The year’s end loomed over the kingdom with a solemnity that no other date could match. For the people of Rome, these days were not a festivity of excess, but a profound homage titled “The Heartbeat of Silence and the First Light.” On this occasion, preparations shunned opulence: decorations were subtle, drawn from nature itself, and the garments were of an almost ascetic simplicity.

  The tribute knew no official start time. From the first glimmer of dawn, the inhabitants awoke plunged into an introspective stillness. In the corner of every home, silence served to exhume memories: the echoes of the revolution from decades ago, the faces of those who had departed, and the cracks in the soul still waiting to be repaired.

  In the Valois mansion, tradition was an exercise in liberation. Each member of the large family poured their spirit onto paper; they wrote of their resentments, their hidden sins, and the origin of every tear shed during the cycle that was ending. Those letters, heavy with emotional weight, were buried beneath the roots of an ancient tree in the central courtyard. Beside them, they planted a new flower, a living symbol that only after burying pain can prosperity bloom.

  In contrast, the House of Akvis practiced a much rauder and more visceral rite. In the center of their garden, surrounded by suffocating vegetation, stood a great monolithic stone. There, the three family members wielded a small blade to open a slit in their palms. With hands stained by their own essence, they marked the stone with their bloody prints. For the Akvis, that act reaffirmed that their lineage kept beating—a personal sacrifice reminding them they were willing to shed every last drop of their being to strengthen their power.

  Other noble houses wove their own tributes. The Himnt family planted a flower for every life cut short during the year, while swearing oaths to improve as individuals. In the House of Vallenari, the air filled with melancholic melodies; musicians and singers by lineage, each composed a piece dedicated to the absent. For their part, the Beaumonts, masters of elegance and tailoring, dedicated the week prior to crafting exquisite garments. Those works of textile art, which they would have wished to give to their loved ones in life, were laid upon their tombs at the year’s final breath.

  The Royal House, however, lacked a unified tradition. Being a lineage marked by such specific absences, each kept their mourning in their own way. Priscila, faithful to her silent devotion, rose before the sun to craft candles from virgin wax. She molded a purple female figure for her mother, adorning it with dried rose petals; for her father, she created a yellow male figure, infused with the scent of cinnamon and mint. They were long tapers, designed to burn and give light to her memories throughout the entire day.

  Queen Edesia, for her part, immersed herself in the mysticism of prayer and fasting. She did not taste a bite until noon, offering her prayers to the gods for her husband and her daughter. She needed no elaborate rituals; the weight of those thoughts which, year after year, she refused to utter aloud was enough, letting silence be the only witness to her grief.

  The clock in the main hall gave the first chime of 2:50 am. The atmosphere, which until a moment ago was a murmur of tired conversations and the rustle of silks, transformed radically. Festive panic was replaced by ancestral respect.

  Priscila felt a shiver as she noticed the musicians putting their instruments away in velvet cases. The laughter of the Valois died out, and even the Beaumonts, always impeccable, lowered their gaze with a solemnity bordering on the religious. It was time.

  —It’s time —Máximo whispered. His voice, though low, sounded clear in the vacuum that was beginning to form in the air.

  Priscila nodded, feeling the weight of the red dress and the cold of the gem at her neck. Without a word, they slipped through the crowd that was beginning to walk with muffled steps toward the grand courtyard. But they did not stop there; while Queen Edesia positioned herself before the winter altar, the two youths diverted toward the spiral staircase leading to the highest tower of the south wing.

  Upon reaching the top, the early morning wind hit them with the force of a warning. From there, the kingdom of Rome looked like a sea of shadows dotted by the small lights of houses, where every family, at that precise instant, was plunging into silence.

  —Ten minutes —Máximo murmured, checking his pocket watch before tucking it away.

  At exactly 2:50, silence fell over the world like a heavy blanket. Priscila leaned against the cold stone of the battlement. Nothing could be heard. Not a carriage, not the bark of a dog, not even the crackle of distant torches. It was a silence so absolute it hurt.

  And then, just as she feared, the void began to fill. “Thirty-one...” the wind whispered, or perhaps it was only her mind. “Twelve...” the figure vibrated in the freezing air.

  Priscila closed her eyes tight, her fingers clutching the golden cloth that wrapped her seed. She felt the floor of the tower vibrate, or perhaps it was her own heart trying to escape her chest. “One... seven...”

  The air around her began to smell of ashes, that persistent aroma Coral had found under her pillow. Panic flooded her; she felt that if she opened her eyes, she would see the palace towers burning just as in her nightmare.

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  She felt a warm, firm hand over hers. Máximo did not break the vow of silence, but his touch was an anchor. His fingers intertwined with hers, covering the small seed of light, and Priscila could feel the warmth of his skin filtering through the satin. He was there. He was real, and the numbers, for a second, receded before the pressure of his grip.

  They remained like that, united in the darkness, listening to the heartbeat of silence. The longest ten minutes of their lives passed while the horizon began to turn an electric blue, announcing that the "Primal Light" was about to be born.

  Priscila opened her eyes. The kingdom remained mute, but the first line of gold was beginning to tear across the sky.

  —Máximo —she whispered, breaking the silence just as the first light touched the tip of the tower—, the fire is approaching... but I don't want to face it alone.

  Máximo did not respond with words. He simply raised both their hands, still joined, so that the first ray of the new year would bathe the golden seed they held between them.

  The descent from the tower was silent, as if both feared the slightest noise would break the spell of the "Primal Light" they still felt vibrating in their hands. Priscila held the seed wrapped in the golden cloth with an almost religious delicacy, while Máximo walked at her side, so close his shoulder brushed hers, offering that silent security only he knew how to give.

  When they reached the small sacred orchard, a corner protected by walls of ancient stone and winter vines, they stopped. The sunlight was clearer now, revealing the details of the garden.

  —Here —Priscila whispered, pointing to a small clearing of black earth that seemed to have been prepared by destiny.

  They knelt together. Priscila began to push the earth aside with her fingers, but she stopped dead. Her eyes widened, and the air escaped her lungs.

  —Máximo... look at this.

  Beneath the top layer of soil, there were no stones or roots. There were ashes. A thick, grayish layer that gave off that same rancid smell that haunted her dreams and that Coral had found in her sheets. But it wasn't just that. Digging a bit further, Priscila pulled out a small metallic object, blackened by fire: it was an ancient royal seal, bearing the emblem of her parents' lineage, but split exactly in half.

  —"The kingdom shall split in two" —Máximo murmured, remembering the book’s prophecy. The color drained from his face at the sight of the seal—. This shouldn't be here, Priscila. Someone has sown ashes where there should be life.

  Priscila felt the warmth of the sun vanish. Just as she was about to say something, the sound of heels clicking against the stone pavement shattered the atmosphere.

  —My, what a... rustic scene —the voice of Selene Akvis, sharp and laced with venom, came from the entrance of the orchard.

  Selene was there, dressed in a dark fur coat that highlighted the paleness of her face. Her hands, still bearing the red marks of her family's ceremony (which she tried to hide with lace gloves), held a withered flower.

  —I didn't know the future queen had taken up graveyard gardening —Selene continued, approaching with a twisted smile as she looked at the ashes and the broken seal—. Though I suppose it’s fitting. Smoke follows you everywhere, doesn't it, Priscila?

  She stopped in front of them, ignoring Máximo's stern look, and fixed her eyes on Priscila’s hand, where the golden cloth still shimmered.

  —It’s a pity you’re wasting your "Primal Light" on dead earth —Selene declared with a hollow laugh—. My father says that next year there will be no flowers for anyone, only ashes. And judging by what’s in your hands, it seems you’ve already begun your own burial. Isn't that right, Máximo? Or have you also gone blind for a bit of red satin?

  Priscila squeezed the broken seal in her fist, feeling the sharp edge cut into her palm, but she did not look away from Selene’s dark eyes. The silent New Year's war had just begun.

  Máximo, who hadn't let go of Priscila’s hand for a single second, felt the princess’s fingers tighten around the broken seal. The tension in the air was so thick it could almost be cut, and Selene, with her habitual instinct for cruelty, waited anxiously for an explosion, a scream, or a slap to justify her contempt.

  Máximo looked at Selene. His eyes, usually kind and analytical, turned cold as marble, but not from anger, but from a profound disappointment. He wasn't going to give her the show she sought. Not today, when the first sun of the year was just beginning to warm their faces.

  —You have spoken enough for this morning, Selene —Máximo said in a low, calm voice, one that cut through the young Akvis girl's insults like a wall of ice—. Your words have the same value as that flower you threw away: they are useless.

  Selene opened her mouth to retort, her face flushed with indignation, but Máximo turned his back on her before she could utter a single syllable. He turned to Priscila and, with a softness that contrasted with the firmness of his previous words, brushed away a lock of hair that the wind had blown into her face.

  —Let’s get out of here, Pri —he whispered, completely ignoring Selene’s presence as she huffed with rage behind them—. Don't let her shadows stain your first light. You’ve had a long night, and your grandmother will expect you to be present for the royal breakfast. You need to rest before the world begins to demand of you again.

  Priscila looked at the seal in her hand and then at Máximo. The certainty in his eyes was enough for her to let out a long sigh, letting go of part of the fury burning inside her. She nodded slightly, tucking the broken metal into the fold of her red dress.

  Máximo put an arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind and Selene’s poisonous glares, and guided her out of the orchard. They walked in silence through the stone corridors, leaving behind the echoes of the party and the whispers of the court.

  —Thank you, Max —she murmured when they were near her quarters—. For not letting me fall into her game.

  —You don't have to thank me —he replied, stopping in front of her door. He took both her hands and kissed them with a bow that this time held nothing of protocol and everything of promise—. Sleep, Priscila. Let sleep wash away the ashes for a few hours. I’ll be in the library if you need me.

  Priscila entered her room, finally feeling the knot in her chest loosen. As she closed the door, she saw ébano and the crow resting together, and she knew that despite the ashes and the broken seals, there were still refuges where the fire could not enter.