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  ?? CHAPTER ONE

  There had never been a kingdom like

  Makarios

  Not in the southern valleys where drought swallowed vilges whole. Not beyond the northern ridges where wars bled fields dry. Not across the eastern seas where merchants whispered of famine and pgue.

  Makarios stood untouched.

  Protected.

  As though cupped in unseen hands.

  Warped in a bubble of greatness.

  The nd itself seemed aware of its blessing. Wheat bowed heavy and golden before harvest. The greatfriy River flowed steady and clear, never flooding too far nor shrinking too thin. Orchards ripened in precise season, as if following sacred instruction.

  And the people — they smiled easily.

  Children ran barefoot across the rocks without fear. Bakers left their doors open at dawn. Merchants traveled without armed escort.

  There had not been a public execution in over thirty years.

  It was not merely peace.

  It was harmony.

  And harmony, the people believed, came from faith.

  Every twenty years, the Rite of Revetion was performed beneath the cathedral carved from white stone at the kingdom’s heart. The Prophet would descend to the ancient altar and return with the word of God.

  For more than a century, those words had been merciful.

  'Blessings upon harvest.'

  'Protection from invasion.'

  'Long life to the crown.'

  The kingdom believed itself chosen.

  And perhaps that belief made it so.

  At the center of this golden age stood King Aric and Queen Elowen.

  They were not rulers of intimidation.

  They were rulers of warmth.

  King Aric was steady and thoughtful, known to walk among builders and farmers alike. He listened before speaking. He carried the weight of the crown without arrogance.

  Queen Elowen was sunlight made flesh.

  She ughed in public gardens. She knelt beside the sick. She hosted feasts not only for nobles but for soldiers and seamstresses. It was said that if the Queen entered a room heavy with grief, it lightened.

  The people loved her fiercely.

  When it was announced she carried a child, the kingdom erupted into celebration.

  Bells rang for hours. Wine was poured freely. Silk banners were stitched with gold thread bearing the symbol of the coming heir — a rising sun cradled by two open hands.

  The future was secure.

  Or so they believed?!

  ______________________________________________

  The pace itself reflected the kingdom’s tidiness and grace.

  White marble floors polished to mirror shine. Gardens trimmed into careful arcs and spirals. Fountains that sang softly rather than roared. Even the guards stood not rigid but dignified, their armor gleaming without menace, the maids worked with honor.

  'Nothing was neglected.'

  'Nothing rotted.'

  'Even the air felt clean.'

  The pace nursery had already been prepared though the child had months yet to grow. Pale cream walls, silver-thread curtains, a cradle carved from ash-wood, blessed at the cathedral altar.

  Queen Elowen would often sit there in the evenings, one hand resting over her stomach, humming soft melodies passed down from

  her mother.

  King Aric would kneel beside her, pressing his ear lightly against her belly, smiling whenever he felt movement.

  “Our child will inherit a kingdom without fear,” he once said.

  Elowen smiled gently. “Then let us raise them without teaching fear.”

  They spoke not of politics in that room.

  'Not of threats.'

  'Not of power.'

  'Only of hope.'

  Outside, the capital mirrored their joy.

  Artisanal painted murals of the royal family. Bakers crafted small sugared crowns. Priests spoke of destiny in warm, glowing tones.

  Even the skies seemed gentler that year.

  Sunsets stretched long and amber. Nights were calm, stars bright and near.

  It was as if Makarios existed inside a protective bubble — untouched by the cruelty of the wider world.

  Allies from distant kingdoms often remarked upon it.

  “How does your nd remain so whole?” they would ask.

  The answer was always the same:

  “We are faithful.”

  And this faith had never once failed them.

  The Prophet had served for three decades.

  Machir.

  Soft-spoken. Observant. Devout.

  He was not feared. He was respected.

  When he walked through the capital, children bowed awkwardly and elders offered bread. He accepted neither glory nor coin. His white robes were simple, though immacutely kept.

  He did not seek attention.

  He sought crity.

  Though few knew it, Machir carried more than mortal burden.

  There were nights when he knelt alone in the cathedral long after candles burned low, whispering prayers not for prophecy — but for mercy.

  He loved the kingdom.

  He loved its people.

  He loved the Queen’s ughter echoing across the courtyard.

  And sometimes, when he stood at the altar, he felt something inside him ache.

  Not doubt.

  But awareness.

  Because he knew what the people did not.

  Blessings are not permanent.

  Peace is not untouchable.

  History moves in cycles.

  And even the brightest kingdom cannot remain suspended forever.

  But he did not speak such thoughts aloud.

  Not yet.

  On the morning of the twentieth year’s approach, the capital shimmered in preparation.

  White banners were unfurled from cathedral towers. The six ceremonial braziers were polished. Choirs rehearsed hymns that had been sung for generations.

  The Rite of Revetion was coming.

  And no one felt fear.

  Why would they?

  For over a hundred years, every prophecy had promised abundance.

  The Queen stood upon the pace balcony that afternoon, one hand resting proudly on her rounded belly.

  Below her, the crowd gathered to catch sight of her.

  King Aric stood beside her, tall and calm, his arm gently circling her waist in support.

  They looked like a painting of perfection, filled with hope and strength.

  The future lies between them.

  The sunlight caught in Elowen’s hair like a halo. The King’s expression was protective, but joyful.

  A cheer rose from below.

  “Long live the Queen!”

  “Long live the heir!”

  “Blessed be the coming age!”

  Elowen smiled warmly, waving softly.

  In that moment, nothing seemed capable of fracture.

  No shadow touched the pace walls.

  No whisper of unrest stirred the air.

  Even Machir, standing quietly at the courtyard’s edge, allowed himself a small, fragile smile.

  Perhaps, he thought, mercy would continue.

  Perhaps the cycle would be gentle.

  Perhaps destiny would not demand its due this time.

  Above them, the sky was impossibly clear.

  The kingdom shone.

  The people believed themselves protected by more than walls — by divine favor.

  And for a breath in history, they were untouched.

  The King leaned closer to his Queen.

  “Our child will be born into light,” he said softly.

  Elowen squeezed his hand.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Neither of them noticed the faintest tremor in the cathedral bells.

  Neither of them saw the Prophet’s gaze lift briefly toward the horizon.

  Where, far beyond the hills, the moon waited.

  'Not yet red.'

  'Not yet rising.'

  'But patient.'

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Borrdcat

  I'm new in writing and just wanted to try it out (?????????) first story.

  So please forgive me for the irregur updates (?人? ?????????)