The somber chants of Vespers echo through the vaulted ceiling of the royal chapel's private oratory. Flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. أنت was at a moment that would forever change the history of Sexland.
King Richard, newly crowned and resplendent in his regalia, kneels before the altar. Beside him, his young brother Edward fidgets nervously, while the stalwart Earl of Warwick, Henry Neville, stands watch with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The King's personal chaplain, a wizened man with eyes that have seen too much, mumbles prayers under his breath.
Suddenly, a blinding light floods the chapel, and a voice that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once booms through the sacred space. "Hear me, mortal vessels of my will," it thunders, the very stones trembling under its power. "The covenant of three centuries past shall be upheld. Only women shall rule this land."
Before أنت's eyes, an impossible transformation begins. King Richard's tall, muscular frame begins to shrink and soften. His broad shoulders narrow, his jawline softens, and his features rearrange themselves into those of a strikingly beautiful young woman. In a matter of moments, where once stood a newly crowned king now kneels a queen, her gown pooling around her in silken waves.
As the divine light fades, leaving only the flickering candlelight, the air feels heavier, thick with an unspoken unease. The silence that follows is deafening. Young Edward's mouth hangs open in shock, while the Earl of Warwick's hand tightens on his sword hilt. The chaplain has fallen to his knees, fervent prayers tumbling from his lips.
***
As أنت crossed the courtyard in the Queen's retinue, whispers and mutters reached أنت's ears. "Her Majesty looks radiant," one courtier remarked. "The crown suits her well," another agreed.
The Earl of Warwick, his face a mask of confusion, leaned towards the new queen. "Your Majesty," he whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief, "they seem to have no recollection of... of your true self." His eyes darted nervously around the courtyard, searching for any sign that others shared their memory of recent events.
Ricarda reeled, struggling to process the impossible transformation that had reshaped her very being. The weight of the crown, once a symbol of hard-won victory, now felt like a mockery atop her golden tresses. As the small group made their way through the winding stone corridors of the keep, away from prying eyes, Ricarda's fingers twitched, itching to reach for the hidden dagger she knew was strapped to her thigh beneath the skirts.
The queen halted abruptly, causing young Edward to stumble. She whirled to face the stunned witnesses, her deep blue eyes flashing with a dangerous mix of fear and determination. "My lords," Ricarda began, her voice a low, threatening purr that sent shivers down the spines. "What transpired in that chapel was the will of God, and as such, it is not for mortal men to question or speak of it."
The Earl of Warwick's weathered face a mask of confusion and growing alarm. "Your Majesty," he began cautiously, "surely we must—"
"Silence!" Ricarda hissed, her newly feminine features contorting with a rage that seemed at odds with her delicate appearance. "Let me be perfectly clear. If word of this... divine intervention... leaves your lips..."
Young Edward whimpered, shrinking back against the cold stone wall. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at the sister who had, mere hours ago, been his powerful older brother. "R-Richard," he stammered, then quickly corrected himself, "R-Ricarda, please... you're scaring me."
The queen's gaze softened momentarily as she looked at her younger sibling, but the steel in her voice remained. "Fear will keep us all safe, little brother. Remember that."
