the land. Half of it.”
He continues, voice steady but laced with emotion.
“He used to send letters when I was a child. And coin, sometimes. When my mother died, he said he’d take me in. He never did. But… I think he was trying to make it right. At the end.”
You glance at Isolde. Her attention has started to drift—her gaze wandering across the crowd, making no effort to hide her boredom.
When the man finishes, she doesn’t react.
You lean in slightly.
“Your Majesty?”
She straightens up, eyes snapping back to the two men before her.
“Right,” she says quickly. “You—” she gestures to the man in navy, “What do you have to say in response?”
The nobleman steps forward with a practiced bow. His tone is measured, but there’s an edge of disdain beneath the politeness.
“I am Lord Renwick’s only child. My parents, as much as they tried, were never blessed again. This man—whoever he is—is lying. Trying to cheat me out of my inheritance with forged letters.”
Isolde drums her fingers on the armrest.
“Do you have these letters?”
The bastard nods and reaches into a worn satchel, pulling out a worn wooden box. He opens it with care.
“These are from when I was a child,” he says, lifting the first bundle of parchment. “Dated from my birth until my mother passed. He sent coin, asked after me in every letter.”
He sets the first bundle aside and draws out a second stack—cleaner, newer pages.
“These are from last year. He told me he was sorry. Said he wished he’d done better by me.”
He lifts one, pointing to the green wax seal pressed at the bottom.
“That’s his crest. House Renwick’s.”
You step forward, taking the letters from him, examining the seal. Imprinted clearly in the center of the wax is a leaping fox.
You hand isolde the bundle of letters. She skims through the pages, her fingers brushing over the embossed seal.
“And you?” she asks the noble son. “What do you have?”
He pulls out a single scroll from inside his coat and carefully unfolds it.
“My father’s will. Signed by his hand. You’ll find no mention of this man in it.”
You retrieve the will and study it. The seals are identical—same position, same size. Even the angle of the press is a perfect match.
You pass it to Isolde. She holds both sets of documents side by side, her eyes examining them.
“They’re the same,” Isolde says, holding both pages for the crowd to see, “Right down to the angle of the seal.”
“He must have forged it!” the noble son snaps, his voice rising. “You can’t trust someone like him!”
The bastard son lifts his chin, eyes steady.
“I never even saw the will. How could I forge something I’ve never laid eyes on?”
Isolde exhales, turning her full attention to the two men.
“With no definitive way to prove whether the seal is forged,” she says evenly, “I will make the final decision over the land.”
She shifts her gaze to the bastard. “Tell me what you would do with the land if it were granted to you?”
He speaks up. “I’ve just married. My wife is expecting our first child. I’d like to build us a home. A place for us to grow.”
Isolde nods, then turns to the noble son.
“And you?”
“I’d clear it for lumber,” he replies. “The trees are tall and plentiful. It would turn a profit and serve the kingdom well this winter.”
A moment of silence follows. Isolde looks between the two men, uncertainty flickering across her face. Then, slowly, her eyes settle on you.
She wants //you// to make the call.
[[Split the land]]
[[Give it all to the trueborn son]]
<<set $compassion to +5>>
You subtly incline your head toward the bastard.
A compromise. Both men can get what they want if the land were divided.
Isolde straightens in her seat.
“I have made my decision. The land will be split evenly—half to each of you.”
The bastard’s eyes widen, his expression one of gratitude. The noble son. However, turns crimson with fury.
“This is a fucking disgrace!”
He storms forward, only to be stopped short at the steps of the throne. Garrick is on him in an instant, sword drawn and tip leveled at his chest.
“Step back,” he growls.
Two more guards move in, grabbing the man by the arms. He thrashes and curses as they drag him out of the room.
Isolde watches without a word, her face cold and unmoved. Only once the room settles again does the next case proceed.
[[Next|case2]]<<set $ambition to +5>>
Isolde straightens in her seat.
“I have made my decision. The land will go to Lord Renwick’s trueborn son.”
The noble son smiles, triumphant.
“A wise decision, Your Majesty.”
The bastard son’s shoulders sink. He gives no protest, only a faint nod before turning and walking away.
[[Next|case2]] With the first case concluded, you raise your voice once more to announce the next.
“The second case concerns accusations brought by the mayor of the village of Oakrest, regarding grave robbery and the practice of dark magic.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd of assembled nobles.
From the crowd, a stout man in rich but weather-worn robes steps forward. He carries himself with a sense of self-importance. Behind him, two guards drag a bound young man forward—no more than twenty, wrists shackled in silver cuffs etched with glowing runes—anti-magic restraints.
You take in the mage’s hollow cheeks, tangled hair, and bruised eyes. He looks less like a threat and more like a starving boy.
The mayor offers a quick, shallow bow to Isolde.
“Your majesty, our graveyard has suffered desecration for months. Graves disturbed. Corpses mutilated. This boy—this mage—is the cause.”
A shocked murmur rolls through the chamber.
“Dark magic,” the mayor adds venomously. “The kind that defies the will of the gods.”
Isolde lifts a hand, and silence sweeps the room.
<<if $knowledge gt 50>>You know what he means by “dark magic”: necromancy.
You’ve read about it before—in a book on the history of magic. It's not an illegal use of magic, so long as it is not used with ill intent. Still, the ultra-religious despise the practice. They believe the dead should remain dead—that tampering with them is a threat to the soul’s journey to the beyond.<<else>>
You frown, unsettled by the accusation. You don’t know much about magic, but anything powerful enough to raise the dead sounds dangerous, to say the least<</if>>
Isolde’s voice cuts in.
“Let him speak.” she gestures to the mage.
He lifts his head slowly, voice trembling.
“I was born in Oakrest. I lived there with my mother until my magic came in and I had to leave. I only returned recently because… my mother died. I just wanted to see her grave. Collect her things.”
His eyes well up with tears, his voice cracking.
“That's all. I sweat it.”
The crowd stirs, some faces softening.
But the mayor is unmoved.
“Don’t fall for his tears!” he snaps. “I’ve run that village for over thirty years. I know every family, every child—and I’ve never seen him in my life.”
You step in, trying to steer things back to the facts.
“Mayor, would you mind sharing what exactly was taken from the graves?”
He unrolls a parchment robe and reads aloud.
“Lungs, livers, hands, eyes, and various other limbs and organs were taken from multiple graves.”
The mage winces—but then speaks quickly.
“My mother’s grave is on the western side ot the cemetery. The robbed graves are on the eastern end.”
The mayor’s face darkens.
“I’ve never shared the location of the disturbed graves.”
He steps forward, voice sharp.
“How could you know that—unless you were the one who duf them up?”
The mage freezes. Realizes his mistake.
And bolts.
The throne room erupts. Nobles cry out. Someone screams.
The guards react instantly. Breaking into pursuit as the mage only makes it a few steps shy of the nearest exit before being tackled to the ground.
He fails, panicked, as the guards grab him by the arms and drag him up.
“Take him to the cells,” Isolde orders. “We’ll question him further another day.”
You watch him go, his protests muffled by the clatter of chains and boots. Another case concluded… but not resolved.
[[next|case3]]The noise from the crowd has barely died down when you step forward and call for the third case.
“The third case concerns the theft of Lady Ophelia’s sapphire ring. She claims it was stolen by Lady Marjolaine.”
From the crowd, two noble women emerge, both draped head to toe in jewels, lace, and feathers.
Both women speak out at once.
“She stole—!”
“It’s mine, she’s just jealous—!”
Their voices rise, each trying to outpace the other in an escalating whirl of accusations.
“Enough!” Isolde’s voice cuts in. “Lady Ophelia, you first.”
Lady Ophelia steps forward.
“Your Majesty, I have been robbed,” she sobs. “A month ago, I lost a ring—a sapphire set in silver filigree, given to me by my lover. I searched for it everywhere, and had nearly given up hope until I saw it again on //her// hand.” She jabs a finger in the other woman’s direction. “The ring is mine, and I want it returned.”
You glance over to Isolde and find her looking back at you. Her face is awash with disbelief. The mutual thought is clear: //This is absurd//.
“Lady Marjolaine, your turn,” Isolde says, barely containing her annoyance.
She huffs as she smooths out the skirts of her jewel-covered gown before stepping forward.
“This ring,” she says, holding her hand up for all to see, “was a gift. From //my// lover.” he gave it to me a month ago, and it was specifically made for me. So it can’t possibly belong to her.”
You resist the urge to sigh as the situation becomes clear. Same ring, same lover, who clearly stole and regifted it.
“Can either of you describe the ring?” Isolde asks.
Lady Marjolaine starts “Silver band, filigree around the edges, the stone is set in a—”
“Claw prong,” interrupts Lady Ophelia. “And it has an engraving inside: 'To the Brightest Star.’”
Lady Marjolaine stiffens. “Thats what mine says.”
“No, it’s what mine says.” argues Lady Ophelia.
Their bickering resumes, each describing the same details with growing realization until it hits them both at once.
They gasp in unison.
Isolde leans back in her throne. “I believe this issue has solved itself.”
Both women nod slowly, stunned by their discovery.
“I suppose it has,” Lady Marjolaine murmurs.
“Yes… it has,” Lady Ophelia echoes, quieter now.
They bow to the queen and depart, already whispering furiously about the revenge they’ll take on the man who played them both.
After they leave, the rest of the court resumes with smaller matters: unpaid debts, boundary disagreements, trade disputes. Nothing that threatens to spiral into chaos.
[[Next|courtover]]The throne room is nearly empty now, echoing only with the soft footsteps of the guards.
Isolde sinks back into the throne, her shoulders slumping as if the string holding her upright has finally snapped.
“Ugh. That drained me,” she groans. “I’m so glad I don’t have to do this again for another month.”
You glance at her from your place near the steps, arms loosely crossed.
“You know most monarchs hold court weekly,” you say, dryly.
She lets out a muffled whine, covering her face with both hands. “I’d die if I had to do that.”
“You survived today.”
“Barely,” she mutters. She speaks through her fingers. “Did you see those two women? I swear i lost years off my life.”
You smirk. “At least the grave-robbing necromancer kept things from getting dull.”
She exhales sharply. “Interesting isn’t always a good thing.”
“No,” you agree, “but it did make the day go faster.”
Isolde sighs and gets up, brushing invisible lint from her dress.
“Let’s just hope next month is normal.”
You don’t have the heart to tell her it probably won’t be.
The rest of the guards file out, leaving the room quiet. Garrick steps forward, arms crossed.
“So… are you two finally gonna tell me what’s been going on?”
You and Isolde exchange a glance before launching into an explanation. You recount what Healer Irving revealed—the poisonous flower from Solaria—and mention the increased guard presence, as well as Dorian’s efforts to track who has entered and left the palace recently.
Garrick listens, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, all of that's great—but shouldn’t there be an actual investigation or something?”
Isolde’s eyes brighten. “That’s a great idea, Garrick,” she turns to you with a sudden excitement. “$name, you and Garrick should look into the people who were there that night.”
You blink. “Oh, Isolde, I don’t know if we—,” You gesture between you and Garrick, “—are the ones to handle something that serious.”
“Please $name,” she begs, taking your hands in hers. “You two are the only one’s I can trust with something like this.”
<<if $height is "Short">>Your $eye eyes lift to meet her blue ones as she holds your hands. You want to say no. But the longer you look, the faster your resolve slips away.<</if>><<if $height is "Average">>Your $eye eyes meet her blue ones as she holds your hands. You want to say no. But the longer you look, the faster your resolve slips away.<</if>><<if $height is "Tall">>Your $eye eyes lower to meet her blue ones as she holds your hands. You want to say no. But the longer you look, the faster your resolve slips away.<</if>>
“...Alright. I’ll do it.”
Isolde wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Truly.”
When she pulls back, you turn toward Garrick.
“You in?”
He hesitates, looking to Isolde. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone, now that I know what’s going on.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, already stepping away from the throne. “I’m going straight to my room, locking the door, and getting into bed.”
She offers one last smile before slipping out of the room, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
Garrick turns to you, a crooked smile curling on his lips.
“Well. I guess it’s just you and me now.”
[[♥️Lucky me]]
[[Looks that way]]
<<set $garrickRomanace +=5>>
Your gaze lingers on him a moment longer than necessary.
Garrick chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to hide the slight flush on his cheeks.
“Then I guess we'd better make the best of that luck.”
He walks a few steps away towards the doors, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword at his hip.
“So. Investigation, huh? Any idea where we should start?”
[[Next|invest1]]<<set $garrickFriendship +=5>>
You offer a relaxed smile.
Garrick grins back, also more relaxed now that the throne room has cleared.
"Well, at least I’m in good company.”
He walks a few steps away towards the doors, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword at his hip.
“So. Investigation, huh? Any idea where we should start?”
[[Next|invest1]]The doors to the throne room swing shut behind you with a low thud. You and Garrick step into the hallway, where the flickering sconces cast long golden shadows along the walls.
You exhale slowly, organizing the thoughts already circling your head.
“There are a few people we’ll need to speak to,” you say, ticking them off one by one.
“First—the maid who found the king’s body. She’s young and likely still frightened. It might be hard to get anything new from her.”
“Second—the guards. The one who was on shift right before the king was found and, the one who was supposed to come afterward.”
“And lastly, Healer Irving. If anyone can tell us about that poison flower, it’s him.”
You look at Garrick, and he gives a slow nod.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says. “So. where to first?”
<<link "The Maid""themaid">><<set $maidspoken1 to "yes">><</link>>
<<link "The Guards""guards">><<set $guardspoken1 to "yes">><</link>>
<<link "Healer Irving""healer">><<set $healerspoken1 to "yes">><</link>><<if $maidspoken1 is "yes">>You and Garrick make your way down the winding staircases and narrow corridors that lead to the servants’ quarters—humble, dimly lit, and quiet now that the evening meal has passed.
A faint scent of lavender soap and herbs lingers in the air. Wooden cots line the walls of the dormitory, each one with a small trunk or bundle tucked beneath it.
You ask after Elyse, the young maid who discovered the king.
An older maid—round in the shoulders and sharp in the eyes—looks up from folding linens nearby. She straightens as you approach, blocking your path slightly.
“What do you want from the girl?” she asks curtly, eyeing both of you with suspicion. “She’s had a hard enough time since that night.”
<<if $diplomacy >=50>>“We won’t scare her,” you say gently. “We just need to ask a few questions. We’ll be kind, I promise.”
The older maid hesitates, then sighs and nods.
“Alright. But I'm walking you there myself.”<<else>>
“We need to speak to her again,” you say firmly. “This is an investigation. It has to be done.”
The older woman’s lips press together in a disapproving line.
“Hmph. Just don’t make it worse.”<</if>>
She leads you to a cot near the end of the row, where a young girl sits cross-legged on her thin blanket, a book in her lap. She looks so small, with her wide eyes and pale hands gripping the book’s spine.
When she sees you both, she tenses.
“Elyse?” you say. “We need to talk to you about the night you found the king.”
Her lower lip trembles. Garrick shoots you a glance, but says nothing.
<<if $compassion >=50>>“It’s alright,” you assure her. “You’re not in trouble. We just need to know what you saw. That’s all.”<<else>>
“Just tell us what you remember. We don’t have time to waste.”<</if>>
Elyse nods, then places the book beside her on the cot and folds her hands in her lap.
“That night… it wasn’t supposed to be me,” she says, glancing toward another maid across the room. “Milla usually brings the king his dinner, but she was sick. I was the only one left.”
Her fingers fidget nervously.
“I’d never seen the king up close before. I work in the kitchens mostly. I was nervous.”
She takes a breath.
“The halls were empty. I didn’t see any guards. When I got to his door… I called out, but no one answered.”
She hesitates.
“I knocked. And the door… just opened.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows hard.
“I went in, put the tray down, and noticed things out of place. Papers on the floor. A chair was knocked over. I followed the mess and—”
She stops, her voice catching. You don’t press her. The image is clear enough.
“Then I screamed and ran for help.”
You pause, letting the silence stretch before asking, “Is there anything else you remember? Anything unusual?”
Elyse shakes her head.
“No. That’s all.”
You thank her. She nods and pulls the book back onto her lap, curling back into the cot. The older maid across the room watches you closely as you leave.
Out in the corridor, Garrick lets out a long breath.
“Well… that was fun.”
You glance sideways at him.
“We just made a twelve-year-old relive the worst moment of her life.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good times.”
You sigh.
“So where to next?”
<<link "The Guards""guards">><<set $guardspoken2 to "yes">><</link>>
<<link "Healer Irving""healer">><<set $healerspoken2 to "yes">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $maidspoken2 is "yes">>
You and Garrick make your way down the winding staircases and narrow corridors that lead to the servants’ quarters—humble, dimly lit, and quiet now that the evening meal has passed.
A faint scent of lavender soap and herbs lingers in the air. Wooden cots line the walls of the dormitory, each one with a small trunk or bundle tucked beneath it.
You ask after Elyse, the young maid who discovered the king.
An older maid—round in the shoulders and sharp in the eyes—looks up from folding linens nearby. She straightens as you approach, blocking your path slightly.
“What do you want from the girl?” she asks curtly, eyeing both of you with suspicion. “She’s had a hard enough time since that night.”
<<if $diplomacy >=50>>“We won’t scare her,” you say gently. “We just need to ask a few questions. We’ll be kind, I promise.”
The older maid hesitates, then sighs and nods.
“Alright. But I'm walking you there myself.”<<else>>
“We need to speak to her again,” you say firmly. “This is an investigation. It has to be done.”
The older woman’s lips press together in a disapproving line.
“Hmph. Just don’t make it worse.”<</if>>
She leads you to a cot near the end of the row, where a young girl sits cross-legged on her thin blanket, a book in her lap. She looks so small, with her wide eyes and pale hands gripping the book’s spine.
When she sees you both, she tenses.
“Elyse?” you say. “We need to talk to you about the night you found the king.”
Her lower lip trembles. Garrick shoots you a glance, but says nothing.
<<if $compassion >=50>>“It’s alright,” you assure her. “You’re not in trouble. We just need to know what you saw. That’s all.”
<<else>>“Just tell us what you remember. We don’t have time to waste.”<</if>>
Elyse nods, then places the book beside her on the cot and folds her hands in her lap.
“That night… it wasn’t supposed to be me,” she says, glancing toward another maid across the room. “Milla usually brings the king his dinner, but she was sick. I was the only one left.”
Her fingers fidget nervously.
“I’d never seen the king up close before. I work in the kitchens mostly. I was nervous.”
She takes a breath.
“The halls were empty. I didn’t see any guards. When I got to his door… I called out, but no one answered.”
She hesitates.
“I knocked. And the door… just opened.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows hard.
“I went in, put the tray down, and noticed things out of place. Papers on the floor. A chair was knocked over. I followed the mess and—”
She stops, her voice catching. You don’t press her. The image is clear enough.
“Then I screamed and ran for help.”
You pause, letting the silence stretch before asking, “Is there anything else you remember? Anything unusual?”
Elyse shakes her head.
“No. That’s all.”
You thank her. She nods and pulls the book back onto her lap, curling back into the cot. The older maid across the room watches you closely as you leave.
Out in the corridor, Garrick lets out a long breath.
“Well… that was fun.”
You glance sideways at him.
“We just made a twelve-year-old relive the worst moment of her life.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good times.”
You sigh.
"So where to next?”
<<if $healerspoken1 is "yes">>
<<link "The Guards""guards">><<set $guardspoken3 to "yes">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $guardspoken1 is "yes">>
<<link "Healer Irving""healer">><<set $healerspoken3 to "yes">><</link><</if>>
<</if>>
<<if $maidspoken3 is "yes">>
You and Garrick make your way down the winding staircases and narrow corridors that lead to the servants’ quarters—humble, dimly lit, and quiet now that the evening meal has passed.
A faint scent of lavender soap and herbs lingers in the air. Wooden cots line the walls of the dormitory, each one with a small trunk or bundle tucked beneath it.
You ask after Elyse, the young maid who discovered the king.
An older maid—round in the shoulders and sharp in the eyes—looks up from folding linens nearby. She straightens as you approach, blocking your path slightly.
“What do you want from the girl?” she asks curtly, eyeing both of you with suspicion. “She’s had a hard enough time since that night.”
<<if $diplomacy >=50>>“We won’t scare her,” you say gently. “We just need to ask a few questions. We’ll be kind, I promise.”
The older maid hesitates, then sighs and nods.
“Alright. But I'm walking you there myself.”<<else>>
“We need to speak to her again,” you say firmly. “This is an investigation. It has to be done.”
The older woman’s lips press together in a disapproving line.
“Hmph. Just don’t make it worse.”<</if>>
She leads you to a cot near the end of the row, where a young girl sits cross-legged on her thin blanket, a book in her lap. She looks so small, with her wide eyes and pale hands gripping the book’s spine.
When she sees you both, she tenses.
“Elyse?” you say. “We need to talk to you about the night you found the king.”
Her lower lip trembles. Garrick shoots you a glance, but says nothing.
<<if $compassion >=50>>“It’s alright,” you assure her. “You’re not in trouble. We just need to know what you saw. That’s all.”<<else>>
“Just tell us what you remember. We don’t have time to waste.”<</if>>
Elyse nods, then places the book beside her on the cot and folds her hands in her lap.
“That night… it wasn’t supposed to be me,” she says, glancing toward another maid across the room. “Milla usually brings the king his dinner, but she was sick. I was the only one left.”
Her fingers fidget nervously.
“I’d never seen the king up close before. I work in the kitchens mostly. I was nervous.”
She takes a breath.
“The halls were empty. I didn’t see any guards. When I got to his door… I called out, but no one answered.”
She hesitates.
“I knocked. And the door… just opened.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows hard.
“I went in, put the tray down, and noticed things out of place. Papers on the floor. A chair was knocked over. I followed the mess and—”
She stops, her voice catching. You don’t press her. The image is clear enough.
“Then I screamed and ran for help.”
You pause, letting the silence stretch before asking, “Is there anything else you remember? Anything unusual?”
Elyse shakes her head.
“No. That’s all.”
You thank her. She nods and pulls the book back onto her lap, curling back into the cot. The older maid across the room watches you closely as you leave.
Out in the corridor, Garrick lets out a long breath.
“Well… that was fun.”
You glance sideways at him.
“We just made a twelve-year-old relive the worst moment of her life.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good times.”
You sigh.
“So where to next?” He asks.
“There's no one else left to question. Guess we’re heading back to Isolde.” You say.
[[next|no more]]
<</if>><<if $healerspoken1 is "yes">>You and Garrick wind through the palace’s upper corridors, past the lingering scent of dried herbs and candle smoke that always seems to cling to this wing. The hallway is quieter here, dimmed with the fading light of the setting sun.
You stop at the door to the healer’s chamber. When you open it, you’re met with an unexpected sight—not Healer Irving, but Lyra.
She's hunched over the desk, flipping through a book thicker than your forearm. She doesn't bother to look up as you approach.
"If you're looking for Irving, he's gone to bed,” she says flatly. “Once the sun goes down, so does he."
Garrick steps forward. "We're investigating the king's death."
<<if $sawLyra is "true">>Lyra turns from the desk, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“See $name? I told you to investigate, and you looked at me like I was insane.”
You narrow your eyes. “You accused a twelve-year-old of murder.”
“Doors don’t just open on their own,” Lyra snaps back. “That’s more than enough to warrant suspicion.”
Garrick raises both hands, stepping between you. “Enough. We’re not here to argue.”
You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to refocus. “We need to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then moves toward the back wall. “Very well, follow me.”<<else>>Lyra hums, flipping a page. “You know… I had a feeling someone would start poking around. Even considered doing it myself.”
You nod once, keeping your tone steady. “We’re here to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then turns toward the back wall with a casual wave of her hand. “Oh sure, follow me.”<</if>>
She leads you to Irving’s work table—cluttered with scrolls, a few dried leaves, and a half-filled goblet sealed with wax.
“These are Irving’s notes,” she says, gesturing. “He performed the autopsy himself. The king’s throat was swollen shut—his airway completely blocked.”
She points to a few marked areas on a scroll, then crosses to another stack of parchment.
“Irving took samples of the wine also and tested them against every known poison in Valoria. That’s when I suggested checking for something Solarian. Which—shockingly—he hadn’t even considered.“<<if $sawLyra is “true”>>You groan. “Yes, Lyra, I know. You’ve already told me this.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, it bears repeating.”
<<else>>
You sigh. “Alright, alright—we get it.”
Lyra smirks, clearly satisfied, and moves on.<</if>>
She retrieves a thick tome from a shelf above and flips it open to a page displaying a detailed sketch of a lily-like flower.
“This is Velmara’s Bloom,” she says, tapping the illustration. “Native to Solaria, in tiny doses, used to treat certain illnesses. But if too much is consumed—”
She drags a finger across her throat.
“It becomes lethal. The flower has a sweet, almost fruity scent—subtle enough to pass for perfume or blend into wine. Very discreet. Very effective.”
Garrick lets out a low whistle. “And rare?”
“Extremely,” Lyra confirms. “Especially here.”
She shuts the book with a thump. “Is that all?”
“For now,” you say.
“Good. Now get out. I have work to do,” she waves you both toward the door, already turning back to her book.
You and Garrick step into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you.
“That kind of flower shouldn’t have made it into the palace,” Garrick mutters. “Someone went through a lot of trouble to get it here.”
You nod, the pieces circling in your mind but still refusing to fit together.
“We’re close to something,” you say, though what that is remains out of reach.
Garrick exhales slowly, then turns to you.
“So… where to next?”
<<link "The Guards""guards">><<set $guardspoken2 to "yes">><</link>>
<<link "The Maid""themaid">><<set $maidspoken2 to "yes">><</link>>
<</if>>
<<if $healerspoken2 is "yes">>
You and Garrick wind through the palace’s upper corridors, past the lingering scent of dried herbs and candle smoke that always seems to cling to this wing. The hallway is quieter here, dimmed with the fading light of the setting sun.
You stop at the door to the healer’s chamber. When you open it, you’re met with an unexpected sight—not Healer Irving, but Lyra.
She's hunched over the desk, flipping through a book thicker than your forearm. She doesn't bother to look up as you approach.
"If you're looking for Irving, he's gone to bed,” she says flatly. “Once the sun goes down, so does he."
Garrick steps forward. "We're investigating the king's death."
<<if $sawLyra is "true">>Lyra turns from the desk, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“See $name? I told you to investigate, and you looked at me like I was insane.”
You narrow your eyes. “You accused a twelve-year-old of murder.”
“Doors don’t just open on their own,” Lyra snaps back. “That’s more than enough to warrant suspicion.”
Garrick raises both hands, stepping between you. “Enough. We’re not here to argue.”
You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to refocus. “We need to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then moves toward the back wall. “Very well, follow me.”
<<else>>Lyra hums, flipping a page. “You know… I had a feeling someone would start poking around. Even considered doing it myself.”
You nod once, keeping your tone steady. “We’re here to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then turns toward the back wall with a casual wave of her hand. “Oh sure, follow me.”<</if>>
She leads you to Irving’s work table—cluttered with scrolls, a few dried leaves, and a half-filled goblet sealed with wax.
“These are Irving’s notes,” she says, gesturing. “He performed the autopsy himself. The king’s throat was swollen shut—his airway completely blocked.”
She points to a few marked areas on a scroll, then crosses to another stack of parchment.
“Irving took samples of the wine also and tested them against every known poison in Valoria. That’s when I suggested checking for something Solarian. Which—shockingly—he hadn’t even considered.“<<if $sawLyra is “true”>>You groan. “Yes, Lyra, I know. You’ve already told me this.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, it bears repeating.”<<else>>
You sigh. “Alright, alright—we get it.”
Lyra smirks, clearly satisfied, and moves on.<</if>>
She retrieves a thick tome from a shelf above and flips it open to a page displaying a detailed sketch of a lily-like flower.
“This is Velmara’s Bloom,” she says, tapping the illustration. “Native to Solaria, in tiny doses, used to treat certain illnesses. But if too much is consumed—”
She drags a finger across her throat.
“It becomes lethal. The flower has a sweet, almost fruity scent—subtle enough to pass for perfume or blend into wine. Very discreet. Very effective.”
Garrick lets out a low whistle. “And rare?”
“Extremely,” Lyra confirms. “Especially here.”
She shuts the book with a thump. “Is that all?”
“For now,” you say.
“Good. Now get out. I have work to do,” she waves you both toward the door, already turning back to her book.
You and Garrick step into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you.
“That kind of flower shouldn’t have made it into the palace,” Garrick mutters. “Someone went through a lot of trouble to get it here.”
You nod, the pieces circling in your mind but still refusing to fit together.
“We’re close to something,” you say, though what that is remains out of reach.
Garrick exhales slowly, then turns to you.
“So… where to next?”
<<if $maidspoken1 is "yes">>
<<link "The Guards""guards"<<set $guardspoken3 to "yes">><</link>>
<<elseif $guardspoken1 is "yes">>
<<link "The Maid""themaid"<<set $maidspoken3 to "yes">><</link>><</if>>
<</if>>
<<if $healerspoken3 is "yes">>
You and Garrick wind through the palace’s upper corridors, past the lingering scent of dried herbs and candle smoke that always seems to cling to this wing. The hallway is quieter here, dimmed with the fading light of the setting sun.
You stop at the door to the healer’s chamber. When you open it, you’re met with an unexpected sight—not Healer Irving, but Lyra.
She's hunched over the desk, flipping through a book thicker than your forearm. She doesn't bother to look up as you approach.
"If you're looking for Irving, he's gone to bed,” she says flatly. “Once the sun goes down, so does he."
Garrick steps forward. "We're investigating the king's death."
<<if $sawLyra is "true">>Lyra turns from the desk, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“See $name? I told you to investigate, and you looked at me like I was insane.”
You narrow your eyes. “You accused a twelve-year-old of murder.”
“Doors don’t just open on their own,” Lyra snaps back. “That’s more than enough to warrant suspicion.”
Garrick raises both hands, stepping between you. “Enough. We’re not here to argue.”
You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to refocus. “We need to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then moves toward the back wall. “Very well, follow me.”
<<else>>
Lyra hums, flipping a page. “You know… I had a feeling someone would start poking around. Even considered doing it myself.”
You nod once, keeping your tone steady. “We’re here to learn more about the flower—the one in the poison. Can you help or not?”
Lyra eyes you for a moment, then turns toward the back wall with a casual wave of her hand. “Oh sure, follow me.”<</if>>
She leads you to Irving’s work table—cluttered with scrolls, a few dried leaves, and a half-filled goblet sealed with wax.
“These are Irving’s notes,” she says, gesturing. “He performed the autopsy himself. The king’s throat was swollen shut—his airway completely blocked.”
She points to a few marked areas on a scroll, then crosses to another stack of parchment.
“Irving took samples of the wine also and tested them against every known poison in Valoria. That’s when I suggested checking for something Solarian. Which—shockingly—he hadn’t even considered.“
<<if $sawLyra is "true">>
You groan. “Yes, Lyra, I know. You’ve already told me this.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, it bears repeating.”
<<else>>
You sigh. “Alright, alright—we get it.”
Lyra smirks, clearly satisfied, and moves on.<</if>>
She retrieves a thick tome from a shelf above and flips it open to a page displaying a detailed sketch of a lily-like flower.
“This is Velmara’s Bloom,” she says, tapping the illustration. “Native to Solaria, in tiny doses, used to treat certain illnesses. But if too much is consumed—”
She drags a finger across her throat.
“It becomes lethal. The flower has a sweet, almost fruity scent—subtle enough to pass for perfume or blend into wine. Very discreet. Very effective.”
Garrick lets out a low whistle. "And rare?”
"Extremely,” Lyra confirms. “Especially here.”
She shuts the book with a thump. “Is that all?”
“For now,” you say.
“Good. Now get out. I have work to do,” she waves you both toward the door, already turning back to her book.
You and Garrick step into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you.
“That kind of flower shouldn’t have made it into the palace,” Garrick mutters. “Someone went through a lot of trouble to get it here.”
You nod, the pieces circling in your mind but still refusing to fit together.
“We’re close to something,” you say, though what that is remains out of reach.
Garrick exhales slowly, then turns to you.
“So… where to next?”
“There's no one else left to question. Guess we’re heading back to Isolde.” You say.
[[Next|no more]]
<</if>><<if $guardspoken1 is "yes">>You and Garrick make your way to the barracks, the air growing heavier with the scent of steel and oil as you enter. The clatter of swords, low conversation, and the steady thud of boots echo off the stone walls.
As the two of you step inside, several heads turn. Garrick raises a hand.
“Inez. Markus. Over here.”
A pair of guards breaks off from the others and strides over. One is a woman with short-cropped hair and a crisp, well-kept uniform—calm and composed. The other is broader, with a scowl seemingly etched into his face and a posture that's already defensive.
“These two were assigned to the king’s quarters the night he died,” Garrick says quietly to you.
You step forward, eyes on Inez first.
“Tell me what you remember from that night.”
Inez gives a respectful nod.
“The king returned to his chambers late in the evening. He looked perfectly fine—nothing out of the ordinary. I stood at my post until my shift ended. Before I left, I did my sweep of the hallway. Everything was in order. I assumed the next guard would be there soon after.
Her account is brief, precise.
“Thank you,” you say, and shift your focus to Markus.
The guard’s jaw tightens. “I’ve already told the Captain everything.”
“Tell us again,” Garrick says, arms crossed.
Markus sighs. “The walk from the barracks to the king's wing is long. It's not just the distance—it's up two floors. Takes nearly an hour to get there."
Garrick scoffs. "Don't give us that excuse."
You narrow your eyes. "So you were late?"
Markus exhales through his nose. "Truth is, I was talking to one of the maids. She's been eyeing me up every time I pass by the kitchens, so I figured I'd… shoot my shot."
"And while you were flirting, the king was dying," Garrick says, voice flat.
Markus winces. "I didn't know I was that late. I ran as soon as I realized. On the way there, I ran into that girl—the one who found him."
His shoulders sag. "When she told me what she saw, I knew I'd messed up. So I ran and got the Captain."
With nothing mote to gain, you and Garrick exchange a glance.
"That's all we need," you say, turning to leave.
As the two of you leave the barracks and into the corridor, the noise fades behind you, replaced by the echo of your footsteps.
"Well," Garrick mutters, "Inez did her job. Markus… clearly didn't."
You nod. "We have a gap in the guard rotation, convenient for whoever did this."
Garrick folds his arms, frowning. "Feels like this was all planned."
You walk a few more steps in silence before he looks your way.
"So… where to next?"
[[The maid->themaid][$maidspoken2 = "yes"]]
[[Healer Irving->healer][$sethealerspoken2 = "yes"]]
<</if>>
<<if$guardspoken2 is "yes">>You and Garrick make your way to the barracks, the air growing heavier with the scent of steel and oil as you enter. The clatter of swords, low conversation, and the steady thud of boots echo off the stone walls.
As the two of you step inside, several heads turn. Garrick raises a hand.
“Inez. Markus. Over here.”
A pair of guards breaks off from the others and strides over. One is a woman with short-cropped hair and a crisp, well-kept uniform—calm and composed. The other is broader, with a scowl seemingly etched into his face and a posture that's already defensive.
“These two were assigned to the king’s quarters the night he died,” Garrick says quietly to you.
You step forward, eyes on Inez first.
“Tell me what you remember from that night.”
Inez gives a respectful nod.
“The king returned to his chambers late in the evening. He looked perfectly fine—nothing out of the ordinary. I stood at my post until my shift ended. Before I left, I did my sweep of the hallway. Everything was in order. I assumed the next guard would be there soon after.
Her account is brief, precise.
“Thank you,” you say, and shift your focus to Markus.
The guard’s jaw tightens. “I’ve already told the Captain everything.”
“Tell us again,” Garrick says, arms crossed.
Markus sighs. “The walk from the barracks to the king's wing is long. It's not just the distance—it's up two floors. Takes nearly an hour to get there."
Garrick scoffs. "Don't give us that excuse."
You narrow your eyes. "So you were late?"
Markus exhales through his nose. "Truth is, I was talking to one of the maids. She's been eyeing me up every time I pass by the kitchens, so I figured I'd… shoot my shot."
"And while you were flirting, the king was dying," Garrick says, voice flat.
Markus winces. "I didn't know I was that late. I ran as soon as I realized. On the way there, I ran into that girl—the one who found him."
His shoulders sag. "When she told me what she saw, I knew I'd messed up. So I ran and got the Captain."
With nothing mote to gain, you and Garrick exchange a glance.
"That's all we need," you say, turning to leave.
As the two of you leave the barracks and into the corridor, the noise fades behind you, replaced by the echo of your footsteps.
"Well," Garrick mutters, "Inez did her job. Markus… clearly didn't."
You nod. "We have a gap in the guard rotation, convenient for whoever did this."
Garrick folds his arms, frowning. "Feels like this was all planned."
You walk a few more steps in silence before he looks your way.
"So… where to next?"
<<if $maidspoken1 is "yes">><<link "Healer Irving""healer">><<set $healerspoken3 to "yes">><</link>>
<<elseif $healerspoken1 is "yes">>
<<link "The Maid""themaid"<<set $maidspoken3 to "yes">><</link>><</if>>
<</if>>
<<if $guardspoken3 is "yes">>
You and Garrick make your way to the barracks, the air growing heavier with the scent of steel and oil as you enter. The clatter of swords, low conversation, and the steady thud of boots echo off the stone walls.
As the two of you step inside, several heads turn. Garrick raises a hand.
“Inez. Markus. Over here.”
A pair of guards breaks off from the others and strides over. One is a woman with short-cropped hair and a crisp, well-kept uniform—calm and composed. The other is broader, with a scowl seemingly etched into his face and a posture that's already defensive.
“These two were assigned to the king’s quarters the night he died,” Garrick says quietly to you.
You step forward, eyes on Inez first.
“Tell me what you remember from that night.”
Inez gives a respectful nod.
“The king returned to his chambers late in the evening. He looked perfectly fine—nothing out of the ordinary. I stood at my post until my shift ended. Before I left, I did my sweep of the hallway. Everything was in order. I assumed the next guard would be there soon after.
Her account is brief, precise.
“Thank you,” you say, and shift your focus to Markus.
The guard’s jaw tightens. “I’ve already told the Captain everything.”
“Tell us again,” Garrick says, arms crossed.
Markus sighs. “The walk from the barracks to the king's wing is long. It's not just the distance—it's up two floors. Takes nearly an hour to get there."
Garrick scoffs. "Don't give us that excuse."
You narrow your eyes. "So you were late?"
Markus exhales through his nose. "Truth is, I was talking to one of the maids. She's been eyeing me up every time I pass by the kitchens, so I figured I'd… shoot my shot."
"And while you were flirting, the king was dying," Garrick says, voice flat.
Markus winces. "I didn't know I was that late. I ran as soon as I realized. On the way there, I ran into that girl—the one who found him."
His shoulders sag. "When she told me what she saw, I knew I'd messed up. So I ran and got the Captain."
With nothing mote to gain, you and Garrick exchange a glance.
"That's all we need," you say, turning to leave.
As the two of you leave the barracks and into the corridor, the noise fades behind you, replaced by the echo of your footsteps.
"Well," Garrick mutters, "Inez did her job. Markus… clearly didn't."
You nod. "We have a gap in the guard rotation, convenient for whoever did this."
Garrick folds his arms, frowning. "Feels like this was all planned."
You walk a few more steps in silence before he looks your way.
"So… where to next?"
“There's no one else left to question. Guess we’re heading back to Isolde.” You say.
[[next|no more]]<</if>>Captain Rowan doesn’t hesitate to take over the situation. The moment Garrick has the sheet secured, he’s already moving.
“Get her up,” he snaps.
The two nearest guards seize the woman by the arms and haul her to her feet. Rowan reaches out and yanks the cloth from her face.
<<if $hadLunch is "true">>You know that face. You saw it today— in your chambers, cleaning your room, bringing your lunch.
“She was in my room,” you say, voice sharp. “She brought me lunch this afternoon.”
Rowan’s eyes narrow. “You’re certain?”
You nod. “No doubt.” <<else>> You don’t recognize her. Not her face, not her eyes. She’s a stranger—someone you’ve never seen before. But that doesn’t make it easier to stomach how effortlessly she made her way in.
“How did she even get in here?” you mutter. <</if>>
“Take her to the cells,” Rowan orders. “Strip her of anything sharp. I want guards on her at all times.”
The guards drag the woman away, but she holds her head high, unbothered, as if none of this touches her. Rowan follows close behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He shuts the door firmly as he leaves.
You make your way to Isolde’s side. She’s still perched on the edge of her bed, long legs tucked beneath her. Her fingers slowly untangle from the twisted sheets as you sit beside her.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, keeping your voice low, steady.
She shakes her head. “No. No, I’m fine. Just—” Her voice catches. “I had just changed into my nightgown. I was by the mirror when I heard something. And then—”
Her hand drifts to her throat, fingertips brushing lightly over the skin.
“She had a knife to my neck. I didn’t even hear her come in. I shoved her, screamed, and then Garrick—he was there. He stopped her.
Your gaze drops to the blood on the floor. Isolde isn’t hurt. The intruder didn’t seem injured. So—
“Where did the blood come from?” you ask.
“I think that might be from me,” Garrick mutters.
You whip your head toward him.
He’s slumped against the wall, one hand bracing himself, the other pressed tightly against his side. His dark skin glistens with sweat beneath the flickering candlelight as the blood seeps through his fingers.
Isolde rises from the bed. “Garrick, you’re bleeding—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a dismissive wave.
“It’s nothing,” he says, “A scratch.”
“You’re bleeding all over the floor. That is not a scratch,” you snap, rising to your feet. “You need help.”
He waves you off again, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.”I’ve had worse.”
He pushes himself upright, teeth clenched against the effort.
“You stay with Isolde, I’ll handle this.”
His boots leave faint, bloody prints across the carpet as he heads for the door. He lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave, pulling the door shut behind him.
[[Next|scene-1.2]]The door clicks shut behind Garrick, leaving you and Isolde alone.
You remain at her side for a moment longer, watching her carefully. Her breathing is still uneven, but it’s beginning to settle. Only once you’re sure she’s steady do you stand and take in the room.
The window across from the bed is shattered, cold air slipping through the torn curtains. Glass litters the floor in sharp, glittering fragments. The furniture is overturned—chairs knocked aside, a table shoved up against the wall. The bedsheets are mostly on the floor, tangled and twisted from when Garrick subdued the intruder.
Isolde hasn’t moved. She sits rigidly on the bed’s edge, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, eyes following you as you move.
Suddenly, her voice cuts through the silence—soft, but pleading.
“Can I stay in your room tonight, $name? I… I don’t want to be alone.”
[[Let her stay the night with you]]
[[Let her say in her room]]<<set $IsoldeFriendship +=5>><<set $IsoldeSleepover to "true">>
“Of course,” you say. “You’re not spending the night alone after what happened.”
Isolde’s shoulders ease, if only slightly. She rises, and together you leave her ruined chambers behind.
You stay close to her as you walk, only stepping ahead when you reach your door to open it for her.
Inside, you gesture toward the bed, and Isolde doesn’t hesitate. She slips beneath the covers, red hair fanning out across the pillow as she pulls the covers up to her chin.
You step behind the divider to change.
<<if $attire is "Feminine">> You slip into your usual sleepwear—a pale, soft nightgown that falls to your knees.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Masculine">>You slip into your usual sleepwear—a loose linen nightshirt paired with matching pants.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Neutral">>You slip into your usual sleepwear—a loose nightshirt that falls to your knees, paired with matching pants.<</if>>
Once dressed, you cross the room and slip into bed beside her. The blankets are already warmed from her body heat, but once she shifts closer, something ice-cold presses against your leg.
“Gods, your feet are freezing!” you exclaim, jerking away.
Isolde snorts with laughter. “Are they?” she teases, pressing her foot deliberately against you again.
You squirm away from the icy touch. “Isolde, have some mercy.”
You nudge her foot aside with yours, more playful than serious. She only giggles in response, the weight of her earlier fear easing away with every shared breath of laughter.
Eventually, the laughter fades, and quiet stillness settles between you.
When Isolde speaks again, her voice is softer. “Will you tell me about the investigation? What did you and Garrick find?”
You glance over. “Are you sure you want to talk about that right now?”
She gives you a wry smile. “It’s better than lying here thinking about how I was almost killed.”
Fair enough.
You walk her through everything—speaking with Elyse, questioning the guards, and Lyra’s insights about the flower. Nothing you didn’t know before.
Isolde listens without interrupting, her expression unreadable. When you finish, she turns her gaze to the ceiling.
“Maybe we should search my father’s chambers,” she says quietly. “The entire wing has been closed off since he… since that night.”
You study her carefully. “Are you sure your ready for that?”
Her lips press into a thin line. “No.”
[[♥️ Pull her close]]
[[Keep your distance]]<<set$IsoldeFriendship -=5>> <<set $IsoldeSleepover to "false">>
“You’ll be safe here now, Isolde. The guards will stay stationed outside your door all night.”
Isolde’s lips press into a thin line. Disappointment flashes in her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. “Alright,” she mumbles. “Goodnight.”
You watch as she pulls the sheets around herself, gathering them tight as if to shield her from the wreckage of her room. She lies down without a word. You step outside, waiting until the guards take their posts at her door before turning away.
Back in your chambers, the door clicks shut behind you. You move through the familiar motions of getting ready for bed, each task feeling heavier than usual.
You step behind the divider to change.
<<if $attire is "Feminine">> You slip into your usual sleepwear—a pale, soft nightgown that falls to your knees.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Masculine">>You slip into your usual sleepwear—a loose linen nightshirt paired with matching pants.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Neutral">>You slip into your usual sleepwear—a loose nightshirt that falls to your knees, paired with matching pants.<</if>>
Once dressed, you sit at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on your knees, letting the weight of tonight settle over you.
<<if $hadLunch is "true">>The maid’s face is burned into your mind. She wasn’t just in Isolde’s chambers—she was in yours. She carried your lunch, stood in your space, perhaps rifling through anything she could use. Who knows what she saw? What might she have learned?
The thought gnaws at you.
You lie down, but your mind keeps turning.<<else>>The assassin moved through these halls as if she belonged—dressed as a maid, blending in, listening. Who knows where she had been before Isolde’s chambers? What did she overhear? What might she have sent back to Solaria?
The thought gnaws at you.
You lie down, but your mind keeps turning.<</if>>
[[Next|Morning]] <<set $IsoldeRomance +=5>>
You roll onto your side, closing the distance between you. Your hand finds her waist, pulling her closer until there’s nothing left between you.
She doesn’t resist. A quiet breath escapes her as she nestles against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her fingers curling softly against your chest.
Sleep takes you slowly, the weight of the day pulling you under. The last thing you feel is the warmth of Isolde’s breath against your collarbone as the world fades.
[[Next|Morning]]You say nothing more. The silence stretches between you two. You listen as her breathing slows, settling into a steady rhythm. Her eyes flutter shut. You follow soon after, the weight of the day finally pulling you to sleep.
[[Next|Morning]] The morning light creeps through the window, tugging you from your sleep.
<<if $IsoldeSleepover is "true">>You shift beneath the covers. The bed feels emptier than it should.
Isolde is gone.
You sit up, glancing around. The blankets on her side are folded back, the pillow still indented where she slept. She must have woken earlier. Something catches your eye on the nightstand—a folded note.
You unfold it and read.
Meet me at my father’s chambers this afternoon.
Isolde.
You remember the plans you made with Isolde last night, searching her father’s room for clues about his murder. You set aside the note and rise from the bed, ready to start the day.
<<else>>
You blink up at the ceiling. The quiet feels heavier than usual. Pushing off the bed, you rise and begin the day.<</if>>
Once washed, you dress for the day, shedding the haze of sleep as you move through the familiar routine.
<<if $attire is "Feminine">>
You cross the room to the wardrobe and pull out a gown of deep blue velvet. The bodice is structured and stiff, and it takes a firm tug to lace it tight at your back. You smooth down the layered skirts, the slick underdress catching the light with its silver-embroidered hem. The long sleeves fit snug at your arms, flaring slightly at the wrist where pale lace sits at the edge. You reach for a silver belt and fasten it at your waist, the chain settling against the folds of velvet.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Masculine">>You cross the room to the wardrobe and pull out a dark velvet doublet, shrugging it on and fastening the brass buttons that run down the front. The linen shirt underneath is cool against your skin; its cuffs fold neatly at your wrists. You step into a pair of fitted wool breeches, button them at the waist, then tug on your leather boots.<</if>>
<<if $attire is "Neutral">>
You cross the room to the wardrobe and pull out a high-waisted tunic of deep green silk. You button it diagonally across the chest until the decorative fastenings reach your thighs. Over it, you slip into a sleeveless velvet overgown of the same length. You finish with tailored leggings and calf-high boots.<</if>>
<<if $IsoldeSleepover is "true">>
As you make the final adjustments to your outfit, your thoughts turn to the day ahead. First, you’ll need to check on Garrick. His wound from last night isn’t something to brush off, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
Then there’s the assassin. Someone let her into this castle, and that answer is still buried somewhere within these walls.
And, of course, Isolde. Whatever she’s planning in her father’s chambers, she’s decided not to wait any longer.
Just as you are about to head out the door, a knock stops you.
When you open the door, Dorian stands in the hallway.
As always, his cloak is draped over one shoulder, the heavy fabric shifting as he moves. His long, dark curls are pulled back, though a few strands have fallen loose. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes stay sharp.
“$name, I was hoping to catch you before wou went anywhere,” he says.
You step aside, but he doesn’t enter.
“I need you to take over the interrogation,” he continues, voice low but direct. “The assassin hasn’t said anything useful, and there’s another matter I need to look into.”
Your brow furrows. “You’re stepping aside?”
“Only for now,” he replies. “There’s something else I need to look into. It may be connected, but I can’t say for certain yet.”
You meet his gaze. “Have you told the queen?”
“Not yet. I’ll speak with her when I have the chance. Until then, it’s yours.”
You exhale. “Alright. I’ll take it from here.”
He nods once. “Keep me informed.”
Without another word, he turns and disappears down the corridor, his cloak shifting with every step.
<<else>>
Just as you are about to head out the door, a knock stops you.
You open it to find Isolde standing in the hall. She’s back in her usual finery— a soft blue gown embroidered with silver along the sleeves and bodice, the fabric pressed and properly fitted. But beneath the polish, the cracks still show.
A few strands of hair have slipped loose from her braids; the rest is swept back, but not with the usual care. There’s a faint smudge between her eyes, a half-hearted attempt to hide the dark circles that stand out starkly against her pale skin.
“Good morning,” she says, though it doesn’t sound like one. “Can we talk?”
You, step aside, and she enters without waiting.
Isolde crosses to the lounge near the hearth and lowers herself to the cushions, smoothing her skier as she sits. You join her. For a moment, the only sound is birdsongs drifting in through the windows.
Then she speaks.
“I didn’t get the chance to ask you last night,” she begins, “but what have you and Garrick found out about my father?”
You lean back and walk her through what little you’ve learned—your talk with Elyse, questioning the guards, and Lyra’s insight into the flower. The investigation is stalled, and you both know it.
Isolde presses her lips together. “Maybe we should search my father’s chambers,” she says quietly. “They’ve been closed off since he… since that night.”
You glance at her. “Are you ready for that?”
“No.”
The word comes softly. She doesn’t sound certain—but she doesn’t take it back.
You nod. “I’ll meet you this afternoon.”
She rises, smoothing her gown again as she makes her way to the door. “Thank you.” she doesn’t wait for a reply, stepping out into the hall and leaving you alone once more.
You follow her out and step into the hall—only to see Dorian approaching. As always, his cloak is draped over one shoulder, the heavy fabric shifting as he moves. His long, dark curls are pulled back, though a few strands have fallen loose. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes stay sharp.
He stops short, eyes scanning over you before he speaks.
“$name. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” you ask.
“Yes. The assassin still hasn’t given us anything useful,” he says, “and I’m done leading the interrogation. I need you to take over.”
You raise a brow. “You’re stepping aside?”
“For now,” he replies. “There’s something else I need to look into. It may be connected, but I can’t say for certain yet.”
You meet his gaze. “Have you told the queen?”
“Not yet. I’ll speak with her when I have the chance. Until then, it’s yours.”
You exhale. “Alright. I’ll take it from here.”
He nods once. “Keep me informed.”
Without another word, he turns and disappears down the corridor, his cloak shifting with every step.
<</if>>
[[Next|garrickvisit]]You make your way through the quieter side of the palace, the scent of herbs and tinctures thick in the air.
Irving greets you with a small bow, his hands folded in front of him. “Apologies for last night. I was already asleep by the time you came along, asking about the flower. Had I known you were coming, I would have tried to stay up a bit later.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “Lyra was able to help us.”
“That’s no surprise. She’s a bright one, that girl.” he tilts his head. “Now let me guess—you’re here for Garrick?”
You nod.
Irving turns and gestures for you to follow. He leads you past rows of empty beds to a wide, sunlit alcove at the far end. The curtains are drawn back. Garrick sits propped up against a stack of pillows, a blanket half-tucked around his waist. His tunic is gone, revealing dark skin bandaged in blood-streaked bandages winding around his chest and ribs.
He shifts the moment he sees you, trying to sit up.
“Don’t you move,” you say, stepping closer.
“I’m not,” he lies. “Just—adjusting.”
You pull up a chair beside his bed and sit. “How are you feeling?”
Garrick flashes a crooked grin. “Like I said, I’ve had worse. These stitches won’t slow me down for long. I’ll be back at Isolde’s side before midday.”
Before you can respond, the door swings open and Lyra steps in, arms full of fresh bandages and folded linens. She wears a dark plum gown, the bodice stitched with silver lines that run down the front. The wide sleeves fall open at the elbows, the layered fabric swaying with every step.
“Those stitches won’t last if you keep moving around,” she says. “In case you’ve forgotten, you were stabbed, Garrick. Deeply.”
She sets the bandages down at his bedside.
“If you tear them, I will let you bleed out and die.”
You glance at the two of them as she begins unwrapping the dressing at his side. Garrick winces but doesn’t complain.
As the last strip of linen comes away, your eyes catch the full extent of the injury. The wound sits just beneath his ribs on the left side. The skin around it bruised and discolored, the stitches pulled taut in an uneven line. The area is still raw—angry red, with dried blood clinging to the skin in a mottled pattern. The thread glints faintly in the light where it pulls the flesh together.
He shifts slightly under your gaze, like he can feel you looking.
“I just don’t like being away from her,” he mumbles. “Isolde. She looked so shaken last night. I should have been there.”
You meet his eyes.
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say. “You were there when it counted. If you’d come even a minute later—”
“I know,” he cuts in. “Still doesn’t feel right.”
Lyra doesn’t say anything, but her hands grow gentler as she finishes cleaning the wound. Once the bandages are back in place, she steps away without a word and leaves the room.
The silence she leaves behind hangs heavy between you.
Garrick shifts in the bed, drawing in a slow breath. His hand drifts to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling loosely around the fabric. “I hate lying here,” he mutters. “While everything’s still happening. Not doing my job.”
[[♥️ You don’t have to feel like you’ve failed her—or anyone else. You didn’t. So please stay in bed. For me.]]
[[You did everything you could. No one’s asking for more than that. Just stay in bed.]]<<set $garrickRomanace +=5>>
His fingers go still.
“You mean that?” he asks.
You nod.
He exhales. “Alright, he says. “If it’s for you… I’ll stay put.”
He shifts again, easing down against the pillows with less resistance.
“But while I’m stuck here, you have to keep visiting,” he says. “If you don’t, I’ll get out of this bed and come find you.”
You let out a quiet laugh and rest your hand over his. He turns his palm up to meet yours, fingers curling gently around your hand as he chuckles with you.
[[Next|visitend]]<<set $garrickFriendship +=5>>
He lets out a short breath through his nose—half laugh, half sigh. “That’s what I get for surrounding myself with reasonable people.”
His head falls back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling now. “Fine. I’ll behave. I’ll stay put.”
He shifts again, easing down against the pillows with less resistance.
“But while I’m stuck here, you have to keep visiting,” he says. “If you don’t, I’ll get out of this bed and come find you.”
You let out a quiet laugh and rest a hand on his shoulder. He chuckles in return.
[[Next|visitend]]As the laughter fades, Garrick turns his head to face you, his expression suddenly serious. “You know… after you ran to get help, everything happened so fast.”
You glance over, waiting for him to continue.
“After we heard her scream, I didn’t even stop to think what it could be. I just ran.” He pauses. “The door was locked, so i had to break it down. I’m sure I smashed the damn frame with my shoulder.” he winces at the memory.
“When I got inside, Isolde was doing everything she could to stay ahead of her—running, jumping over furniture, whatever it took.”
You can picture it clearly—Isolde in her nightgown, barefoot and terrified.
“She slipped right under my arm as I came in.”
His hand grazes lightly against the bandage at his side.
“And that assassin—she knew what she was doing,” he says. “Made it hard to get a grip on her. Slashed me a few times before she really got me. But once I caught her wrist, it was over. Isolde was on the bed by then. She tossed me the sheet, and I wrapped around the woman’s arms just as you and the others came in.”
He shakes his head. “I keep replaying it. Thinking about what might’ve happened if we hadn’t already been on our way. If I’d been a minute later—”
“Like I said,” you cut in. “You were there when it mattered. That’s what counts.”
Garrick doesn’t argue. He gives a tired nod, eyes shutting for a moment.
You rise, smoothing out your clothes as you glance down at him. “Get some rest. I’ll check in on you later.”
His voice follows you as you turn to leave. “Thanks for coming.”
You glance back at him just as he settles into the pillows, eyes drifting closed.
Then you step into the other room, closing the door behind you softly.
[[Next|Lyra.scene]]As you close the door to Garrick’s room, you find Lyra sitting just outside, cross-legged on a bench against the wall. A worn leather book rests on her knee, half open, though she isn’t reading it. Her hands are busy grinding herbs into a small bowl with a stone pestle.
She doesn’t look up as you approach.
“How long until he’s back on his feet?” you ask.
She gives the pestle one final press before setting it aside. “If he listens to me? Three weeks, maybe. If he doesn’t, I’m sure he’ll be bedridden forever.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And how likely is that?”
She finally glances at you. “You’ve met him.”
Rising from the bench, she carries the book and bowl to a nearby table. You follow, leaning against the edge as you watch her hands move.
“I never took you for the healer type,” you say. “Given your usual… views on people.”
Lyra huffs through her nose. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy watching people suffer.”
[[♥️ So you do have a heart. I was starting to wonder.]]
[[You’re so prickly about it.]]<<set $lyraRomance +=5>>
She snorts. “It’s small, shriveled, and wrapped in chains—but yes, I do.”
She sets the bowl aside and wipes her hands with a rag. Then for a moment she goes quiet—rare for her. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more careful.
“My mother was sick,” she says. “This was before I came to the palace with my father. We never found out what it was. None of the healers could figure it out either. They tried, but it was useless.”
She starts folding the corners of her book’s pages—needing something to do with her hands.
“After she died, I decided if I couldn’t stop people from dying, I could at least make it less painful.” She turns to look at you. “I don’t want anyone else like her to be left without help. Even if all I’m doing is making the last part of their life less awful.”
Silence stretches between you.
You're caught off guard by the honesty—the softness that rarely breaks through her sharp edges.
She notices you're staring.
Her eyes narrow. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Before you can respond, she grabs a cloth and tosses it at you.
You catch it easily, grinning.
She grabs the next closest thing—a tray. “Go. You’re making it weird.”
You don’t doubt she’ll throw it.
You turn to leave before she gets the chance.
Behind you, you swear you hear her mutter, “Sentimental idiot.”
[[Next|lucian hall]]She snorts. “Prickly keeps people like you away.”
She sets the bowl aside and wipes her hands with a rag. Then for a moment she goes quiet—rare for her. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more careful.
“My mother was sick,” she says. “This was before I came to the palace with my father. We never found out what it was. None of the healers could figure it out either. They tried, but it was useless.”
She starts folding the corners of her book’s pages—needing something to do with her hands.
“After she died, I decided if I couldn’t stop people from dying, I could at least make it less painful.” She turns to look at you. “I don’t want anyone else like her to be left without help. Even if all I’m doing is making the last part of their life less awful.”
Silence stretches between you.
You're caught off guard by the honesty—the softness that rarely breaks through her sharp edges.
She notices you're staring.
Her eyes narrow. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Before you can respond, she grabs a cloth and tosses it at you.
You catch it easily, grinning.
She grabs the next closest thing—a tray. “Go. You’re making it weird.”
You don’t doubt she’ll throw it.
You turn to leave before she gets the chance.
Behind you, you swear you hear her mutter, “Sentimental idiot.”
[[Next|lucian hall]] You leave the healer’s wing behind, the stone corridors growing quieter as you make your way towards the king’s chambers.
You round the corner—and nearly walk straight into Lucian.
He stops short. “Oh. it’s you.”
He looks… uncertain. And that alone gives you pause.
“How is she?” he asks. “Isolde.”
You study him. “Shaken. But she’s holding together.”
He nods once, eyes dropping to the floor.
“If you really want to know how she’s doing,” you say, “you can ask her yourself. I’m meeting her now—in your father’s chambers.”
Lucian’s jaw tenses. He shakes his head. “No. i’ll stay out of it.”
You raise a brow. “Why? I know you and Isolde aren’t close, but I don’t think she’d stop you from going through your father’s things with her.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter.
“From the first day I arrived at the palace, it felt like she wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn’t family—I was just the bastard son our father suddenly decided to acknowledge.”
You listen without interrupting.
“I’ve tried, here and there. But it never felt like I belonged here. It’s easter when I don’t intrude. She has her circle. I’m not part of it—but you are.”
You walk together in silence until the carved double doors of the king’s chambers lie ahead.
You stop just short of them. “You don’t have to wait for her to invite you in. You could speak to her. Now.”
Lucian hesitates. His gaze lingers on the door, just long enough to make you think he might listen.
But then he shakes his head. “Not today.”
He turns and walks off without another word, footsteps fading down the hall behind you.
Lucian’s footsteps have barely faded when the heavy door creaks open.
Isolde stands in the doorway, her hand still resting on the handle.
“I thought I heard your voice,” she says. “Were you talking to someone?”
[[Tell the truth]]
[[Lie]]
You nod. “Lucian. He was just here.”
That catches her off guard—her brows lift slightly.
“He asked how you were doing.”
Isolde stares at you for a moment, then simply says, “Oh.”
She steps back, holding the door open. “Well. Come in, then.”
The moment passes as quickly as it came. She says nothing more as she moves into the room.
Isolde closes the door behind you, her hand hesitating on the latch before she lets it click shut.
The king’s chambers are exactly as they were the night he died.
The bed is untouched, the sheets still pulled back on one side. A silver goblet sits on the nightstand, its surface dulled with dust. The fire has long since gone cold, leaving only ash and scorched wood in the grate. Heavy curtains hang drawn, muting the room in a dim, grey light.
“Before he left, Sorren advised us not to clean anything,” Isolde says quietly. “Just in case the person who did this left something behind.”
You glance at her. “And no one’s been in here since?”
She shakes her head. “Only the guards—to check the windows and make sure the room stays sealed.”
“So how do you want to do this?” you ask.
“How about I take one half, and you the other.” She says.
She crosses to the far side of the room, already beginning to sift through one of the shelves. You stay on your side, letting your eyes move over the space.
There’s a lot to cover—but one place to start.
[[Desk->Desk][$firstPick = "desk"]]
[[Bookshelf->Bookshelf][$firstPick = "shelf"]]You shake your head. “No one.”
Isolde narrows her eyes at you, not entirely convinced. She doesn’t press you on it, though.
Instead, she steps back, holding the door open. “Well. Come in then.”
The moment passes as quickly as it came. She says nothing more as she moves into the room.
Isolde closes the door behind you, her hand hesitating on the latch before she lets it click shut.
The king’s chambers are exactly as they were the night he died.
The bed is untouched, the sheets still pulled back on one side. A silver goblet sits on the nightstand, its surface dulled with dust. The fire has long since gone cold, leaving only ash and scorched wood in the grate. Heavy curtains hang drawn, muting the room in a dim, grey light.
“Before he left, Sorren advised us not to clean anything,” Isolde says quietly. “Just in case the person who did this left something behind.”
You glance at her. “And no one’s been in here since?”
She shakes her head. “Only the guards—to check the windows and make sure the room stays sealed.”
“So how do you want to do this?” you ask.
“How about I take one half, and you the other.” She says.
She crosses to the far side of the room, already beginning to sift through one of the shelves. You stay on your side, letting your eyes move over the space.
There’s a lot to cover—but one place to start.
[[Desk->Desk][$firstPick = "desk"]]
[[Bookshelf->Bookshelf][$firstPick = "shelf"]]On your desk lies:
[[Your Journal]]
[[Your Art Supplies]]
[[Your Musical Instruments]]
<<set $L1 = true>>
The handwriting is childlike—uneven, with a few words misspelled. The ink is smudged where too much pressure pressed the quill into the page.
Before you can finish the first line, Isolde is already walking toward you.
“I remember that letter,” she says, glancing down over your shoulder. “I had just turned eight and decided I was going to run away. I don’t even remember why.”
You look up at her.
“I’d only packed three of my dolls, a wheel of cheese, and a half-full waterskin I’d taken from the kitchen,” she continues. “I made it partway down the path that leads away from the palace. My father followed the whole time, keeping his distance. When I started to tire, he carried me and my things back in his arms.
She exhales, the sound soft and sad, and she says nothing more.
You fold the letter carefully and return it to the pile.
[[Back to Desk->Desk]]<<set $L2 = true>>
You recognize the handwriting immediately.
The date places it just weeks before your father’s death. In the letter, he writes plainly about his condition—how the illness is worsening, how he knows he is dying.
He writes about you. //My child will be alone soon,// he says.
Then comes the request.
//You once made me a promise to repay me for saving your life. I never thought I’d ever need that favor. But I do now. Please, look after them.//
You remember the night he wrote it. You sat by the fire watching one hand move across the page while he coughed into the other.
The king could have easily ignored the request—or, at the very least, sent you to a well-kept home elsewhere. Instead, he brought you here, into the palace, without hesitation.
<<if $kingLiked == true>>It only deepens your respect for him. You already believed he was a good man, and this—this promise kept without question only confirms it.<</if>>
<<if $kingDisliked == true>>It doesn’t change your opinion of him. Whatever kindness this was, it isn’t enough to undo the years of distance you felt between you.<</if>>
<<if $kingUnsure == true>>You’re not sure what to make of it—a genuine act of care, or simply a debt repaid. You can’t say.<</if>>
You press the paper flat, smoothing folds, and return it to the pile.
[[Back to Desk->Desk]]<<set $L3 = true>>
This one is old. The paper has yellowed with age, the ink faded and blurred in places as if someone had wept over it.
You can’t make out every word, but enough remains.
//Please don’t look for me.
You can’t see me again.
This is goodbye.//
There’s no name signed at the bottom—only a small drawing of a single camellia flower.
[[Back to Desk->Desk]]<<if $firstPick === "desk">>
You cross the room to the king’s desk.
It hasn’t been touched in some time. Ink streaks dry and dark across the surface, pooling near an overturned inkwell. A ghostly, reddish-brown wine ring stains the wood beside it. The drawers sit slightly ajar, and loose pages lie scattered in uneven piles—some torn from journals, others full letters with broken seals.
You pull the drawers open one at a time. Most hold nothing more than old records, idle notes, and worn-down quills. But deeper in, you find a leather folder with a handful of letters inside. A few pages jut out farther than the rest.
You draw them free and begin to read.
<<if !$L1>>[[Read letter 1->Letter 1]]<</if>>
<<if !$L2>>[[Read letter 2->Letter 2]]<</if>>
<<if !$L3>>[[Read letter 3->Letter 3]]<</if>>
<<if $L1 && $L2 && $L3 === true>>You scan the desk once more, but nothing else stands out. You close the drawer and move on.
[[Check the bookshelf next.->Bookshelf]]
<</if>>
<<else>>
You cross the room to the king’s desk.
It hasn’t been touched in some time. Ink streaks dry and dark across the surface, pooling near an overturned inkwell. A ghostly, reddish-brown wine ring stains the wood beside it. The drawers sit slightly ajar, and loose pages lie scattered in uneven piles—some torn from journals, others full letters with broken seals.
You pull the drawers open one at a time. Most hold nothing more than old records, idle notes, and worn-down quills. But deeper in, you find a leather folder with a handful of letters inside. A few pages jut out farther than the rest.
You draw them free and begin to read.
[[Read letter 1->Letter 1]]
[[Read letter 2->Letter 2]]
[[Read letter 3->Letter 3]]
<<if $L1 && $L2 && $L3 === true>>You scan the desk once more, but nothing else stands out. You close the drawer and move on.<</if>>
[[Next|Wall]]
<</if>><<if $firstPick === "shelf">>
You scan the spines of old ledgers and history books until your hand catches on one that feels loose. You tug—and the entire bookshelf shudders forward with a dull click.
You freeze, then ease it open just enough to glimpse the darkness beyond. Cold, stale air seeps out, heavy with the smell of damp stone.
Isolde rushes over. “What did you do?”
“I pulled a book.”
She leans in beside you, staring into the passage. “This was behind his bookshelf the whole time?”
“Apparently.”
Her eyes narrow as she steps closer. “Do you think we should—”
A hurried rush of movement explodes from the darkness. Something flutters wildly past your face, and you jerk back with a shout.
“What—?!”
“A bat!” Isolde shrieks, ducking and covering her head.
The creature wheels overhead, wings beating furiously. You stumble back into the desk as it swoops low, and Isolde lets out another startled cry.
“Get it away from me!” she cries, darting behind you.
“It’s not on you!” you protest, swatting at the air—then the bat veers, narrowly missing your head. You throw up your arms. “Ah—now it’s on me! Is it on me?!”
You both scatter in opposite directions, dodging its frantic flight. The bat swoops again, missing you by inches, then careens toward the window.
“Open it! Open it!” you bark.
Isolde scrambles over to the latch, fumbling with shaking hands. The bat loops once more around the room, and she ducks as it passes her head before finally throwing the window wide.
Cold air rushes in.
The bat doesn’t hesitate—it dives straight for the opening and vanishes into the sky.
Both of you stand frozen for a moment, chests rising and falling quickly.
Isolde lets out a shaky laugh. “We are never going in there.”
You slam the bookshelf shut with more force than necessary. “Agreed.”
[[Check the desk next->Desk]]
<<else>>
You scan the spines of old ledgers and history books until your hand catches on one that feels loose. You tug—and the entire bookshelf shudders forward with a dull click.
You freeze, then ease it open just enough to glimpse the darkness beyond. Cold, stale air seeps out, heavy with the smell of damp stone.
Isolde rushes over. “What did you do?”
“I pulled a book.”
She leans in beside you, staring into the passage. “This was behind his bookshelf the whole time?”
“Apparently.”
Her eyes narrow as she steps closer. “Do you think we should—”
A hurried rush of movement explodes from the darkness. Something flutters wildly past your face, and you jerk back with a shout.
“What—?!”
“A bat!” Isolde shrieks, ducking and covering her head.
The creature wheels overhead, wings beating furiously. You stumble back into the desk as it swoops low, and Isolde lets out another startled cry.
“Get it away from me!” she cries, darting behind you.
“It’s not on you!” you protest, swatting at the air—then the bat veers, narrowly missing your head. You throw up your arms. “Ah—now it’s on me! Is it on me?!”
You both scatter in opposite directions, dodging its frantic flight. The bat swoops again, missing you by inches, then careens toward the window.
“Open it! Open it!” you bark.
Isolde scrambles over to the latch, fumbling with shaking hands. The bat loops once more around the room, and she ducks as it passes her head before finally throwing the window wide.
Cold air rushes in.
The bat doesn’t hesitate—it dives straight for the opening and vanishes into the sky.
Both of you stand frozen for a moment, chests rising and falling quickly.
Isolde lets out a shaky laugh. “We are never going in there.”
You slam the bookshelf shut with more force than necessary. “Agreed.”
[[Next|Wall]]
<</if>>You drift toward the wall, where a large portrait hangs in a carved wooden frame.
It’s a family portrait—King Alaric, Queen Elaine, and a younger Isolde. King Alaric sits at the center in full regalia, his pale blonde hair painted to look like gold, his skin warm-toned and clean-shaven. Beside him stands Queen Elaine, poised and striking. Between them is Isolde, hands folded, her expression unnaturally composed.
She looks so much like her mother.
You imagine Lucian must favor his own. Neither of the king’s children bears much resemblance to him—save for the same blue eyes they all share.
Footsteps approach from behind.
Isolde stops beside you, her gaze lifting to the painting. “That was the last portrait of her ever done,” she says.
You wait as she continues.
“She never liked sitting still for portraits,” Isolde goes on. “Neither did I. We spent that whole day fidgeting, trying to make each other laugh while the painter worked. Eventually, he gave up on us keeping still and painted over our faces using older portraits as reference .”
You recall what little you know of her mother—how death had come suddenly, around the same time your own father had died. Both victims of the same illness that swept across the kingdom.
“I wish you could have met her,” Isolde says quietly. “She would have liked you.”
“I wish I could have too.”
Isolde lingers for a moment longer, then drifts toward the window.
Left alone, you look back at the painting.
Something’s off.
You reach up and straighten the frame— it’s crooked. As you adjust it, a slip of parchment falls from behind the canvas, fluttering to the floor.
You crouch to pick it up. The wax seal is worn, but the royal crest is still faintly visible. Breaking it open, you skim the first few lines.
It’s addressed to Isolde—from the king.
You turn and walk it over to her. “I found this. Behind the painting.”
She takes the letter, and you both sit on the bench at the foot of the bed. Isolde begins to read aloud.
//My dear Isolde,
If you’re reading this, then I am gone. While I hope it’s of natural cause, I fear that may not be the case.
I’ve tried to hold this kingdom together, and I’ve made many mistakes in that time. I’ve kept things from you—not out of distrust, but to protect you from the weight I carry every day.
You will be queen now. And I know you don’t believe it yourself, but I have no doubt you will be a better ruler than I ever was. You care more than anyone I’ve ever known.
The last thing I want you to know is how much I love you.
—Father.//
Her voice catches. She pressed her hand to her mouth, tears running down her cheeks.
“He wrote this a month before he died,” she says, her voice cracking. “It’s like he knew something was going to happen.”
She wipes at her face, but the tears keep coming.
“He thought I’d be a good queen, but he’s wrong.” she whispers. “But he’s wrong. Ever since that crown was placed on my head, everything has gone wrong… and it’s only going to get worse.”
[[♥️ Pull her into a gentle embrace]]
[[Rest a hand on her shoulder]]<<set $IsoldeRomance +=5>>
You reach for her, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and drawing her close. She presses her face against your chest, letting the tears come.
“You’re not alone in this,” you murmur. He believed in you. So do I.”
Her fingers clutch at the fabric on your back. She nods, but no words come.
As her tears begin to settle, your eyes drift back to the letter in her hands. A second page is tucked behind it.
You slide it free. It’s addressed to Lucian.
Isolde doesn’t seem to notice.
You fold it carefully and slip it into your sleeve.
She exhales, the sound faint. “I think I need a moment,” she says softly. “Alone.”
You nod and rise without argument.
At the door, you glance back once. She’s still on the bench, the letter open in her lap.
Then you step out, closing the door behind you.
[[Next|inter1]]<<set $IsoldeFriendship +=5>>
You rest your hand gently on her shoulder. She leans into the touch, some of the tension from her shoulders easing.
“You’re not alone in this,” you murmur. He believed in you. So do I.”
She breaths out, slow and shaky.
As her tears begin to settle, your eyes drift back to the letter in her hands. A second page is tucked behind it.
You slide it free. It’s addressed to Lucian.
Isolde doesn’t seem to notice.
You fold it carefully and slip it into your sleeve.
She exhales, the sound faint. “I think I need a moment,” she says softly. “Alone.”
You nod and rise without argument.
At the door, you glance back once. She’s still on the bench, the letter open in her lap.
Then you step out, closing the door behind you.
[[Next|inter1]]The sky is streaked with gold and violet when you leave the king’s chambers.
You descend the winding stone steps into the lower levels of the palace, the air cooling with each turn.
At the bottom, the guards posted at the dungeon door step aside as you approach. One sings the door open, its hinges groaning.
They follow you into the interrogation room where the assassin is being held.
A plain wooden table sits at the center, flanked by two chairs. Two guards stand along the wall, their expressions unreadable.
The assassin is brought in moments later, shackled at the wrists and ankles.
Her disguise is gone.
She’s younger than you expected—though still a few years older than you. Her short black hair is hacked into a choppy bob, uneven as if she cut it herself. She has light olive skin, green eyes that meet yours without a flicker of fear.
The guards seat her across from you. For a moment, the only sound is the slow drip of water somewhere above.
You lean forward and ask the first question.
“Who are you?”
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze flicks over you—assessing. She’s unimpressed.
[[Persuade her to say her name.]]
[[Pretend you already know it.]]<<set $persuasion +=5>>
“Fine, don’t answer. Just know I’m giving you a chance to explain your side—before someone else decides your fate.”
Her eyes narrow before she finally speaks, “Leliana.”
The name slips out with the lilting, smooth cadence of a Solarian accent—soft vowels and a faint roll in the consonants.
Too easy, you think as you move on to the next question.
“How did you get into the palace?”
Leliana’s smirk returns. “You don’t already know?” Her tone drips with mockery.
You press her again.
“I’ve been here for months,” she says. “Hired as a maid. Kept my head down, learned the halls, the people. I waited for my moment.”
“Did you have help?” you ask.
Her expression goes still again. She doesn’t answer.
[[Whoever it was has probably abandoned you. You have no reason to protect them now.]]
[[Cooperate, and your punishment could be far less severe.]]<<set $deception +=5>>
“Fine, don’t answer. We both know I already know who you are… Jane.”
She rolls her eyes, letting out a faint scoff.
“It’s Leliana.”
She spits the name out in her Solarian accent—soft vowels and a faint roll in the consonants.
Too easy, you think as you move on to the next question.
“How did you get into the palace?”
Leliana’s smirk returns. “You don’t already know?” Her tone drips with mockery.
You press her again.
“I’ve been here for months,” she says. “Hired as a maid. Kept my head down, learned the halls, the people. I waited for my moment.”
“Did you have help?” you ask.
Her expression goes still again. She doesn’t answer.
[[Whoever it was has probably abandoned you. You have no reason to protect them now.]]
[[Cooperate, and your punishment could be far less severe.]]<<if $deception gt 50>>
Leliana studies you for a long moment before sighing. “I don’t know their name. I got my instructions through notes—left where I’d be sure to find them. That’s all.”
You move on yo your next question.
<<else>>
Her laugh is low and humorless. “You’re a bad liar. You’d never last a day in Solaria.”
You roll your eyes at her antics and press on to your next question.
<</if>>
“Why did you kill the king?”
Her green eyes lock on yours. A faint smile curves her lips.
Her voice drops, the Solarian accent curling around each word. “You want to know why I killed your king? I’ll tell you—but first a message.”
The room goes still.
“Tell your queen the Empress sends her regards. And tell her… Valoria’s end is near.”
Before you can respond, her jaw clenches. You hear the faint crunch—something breaking between her teeth.
Her eyes widen. She begins to cough, choke—her face flushing as she gasps for air.
“Poison!” one of the guards shouts, rushing to hold her upright. Another tries to pry her mouth open, but it’s too late.
Her body jerks once. Twice. Then slumps forward against the table, the chains rattling as they fall slack.
[[Next|end4]]<<if $persuastion gt 50>>
Leliana studies you for a long moment before sighing. “I don’t know their name. I got my instructions through notes—left where I’d be sure to find them. That’s all.”
You move on yo your next question.
<<else>>
Her laugh is low and humorless. “You’d make a terrible merchant. I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
You roll your eyes at her antics and press on to your next question.
<</if>>
“Why did you kill the king?”
Her green eyes lock on yours. A faint smile curves her lips.
Her voice drops, the Solarian accent curling around each word. “You want to know why I killed your king? I’ll tell you—but first a message.”
The room goes still.
“Tell your queen the Empress sends her regards. And tell her… Valoria’s end is near.”
Before you can respond, her jaw clenches. You hear the faint crunch—something breaking between her teeth.
Her eyes widen. She begins to cough, choke—her face flushing as she gasps for air.
“Poison!” one of the guards shouts, rushing to hold her upright. Another tries to pry her mouth open, but it’s too late.
Her body jerks once. Twice. Then slumps forward against the table, the chains rattling as they fall slack.
[[Next|end4]]You leave the dungeon at a near run, your footsteps echoing off the stone. The guards’ shouts from Leliana’s last moments still ring in your ears, the image of her lifeless eyes refusing to fade. Whoever had let her inside was still walking free within the palace walls—and they had already killed once.
You need to call the council. Now.
You take the stairs two at a time, pushing past guards and startled servants—until a familiar figure steps into your path.
“Advisor $name,” Dorian says. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t have time,” you tell him. “I’m calling an emergency council meeting—”
“This can’t wait,” he cuts in with a sharp edge to his voice. “I know who let the assassin into the palace.”
You stop mid-stride. “You—what?”
“Walk with me.”
He turns before you can respond, and you fall into step beside him as he leads you through the torchlit corridors, his long stride forcing you to keep pace.
“When her Majesty tasked me with investigating those in the palace, I began with correspondence,” he says. “Who has been sending letters beyond our borders—and more importantly, where those letters were going.”
You glance at him. “And?”
“I found several—sent and received—from Solara. Regularly, over the past few years. They stopped only last month.” His tone is cold. “I wanted confirmation before I named names. That is why you were sent to speak to our assassin today.”
The two of you round a corner—straight into the sight of two guards dragging someone from a room.
Lucian.
His clothes are disheveled, his dark hair mussed. He twists in their grip, shoving against them.
“What is this?” Lucian demands, his voice raw with anger. “Unhand me!”
The guards ignore him, forcing his arms behind his back.
You take a step forward. “Wait—”
But they’re already pulling him past you. Lucian’s eyes meet yours—confusion and fear flickering there.
“$name—” he begins, but the guards shove him onward.
Dorian watches the scene without a flicker of emotion. When Lucian is finally gone from the hall, he speaks again.
“There's no need for speculation anymore.” his gaze cuts back to you. “Lucian is the one behind everything.”
<<link "Chapter 5""Chapter 5">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 5">><</link>>You and Garrick walk side by side down the palace corridor, the night air hanging heavy with frustration. The investigation has gone nowhere. Every answer circles back to the same dead ends, and you can see the weight of it pressing on Garrick’s shoulders just as much as your own.
“I was hoping at least one of these leads would go somewhere,” Garrick mutters.
You nod, lips pressed into a thin line. “We haven’t learned a damn thing we didn’t already know.”
You’re just a few steps from Isolde’s chambers when the air splits with a scream.
Sharp. Panicked.
Isolde.
Garrick’s reaction is instant. His hand clamps down on your shoulder.
“Get help. Now.”
He takes off running toward her room before you can even respond, his boots hammering against the stone.
You turn and sprint in the opposite direction.
Rounding the corner, you spot Captain Rowan and a few guards. They’ve heard the scream too.
“Isolde’s room!” You shout, pointing. “Something’s wrong.”
No questions are asked. Steel is drawn as they fall in beside you, the group thundering back through the hall at a dead sprint.
When you burst into Isolde’s chambers, the sight freezes you in place.
Isolde is curled up on her bed, trembling, dressed in nothing but her nightgown. Her hair hangs loose, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.
Near the window, Garrick is grappling with a woman dressed in black, forcing her to the ground. His knee pins her back as he ties her wrists with a bed sheet. The woman’s face is masked, but her struggles are frantic, desperate.
There’s blood on the floor. Not much—but enough to twist your stomach.
Garrick’s breathing is harsh, his focus unbreakable as he yanks the sheet tight. Rowan and the guards flood in, weapons ready, the room surrounding the pair.
You barely register Rowan barking orders to secure the woman as your focus snaps back to Isolde, still huddled on the bed, her breathing shallow.
<<link "Chapter 4""Chapter 4">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 4">><</link>>