# Chapter 1: The Last Witness I never wanted to be special. I just wanted to be good at my job. That's what I told myself as I hurried through the palace corridors, medicine bag clutched tightly against my chest. The night guards nodded at me as I passed. They knew me by now—Emilia Reed, assistant to the royal physician. Nothing more, nothing less. The summons had come just as I was preparing for bed. A royal messenger, breathless at my door, with urgent news that the king's condition had worsened. Dr. Harlow was away in the southern provinces, treating an outbreak of fever. That left me. "His Majesty needs the tincture immediately," the messenger had said. "The night physician tried the usual remedies, but the king asked specifically for Dr. Harlow's mixture." I knew which one he meant. I'd helped prepare it many times—a special blend for the king's worsening lung condition. Dr. Harlow trusted me to mix it precisely, even when he was present. The palace at night was different—quieter, with shadows stretching across marble floors and tapestries that seemed to watch me pass. I'd been here countless times during daylight hours, but rarely after dark. The guards were more alert, their eyes following me with greater intensity. I reached the royal chambers and found fewer guards than usual. Only two stood at the outer doors, their faces grim. "I've brought the king's medicine," I said, showing them my physician's assistant badge. They exchanged a look I couldn't quite interpret. "His Majesty dismissed most of the night staff an hour ago," one guard said. "Said he wanted peace." "But he sent for this medicine," I replied, confused. "Go in," the other guard said after a moment. "He's been asking if you'd arrived." They opened the heavy doors to the royal antechamber. I expected to find at least a chamberlain or the night physician, but the room was empty. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting weak light across the ornate furniture. "Hello?" I called softly. "Your Majesty?" No answer came from the bedchamber beyond. I hesitated, then knocked gently on the inner door. "Your Majesty? It's Emilia Reed. I've brought your medicine." A weak voice answered, barely audible. "Enter." I pushed open the door and stepped into the king's bedchamber. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp beside the massive four-poster bed. King Leopold lay propped against several pillows, looking smaller than I remembered. I'd seen him just three days earlier during Dr. Harlow's regular visit, but he seemed to have aged years since then. "Where is everyone?" I asked, approaching cautiously. "I sent them away." His voice was thin, a whisper of what it once had been. "Too much fussing. Too many eyes watching me struggle for every breath." I moved closer, medical training taking over. "Your Majesty, you should have attendants. The night physician at least—" "I wanted peace," he interrupted, then broke into a coughing fit that shook his frail body. I rushed to his side, setting my bag on the bedside table. "Let me help you sit up more. It will ease your breathing." I adjusted his pillows, noting with concern how light he felt as I helped shift his position. His skin was cool and papery under my hands. The king was eighty-three, and despite Dr. Harlow's best efforts, his health had been declining steadily for months. "I've brought your tincture," I said, reaching for my bag. "Dr. Harlow prepared it before he left." "Good girl," the king murmured. "Always reliable, aren't you?" I measured the dark liquid into a small cup, adding water as Dr. Harlow had taught me. "This should help ease the tightness in your chest, Your Majesty." He took the cup with trembling hands. I wanted to help him drink, but knew he valued his dignity. He managed a small sip before lowering the cup. "Where is everyone else?" I asked again, looking around the empty chamber. "The night physician should be monitoring you." "I told you, I dismissed them." His eyes, rheumy but still sharp, fixed on mine. "Sometimes a king needs moments of truth, away from those who only see the crown." I didn't know how to respond to that. I was just an assistant, not meant for private conversations with the monarch. I busied myself arranging his medicines on the table. "You should finish the tincture, Your Majesty. And I should really call for the night physician—" "No." His voice suddenly had more strength. "Stay a moment. Just you." I stopped, uncertain. This wasn't protocol. Dr. Harlow would expect me to defer to the royal physicians. But the king was looking at me with such intensity that I couldn't refuse. "As you wish, Your Majesty." "How old are you, Emilia Reed?" The question surprised me. "Twenty-six, Your Majesty." He nodded slowly. "Young. But not too young. You have a good head on your shoulders. Harlow speaks highly of you." "Thank you, Your Majesty." I felt uncomfortable with this personal attention. "Do you know much about the history of our kingdom?" he asked, his breathing becoming more labored despite the medicine. "Some, Your Majesty. I studied the basic histories." He made a dismissive gesture. "Not what they teach in schools. The real history. The truths behind the crown." I shook my head, increasingly concerned about his condition. His color was worsening, a gray tinge spreading across his features. "Your Majesty, please finish your medicine. I really should call for help—" "There's no time," he whispered. "I can feel it. The end approaches." Fear shot through me. "Your Majesty, please let me call the royal physician—" "Listen to me." His voice was urgent now. "The crown is more than metal. The throne is more than wood and velvet. Do you understand?" I didn't understand at all, but I nodded anyway, hoping to calm him. "The ash ceremony," he continued, "is not just tradition. It's necessary. Vital." The ash ceremony was an ancient ritual performed at every coronation. The new monarch would receive ashes from the funeral pyre of the previous ruler, mixed into an oil that would anoint their forehead. It was said to transfer the wisdom of past rulers. A symbolic tradition, nothing more. "Yes, Your Majesty," I said, reaching for the bell pull to summon help. His breathing was becoming more erratic. Before I could reach it, his hand shot out with surprising strength and grabbed my wrist. I gasped, startled by the sudden movement and the intensity of his grip. "You don't understand," he said, pulling me closer. "But you will. Soon." His eyes were wide now, filled with an urgency that frightened me. I tried to pull away, but he held tight. "Your Majesty, please—" "The burden passes to you now," he whispered, his face inches from mine. A strange sensation passed through me where his skin touched mine—like a static shock, but warmer, deeper. I tried again to pull away, but he held me there, his eyes locked on mine. "Remember," he said, his voice suddenly stronger, clearer. "The crown endures. The king endures." Then his grip loosened. His eyes remained open, still fixed on mine, but the light in them faded. His chest rose once more, then fell still. "Your Majesty?" I whispered, my voice shaking. "King Leopold?" No response came. I pressed my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse I already knew wasn't there. The King was dead. And I was alone with him. Panic surged through me. I stumbled back from the bed, my mind racing. I needed to call for help. I needed to tell someone. The king had died with only me as witness. This wasn't right. There should have been royal physicians, advisors, family members. I lunged for the bell pull and yanked it hard, then again and again. Seconds later, I heard running footsteps in the antechamber. The doors burst open. Guards rushed in first, followed by a chamberlain and the night physician I'd been trying to summon. "The king," I gasped. "He's—he's gone." The night physician pushed past me to the bed. He checked for signs of life, his movements quick and practiced. After a moment, he looked up at the others and shook his head. "The king is dead," he announced formally. The chamberlain closed his eyes briefly, then turned to one of the guards. "Inform the Lord Chancellor immediately. And the prince." The guard nodded and hurried out. The night physician turned to me, his expression suspicious. "What happened? Why were you alone with His Majesty?" "I brought his medicine," I explained, my voice unsteady. "He'd dismissed everyone else. He wanted quiet. I tried to insist on calling for you, but he refused. Then he just... stopped breathing." "Did he say anything?" the chamberlain asked sharply. I hesitated, remembering the king's strange words. "He was confused, I think. Talking about the crown and the ash ceremony." The chamberlain and physician exchanged a look I couldn't interpret. "What exactly did he say?" the chamberlain pressed. "Something about a burden passing to me? And that the king endures?" I shook my head. "He wasn't making sense. I should have called for help sooner." The chamberlain's face paled. "You're certain those were his words? 'The burden passes to you'?" "Yes, but—" More people were entering the room now—advisors in hastily donned formal clothes, more guards, servants. The chamber quickly filled with voices and movement. The chamberlain pulled the night physician aside, speaking in urgent whispers. They both kept glancing at me. I stood there, feeling increasingly out of place as officials took charge of the situation. Someone draped a sheet over the king's face. Someone else was writing in an official ledger, recording the time and circumstances of death. "Miss Reed," a guard approached me. "You should return home now. We'll need your full statement tomorrow." I nodded numbly, gathering my medicine bag. As I moved toward the door, I noticed the chamberlain watching me intently. He whispered something to another official, who also turned to stare at me. The guard escorted me through the palace. Everything felt surreal—the corridors seemed longer, the shadows deeper. My mind kept replaying those final moments with the king. His strange words. The intensity in his eyes. That odd sensation when he gripped my wrist. Outside, the night air was cool against my face. The guard called for a palace carriage to take me home. "Someone will come for you tomorrow," he said as I climbed in. "For your official statement." The carriage ride through the sleeping city was a blur. My small apartment near the university medical school felt foreign when I entered it, as if I'd been away for years rather than hours. I moved mechanically, setting down my bag, removing my shoes. I should sleep, I knew. Tomorrow would bring questions, formalities, perhaps even suspicion about why I was alone with the king in his final moments. But as I lay in bed, sleep wouldn't come. My head began to throb, a dull pain that grew steadily worse until it felt like my skull might split open. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to relieve the pressure. Behind my closed eyelids, images flashed—places I'd never been, people I'd never met. A battlefield strewn with bodies. A woman in an ancient-style dress, weeping. A throne room that looked like the current one, but somehow different, older. I sat up gasping, my nightdress soaked with sweat. The headache intensified, bringing with it more images, more fragments. Signing a treaty with hands that weren't mine—older, male hands. Riding a horse through mountains I'd never visited. Standing on a balcony, waving to cheering crowds. "Stop," I whispered, pressing my hands harder against my head. "Stop!" But the images kept coming, faster now. Memories that couldn't possibly be mine. A coronation. A wedding to a woman whose face I somehow knew intimately. Children growing up before my eyes. Wars. Peacetime. Decisions that affected thousands. I stumbled to my washbasin and splashed cold water on my face. In the small mirror above it, my reflection looked the same—brown hair falling loose around my shoulders, green eyes wide with fear. But something felt different. As if someone else was looking out through my eyes. "This isn't real," I told myself. "It's shock. Trauma from witnessing the king's death." I returned to bed, curling into a tight ball as the headache pounded through me. Eventually, exhaustion won out over pain, and I fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of lives I'd never lived. I dreamed of coronations—not one, but many. Different faces, different eras, but always the same crown. Always the same ritual with ashes. In each dream, I felt the weight of the crown, the responsibility it represented. I made decisions, led armies, signed treaties. I lived and died, over and over. When morning light finally filtered through my window, I woke feeling as if I hadn't slept at all. The headache had subsided to a dull throb, but the strange dreams lingered, too vivid to dismiss. I sat up slowly, trying to make sense of what had happened. The king was dead. I had been the last to see him alive. He had said strange things about burdens and endurance. And now these dreams, these fragments of memories that couldn't possibly be mine. I needed to report to the palace. They would want my statement about the king's final moments. I would tell them exactly what happened, and then I would return to my normal life as a physician's assistant. Whatever strange reaction I was having—the headache, the dreams—was surely temporary. Shock, as I'd told myself during the night. I dressed carefully in my most professional attire, braided my hair neatly, and tried to eat a small breakfast, though my stomach rebelled at the thought of food. The strange memories continued to surface at random moments—a feast in a great hall, a private conversation with advisors, the feeling of a sword in my hand. I pushed them away, focusing on the real world around me. My small apartment. My books on medicine and anatomy. The life I knew. A knock at my door startled me. It was early still, barely past dawn. I wasn't expecting anyone. When I opened the door, I found two royal guards in full ceremonial armor standing in the hallway. Behind them was an ornate carriage with the royal crest emblazoned on its side. "Miss Emilia Reed?" one guard asked formally. "Yes?" "We've been sent to escort you to the palace immediately." I nodded, assuming this was about my statement regarding the king's death. "Of course. Let me get my cloak." "No need, miss," the guard said. "Everything will be provided for you at the palace." Something in his tone made me pause. This seemed excessive for a simple witness statement. "What is this about exactly?" I asked. The guards exchanged a look. "We're to escort you to the palace for the coronation preparations," the second guard said. "Coronation?" I repeated, confused. "But that won't happen for days, surely. There are mourning periods, preparations—" "Our orders are to bring you immediately," the first guard interrupted. "The Lord Chancellor is waiting." A chill ran through me. Something was wrong. The way they were looking at me—not as a witness or the physician's assistant, but as something else entirely. "The coronation," I repeated slowly, a terrible suspicion forming in my mind as fragments of my dreams resurfaced. The king's last words echoed in my ears. *The burden passes to you now.*