The Sin Eater Chronicles

A cold, bitter tang hung in the air, and each breath tasted of ash and dread. The once-glorious palace corridors were now dim canyons of ruin. Broken marble, splintered beams, and scorched tapestries littered the halls that only hours earlier had gleamed with solstice festivities. Guards moved in small groups, lanterns bobbing through dust and smoke, seeking survivors among the debris. Moans and half-choked cries drifted from all directions, the pleas of the wounded echoing in the gloom. Some still clung to life under collapsed archways; others needed help from cuts, bruises, or shock. A few, heartbreakingly, lay in stillness that hinted at the worst.

Captain Roland of the Royal Guard, his armor dented and smeared with soot, rushed to where King-Consort Masaru stood protectively beside Queen Meilara. The queen's gown, once a vision of regal splendor, was ragged at the hem, streaked with blood and dust. Her shoulders were rigid, but her eyes burned with an anguish she struggled to keep in check. At her feet lay the unconscious form of Princess Aiyara, who showed no visible wounds yet refused to stir. A small cluster of knights hovered nearby, ready to do whatever was needed, though none dared speak without being addressed.

The guard captain pressed a gauntleted hand to his brow. His breathing was labored from exertion and worry. He had been racing up and down these corridors, trying to assess the scope of the devastation, calling for medics, organizing rescue parties. His face, usually so composed, was haggard now. He beckoned to the king and queen to follow him away from the center of destruction. The palace had taken grave structural damage in the magical burst, and entire sections threatened to collapse. Shouts from side halls indicated that more stones might be sliding even now, ready to bury the unwary. Yet when Roland gestured for them to move, Meilara and Masaru both shook their heads.

"We can't leave Aiyara," the queen said, her voice fraying at the edges. She knelt beside her daughter, refusing to abandon her. "If these walls come down, we will not be parted from her. We swore to protect our children at any cost." Her palm rested on Aiyara's forehead, which was oddly cool despite the heat of chaos around them. The queen's eyes shone with desperation as she glanced at her husband.

King-Consort Masaru looked no less torn. He glanced over his shoulder, hearing groans from the next corridor, where delegates and commoners alike lay trapped. The uproar of the festival had been replaced by the pandemonium of near-calamity. "All of this—" he said, his voice trembling, "one moment, we were watching Aiyara address those suitors. The next…" His gaze fell on the shattered pillars, blackened banners, the rubble that had once been proud architecture. "I can hardly believe we stand in the same palace."

Captain Roland bent low, peering at Princess Aiyara. She looked almost peaceful, her eyes closed, expression blank—yet the scorch marks on the floor around her hinted at how horrifyingly powerful the outburst must have been. He recalled the final moment: The swirl of colored light, the roaring wind, and columns snapping as if they were reeds. That unstoppable wave hurled delegates aside, some into walls, others beneath tumbling debris. The memory churned his stomach. The battered forms of dwarves, elves, foreign lords, and even Masani citizens lay scattered, their voices rising in panic.

"We must secure all of you, Your Majesties," Roland said, clearing his throat and trying to steady himself. "This entire wing is compromised. Debris is continuing to fall. My men are—" He paused when a chunk of stone fell somewhere behind, rattling the floor. It caused the queen to flinch, though she refused to move away from her daughter's side. "We are pulling survivors from the collapsed hallways, and we need a safe location for you. Once you are out of danger, we can focus on the rest. Please, let us carry the princess."

Meilara inhaled, her shoulders trembling, but she managed a resolute nod. She slipped her arms around Aiyara's torso, as though unwilling to relinquish contact. "Yes, but do not separate us," she said firmly. "I will not go to some secure chamber while she's carried elsewhere. We remain together."

Masaru was already scanning the corridors, absorbing how many guards were present, how many wounded needed immediate attention, and whether more structural collapses loomed. "Queen Meilara will not budge without Aiyara," he stated. "I will not leave them either. Send your men to rescue others along the route. The best we can do is move, step by step, ensuring the wounded are brought along or found. We must do it quickly before the rest of the palace falls."

Roland beckoned two knights, who stepped forward with a makeshift stretcher. They were both burly men with soot-smudged faces. Quietly, they helped lift Princess Aiyara, using spare cloaks and cushions for padding. Meilara followed right on their heels, refusing to let her daughter out of sight. The king- consort trailed them, sword still at his hip, grim-faced and ready for anything.

All around, the clamor of trapped guests begged for help. Some calls came from behind collapsed columns: "Help us—over here!" Another voice, racked with agony, cried, "My leg—my leg is pinned!" The haunting sound of a child's sobbing echoed down a passage thick with smoke. The stench of burning tapestries and smoldering wood stung the eyes and throat. Servants and soldiers fanned out in frantic search teams, pulling away stones and timbers to free whomever they could.

As the royals and their escort advanced through the corridor, they witnessed the scale of the devastation. Men and women from far-off nations, who had arrived merely to witness a grand festival, now huddled in corners with bloodied limbs or tear-streaked faces. Some wore the finery of foreign courts, once lustrous silks now torn and coated in ash. Others were Masani townsfolk who had come to see the princess's ceremony, never suspecting such horror would be unleashed. No one could fully comprehend how a single moment of fury had wrought such destruction. Guards desperately tried to keep some semblance of order, though heartbreak was etched into their expressions.

Queen Meilara, holding onto the stretcher, still refused to let her eyes stray far from her daughter's pale face. Every so often, she would whisper, "Just breathe, Aiyara. You will wake from this." But the princess did not respond, her chest barely rising. If not for the faint hint of warmth in her skin, one might have assumed her lifeless.

"I cannot believe it," she whispered to Masaru at one point, stepping around a gaping crack in the marble floor. "There was no sign she had this power. It's impossible. We tested her magic aptitude as a child. She showed no gift." Her voice trembled with grief and confusion. "How could this be? How could she—my Aiyara—cause something like this?"

Masaru laid a firm hand on her back, offering whatever comfort he could. "We don't have answers. But we'll protect her, no matter the cost. Right now, we must keep her safe from whatever accusations or fears might arise."

Their progress was slow. Captain Roland paused periodically, dispatching men to pry wounded delegates from under debris. Each new discovery brought fresh wails and pleas for medical aid. The queen yearned to stop and assist them, but she knew she had to prioritize her unconscious daughter and keep the monarchy intact. "Send more medics to the southwestern wing. It has less collapse; set up a temporary infirmary there," Masaru called to a subordinate, who saluted and rushed off. The roar of an aftershock made the walls tremble, sending dust swirling, but fortunately no new sections caved in.

By the time they reached a wide T-junction, the queen's resolve was close to fracturing. Her gaze flitted from the carnage around them to Aiyara, as if trying to measure how much more her heart could bear. The guard captain urged them to turn left, away from a corridor that was fully blocked by fallen beams. A battered statue of a past queen lay on its side, the sculpted face broken into pieces. Meilara glanced at it with a pang of symbolism—everything she had cherished about Masan's proud heritage felt similarly shattered.

"The next corridor leads to more stable architecture," Roland said, breathless. "We can keep going until we reach the inner section of the palace. There's an antechamber used for minor officiations. The ceiling arches are thick stone, less likely to collapse. We'll barricade the entrance if we must."

At that moment, a pained cry rose from behind them. A dwarven voice roared something unintelligible, cursing or pleading. The queen halted, torn between continuing on and checking who needed help. She saw a dwarven envoy pinned under a chunk of column, one arm twisted unnaturally. A half-conscious companion tugged at the rubble with no success. Queen Meilara's gut twisted. She wanted to help, but Captain Roland insisted they could not spare time. "We'll send men back," he promised. "We have to secure you first, my queen."

Masaru's fist clenched around his sword hilt. He, too, burned with the urge to intervene but recognized the guard captain's logic. They could not risk the monarchy dying here under another collapse. With tears threatening to spill, Meilara gave a final look at the dwarves, then followed Roland's lead.

Each step deeper into the palace hammered home the nightmarish reality: The solstice festival had turned into a disaster none could have imagined. Their daughter, the bright future of Masan, lay unmoving on a makeshift stretcher. Her lips, parted slightly, made no sound. The queen felt rage, confusion, sorrow, and dread swirling in her heart. She had no answers for any of it, nor did Masaru. Captain Roland's determined pace was the only thing that propelled them forward through the disarray. Guards and servants parted to let the royal party pass, their expressions burdened with pity and fear.

At last, they neared a broad flight of steps, half-choked with rubble, leading down to an interior hallway typically reserved for smaller gatherings. The temperature dropped slightly as they descended, the air musty with undisturbed corners and vaulted ceilings. Several torches flickered along the walls, a testament to the palace staff's attempt to maintain some lighting in the chaos. Roland waved a soldier ahead to check that the path was clear. Only after receiving an all-clear signal did he proceed.

"Here," he said, gesturing toward a heavy wooden door. Two knights forced it open, revealing a moderately sized antechamber lined with tall cabinets and modest chairs. It was not the palatial splendor of the main halls, but it felt mercifully intact, a pocket of relative safety in the ruin. "We can set up here. Then we'll figure out our next steps."

Meilara and Masaru edged inside, followed by the knights bearing Aiyara. The door was quickly shut behind them, muffling the outside chaos. For an instant, the queen felt relief—just a small moment of relative quiet. Dust motes shimmered in the torchlight, swirling around them as though mocking how quickly the night had turned from celebration to catastrophe. The cloying smell of charred draperies and mortar still clung to everyone's clothes, but at least the walls here seemed stable.

A moment later, Captain Roland directed the stretcher to be laid upon a table near the wall. Queen Meilara hurried over, brushing soot from her daughter's cheek, studying the princess's face as if searching for a sign of life. "She's breathing," Meilara murmured. "So faint, but it's there." She looked at Roland and Masaru, her eyes brimming. "What in the name of the gods happened to her?"

No one answered, for none truly knew. Roland only offered a grim look. "We'll hold this position for now," he said softly. "My queen, my king, I'll keep watch outside while you… gather yourselves. Let me know if you need anything." He paused, as though about to say more, then simply bowed his head and stepped back out. One could still hear distant cries, distant crashes. The horror was not over, but at least they had a moment to breathe.

The king slid an arm around the queen's shoulders, pulling her close. Meilara closed her eyes, tears slipping free at last. She gripped Aiyara's limp hand as if that alone could anchor her daughter to the living. Meanwhile, from beyond the thick door, the swirl of chaos continued: more moans, more frantic calls for rescue. In her mind's eye, the queen could still see the dwarven envoy pinned under stone, the church priests spouting accusations in distant halls, the Eastern delegates brandishing swords. The entire realm teetered on the edge of upheaval, and all because of her child's sudden, inexplicable eruption of power. She pressed her lips to Aiyara's knuckles, silently vowing she would not let her daughter be claimed by this madness.