The palace bells rang only once before the doors of the royal chamber burst open.
Lyra had been preparing for her coronation when the guards dragged her father across the marble floor. His white ceremonial robe was stained red at the shoulder. Behind him stood Lord Varyn, smiling as if he had arrived for a banquet instead of a betrayal.
“Your Majesty,” Varyn said softly, “the council has decided the kingdom needs stronger hands.”
Lyra reached for the sword above the fireplace, but her father shook his head.
“Run,” he whispered.
The torches went out. In the darkness, someone seized Lyra’s arm and pulled her through a hidden passage behind the throne. She heard shouting, steel, and then one terrible sound—the crown striking the floor.
By dawn, the princess of Asterra was believed dead.