The crown began begging before anyone touched it. From her place on the floor, the scullery girl heard it whisper, “Please. Don’t put me on his head.”

The scream caught in Lucy’s throat, strangled by a sudden, heavy wave of silence that seemed to roll outward from the throne itself.

Down on the golden dais, Prince William bowed his head, his silver-blond hair catching the amber glow of the hanging chandeliers. The Chancellor’s pale hand hovered just inches above the young royal's scalp, holding the heavy golden circlet with a grip that looked less like a blessing and more like a chokehold.

“Don't let it touch me!” the crown shrieked inside Lucy’s head, a sound so violent she staggered backward, nearly dropping her wooden bucket. “He’s steering him! The hand guides the steel! It always has!”

“Guard!”

A sharp voice snapped Lucy back to reality. One of the balcony sentries, noticing the scullery girl swaying near the balustrade, lunged forward with a mailed fist. He grabbed the front of her rough wool tunic, lifting her off her feet with effortless cruelty.

“What are you doing up here, vermin?” the guard snarled, his breath hot and sour smelling of stale ale. “Get back to the scullery before I have you whipped until you can't sit for a month.”

“I dropped—I dropped my rag,” Lucy choked out, thrashing against his grip while keeping her terrified eyes fixed on the scene below.

The Chancellor was lowering the crown now. Inch by agonizing inch, the ancient gold descended toward William’s dark hair. At the exact moment the metal made contact with the prince’s head, a violent shudder wracked William’s frame. It wasn't the shiver of a sacred anointing; it was the convulsion of a man struck by lightning.

William gasped, his eyes flying open wide, bloodshot and filled with sudden, agonizing comprehension. His hands clawed instinctively at the arms of the throne, his knuckles whitening.

“Your Highness?” a courtier whispered nearby, stepping forward anxiously.

William didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, his body rigid as invisible anchors dragged him deeper into the cushioned seat.

From the gallery, Lucy watched in horror. The crown wasn't just sitting on his head; its inner prongs—hidden spikes invisible from a distance—were pressing inward, piercing the skin just beneath the hairline. A thin, dark line of blood began to trace a slow path down the side of the new king’s temple.

“They all bleed,” the crown whispered, its voice now reduced to a hollow, mocking chuckle inside Lucy’s mind. “Just a drop for the contract. Just a seal for the vault.”

“Move, you filthy little thief,” the guard barked, shaking Lucy hard enough to rattle her teeth before dragging her bodily away from the gallery rail and down the winding spiral stone staircase that led back to the kitchens.

She was thrown hard against the rough flagstones of the scullery corridor, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind her. The muffled roar of the cheering crowds outside filtered through the thick walls, sounding hollow and mocking, like cheers echoing from inside a coffin.

Lucy picked herself up, her wrists throbbing, her mind racing with a terrifying clarity. The palace wasn't just a home for royalty; it was a slaughterhouse wrapped in velvet. And the Chancellor—that smiling, grandfatherly figure who stood at the right hand of every monarch—was the butcher.

She couldn't stay here. But more importantly, she couldn't let William die the way the other six kings had.

That night, when the palace fell into a deceptive, heavy slumber, Lucy crept out of the straw-strewn corner where the kitchen staff slept. The corridors were dark, illuminated only by the dying embers of wall-sconces and the cold moonlight cutting through high Gothic windows.

She didn't head for the exit. She headed down.

Deeper than the kitchens, past the wine cellars and the old dungeons, lay the Royal Archives and the Forgotten Vaults—a labyrinth of stone where history was buried, and inconvenient truths were locked away. No scullery girl was ever permitted down here, which meant no one would look for her here either.

Armed with a single tallow candle, Lucy navigated the damp, winding tunnels. The walls around her grumbled in low, sleep-heavy tones—old stones complaining of shifting foundations, iron rings rusting in the mortar weeping about the damp. She ignored them all, keeping her eyes fixed on the heavy iron-banded door at the end of the hall.

The door to the inner vault.

As she approached, the heavy oak began to groan. Not from drafts, but from a deeper, older resonance.

“You shouldn't be here, child,” a voice echoed from the darkness beyond the door. It wasn't the crown this time. It was something heavier, deeper, rooted in the very bedrock of the castle. “The ledger is open. The ink is wet.”

Lucy’s hand hovered over the iron ring latch. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves, and pushed the door open.

Inside, the room was vast and circular, lined with towering shelves filled with heavy leather-bound ledgers. In the center of the room sat a massive stone desk, upon which lay an open book with pages made of yellowed parchment. But it was what stood beside the desk that made Lucy freeze.

A life-sized stone statue of a king—the very first king of Oakhaven—held an open metal box. And inside that box rested a spare set of heavy iron keys, glowing with a faint, ghostly blue light.

As Lucy stepped inside, the heavy iron door slammed shut behind her with a deafening crash that echoed through the catacombs.

The candle in her hand flickered and died, plunging her into absolute, suffocating darkness.