The seven kingdoms, once embroiled in a bloody conflict, had finally found solace in peace. The echoes of war had faded, replaced by the whispers of a new era. Dara, who had become a young king of unparalleled charisma, had united the fractured lands under his banner. The other kingdoms, though retaining their autonomy, now bowed to his authority, their leaders now known as Lords, not Kings anymore.
Dara's reign was marked by a commitment to harmony. Each kingdom willingly pledged its allegiance, recognizing the wisdom and compassion that flowed from his heart. The old ways of Myth, with its stringent rules and demands, had been cast aside. The kingdoms had grown weary of its rigidness, yearning for a more open and collaborative approach to governance. Dara, with his open arms and understanding heart, offered them just that.
The people rejoiced in this newfound peace. They could travel freely between kingdoms, no longer fearing oppression or violence of fellow neighbouring kingdoms. The fear that had gripped their hearts for so long had vanished, replaced by a sense of unity and hope. It was a testament to Dara's leadership, a legacy his father could only dream of.
Days had passed since the final battles, and the land was slowly healing. The scars of war, both physical and emotional, were gradually being mended. The majestic Golden Castle, once a symbol of conflict, was being rebuilt, a testament to the resilience of the people. Families who had lost loved ones were being compensated, their grief eased by the promise of a brighter future.
Today, a solemn ceremony was being held for Mara, the woman who had ignited the flames of war. Though her actions had led to bloodshed and suffering, she had also, in a twisted way, brought about the peace that now reigned. Dara, recognizing the complexity of her legacy, had decided to grant her a proper burial. It was a gesture of forgiveness, a testament to the hope that peace could blossom even from the ashes of war.
As Dara stood before Mara's grave, his heart ached with a profound sense of loss. He missed his sister, dearly. The warmth of their shared childhood, the laughter that once filled their home, now felt like a distant dream. He longed for those simpler days, before the weight of the crown had descended upon him, before the shadows of ambition and jealousy had poisoned their family.
The weight of his father's decision, to name him heir, still pressed heavily on his soul. It had been a necessary choice, a calculated move to protect the kingdom from internal strife. But the consequences had been devastating. His father, a wise and compassionate king, had understood the risks, the potential for envy and betrayal. Yet, he had chosen to act, believing it was the only way to secure the future of their dynasty.
Dara couldn't help but wonder if his father's decision had been the right one. Could he have prevented the chaos, the bloodshed, the loss of his family simply by not have intended to give him that crown on the first place? The question haunted him, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of power. Yet, he couldn't deny the progress he had made, the peace he had brought to the seven kingdoms. He had achieved what his father had envisioned, a unified kingdom, a legacy that would endure.
Dara, accompanied by his loyal companions – Myth, Obed, Ruth, Micah, and a contingent of trusted warriors – stood before Mara's grave. He had already paid his respects to his brother, offering flowers and words of remembrance. Now, he stood before his sister's final resting place, a silent testament to the tragedy that had befallen their family.
As Dara gazed at the simple headstone, his eyes welled with tears. He remembered a time when Mara had showered him with brotherly love and affection. Their bond, once unbreakable, had been shattered by the cruel hand of fate. 
The crown, and responsibility, had become a source of division, driving a wedge between them. The memory of her love, so pure and innocent, now felt like a bittersweet echo, a reminder of what he had lost, such a once lovely sister.
"My heart aches with guilt," Dara whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I pushed you into this, Mara. I know you did it for us, for the betterment of all of us. If I had been there, I might have stopped you, might have prevented your sacrifice."
He paused, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "We fought, we argued, we pretended not to care. But the truth is, we were family. We loved each other, even if we didn't always show it. I know you did this for me, because you cared. I'm sorry, Mara. Rest in peace. I hope you, Mom, Dad, and my brother are all happy together now. It's only a matter of time before I join you."
Dara gently placed the flowers on the grave, then turned away, rejoining his friends. Obed and the others watched him, their faces etched with concern. They couldn't understand why Dara was so distraught. Mara had tried to kill him, had been a threat to his life. Why the tears? Why the overwhelming grief?
Ruth, ever the compassionate one, reached out to Dara, her voice soft. "Dara, please, it's okay. You have to stop crying. It wasn't your fault."
Dara shook his head, his throat constricted with emotion. "No, you don't understand. It's all my fault. She's dead because of me."
Obed, as well tried to comfort him. "Come on, Dara. If anyone is to blame, it's me. If I had known how important she was to you..."
Dara cut him off, his voice raw with pain. "No, Obed, it's my fault. I pushed her into this. I made her do it."
The weight of guilt and grief pressed down on Dara, a heavy burden he couldn't shake. The love he had for his sister, the love that had been buried beneath the weight of conflict and ambition, now bloomed in the aftermath of her death, a poignant reminder of what he had lost.