Shadows of the Past

Luxa kept busy being a queen during the day—council meetings, politics, petitions, talk of war, endless decisions that weighed on her crown. But no matter how full the hours, she made certain she and Gregor had time together at day’s end.

One evening, she paused in the doorway of her chambers, her violet eyes weighing something unseen. Then, having made her choice, she slipped her hand into Gregor’s and led him past the guards outside, guiding him into a part of the palace he had never seen.

“Where are we going?” he asked, voice hushed though no one followed.

Her eyes glimmered in the torchlight. “To a place few in Regalia have ever seen. Not the Council, not even Vikus. Only the crown possesses this knowledge.”

The words carried weight, and Gregor felt it settle on his shoulders. They moved deeper, through corridors where the air grew colder and the torches fewer. At last they came to a small arch, half hidden behind a tapestry embroidered with the crest of House Regalia. Luxa pushed it aside, revealing a narrow stair spiraling down into the dark.

When they entered a tunnel, Luxa softly murmured, “This palace is built upon more than stone. It is built upon memory. Secrets known by the Crown alone. And now will be known only to me and you.”

Unlike the polished marble walls of the tunnels above, these walls were rough-hewn, but carved with scenes Gregor could only half make out: figures astride bats, warriors with swords raised, crowns held aloft.

“It looks like history,” he said softly.

“It is. I have met your family, and I think it is time for you to learn more about mine.” Luxa moved closer to one wall, her fingers tracing a figure of a woman carved in profile. A crown rested upon her brow, her hand reaching outward—not for a throne, but toward a man’s face beside her. Yet the details of his hand were gone, worn smooth by countless queens rubbing his hand. The king’s face, too, was faint from centuries of touching.

“This was Queen Isolde, nearly three centuries past,” Luxa said. “Her hand was carved to reach for the king who would stand at her side. But the hand of the king has been lost to time—and to superstition. Each queen since has touched his hand, or where it once was, hoping the right man would find her.”

Gregor stared at the worn stone, strangely moved. “Did it work?”

“She found him, though the Council doubted her. Together they saved Regalia, though she died defending it. Perhaps it is not luck queens seek here. Perhaps it is strength.”

“Or maybe hope,” Gregor murmured.

Her gaze lingered on him at that, the torchlight flickering across her features. For a moment, she looked as though she might speak, but only laid her hand briefly against the king’s worn face before lowering it.

“I don’t need a carving to tell me,” Gregor said quietly. “I already know where I stand.”

Her expression flickered—something unreadable, too quick for him to name—before she turned away.

They walked on. Each wall told another story: kings who had expanded the city, queens who had led wars, others who had vanished from the record with only half-carved figures remaining. Some faces were worn smooth by time, their names forgotten, as if history itself had chosen what to erase.

“It looks like they are watching us,” Gregor said.

“They are,” Luxa replied, though her tone held no fear. “A king’s crown is a chain. He wears the crown of those who wore it before him. Every ruler walks with those from the past.”

Gregor stopped, turning to face her. “You don’t have to walk with them alone anymore.” And she looked at him with searching eyes.

Then he looked higher, his light caught on a larger carving above all the others—a towering king, far beyond reach.

“Who is that?” Gregor asked. “He looks… awesome. I feel like he is looking at me!”

“That is the King Above All,” Luxa whispered. “Sometimes those in the royal line have felt he guides them when their choices are the hardest and their future is the most uncertain.”

“Luxa… have you ever felt that? Like he was guiding you?”

She was quiet as they entered a massive chamber, and then her lips parted to answer, but whatever answer she might have given was cut short.

A sudden rush of cold air seeped from a crack in the far wall. It carried with it the faintest whisper—like wings in the distance, like claws on stone.

Luxa’s brow furrowed. She raised the torch higher, revealing an opening partially collapsed by rubble. The whisper came again—faint, but unmistakable.

Gregor’s grip on his flashlight tightened, the hairs on his arms prickling. “You heard that, right?”

“Yes,” Luxa said. Her voice had shifted—no longer personal, but the sharp, steady tone of a queen. She had gripped her sword, “And I fear it means the past is not as buried as the Council would wish.”

They stood before the gap in the wall, its blackness yawning like a wound. For an instant, Gregor thought he caught a glimmer—metal against stone, a flicker of movement too fast to name.

Luxa lowered the torch, her expression unreadable. “Not tonight. But soon, we must return here. Together.”

Gregor nodded, though unease crawled beneath his skin. As they retraced their steps, he could not shake the feeling that shadows shifted behind them, and that the stone-carved eyes of long-dead rulers lingered on their backs.

When at last they parted, Luxa’s final word echoed like a vow:

“Together.”

And Gregor knew the Underland held more secrets yet—and that he was bound to uncover them with her.