Chapter 21

Ash-scented air clung to the horizon as dawn cracked in streaks of copper and blood-red across the valley. From the ridges above, Serenya Vale could see the faint plumes of smoke spiraling from hamlets once loyal to the crown. Farmers’ cottages had been torched in the night, and already whispers rode the wind—rebellion had begun.

“Moonspire’s banners burn in villages that should kneel to the Crestfall line,” Darian said, his voice edged with iron. His hand rested on his sword, not in threat but in an oath to act. “Someone fans these flames with coin and fear. We must cut off the hand before it strangles the kingdom.”

Serenya turned from the smoke, pulling her cloak tighter. Her disguise was thinner than ever—rumors of a “hidden heir” had begun to stir, and she felt the weight of eyes that did not yet know her face but hunted her nonetheless.

Beside her, Kaelen Draven stood silent. His shadowed gaze never left the horizon, as though he could see through the smoke into the heart of the rebellion. He had told her once that darkness was not always an enemy—that it sometimes revealed truths the light could not. Yet in that moment, his silence unnerved her more than any words could.

“Do you think it’s Thalric?” Serenya asked, breaking the stillness.

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “The duke thrives on chaos. If villages fall, he can paint himself as savior while sharpening his blade for the throne.”

Darian spat into the dust. “And fools will rally to him, blind to his hunger.”

A horn call echoed faintly from the valley below, carried on the smoky wind. Not the crown’s signal—too sharp, too urgent. Rebels.

Serenya’s heart quickened. “They’re moving faster than we thought.”

By the time they descended into the valley, rebellion had a face.

Torches licked at the timber palisades of a loyalist outpost, where a handful of guards fought desperately against villagers turned insurgents. Men who once plowed fields now brandished rusted pikes, their eyes alight not with loyalty but with despair.

A woman screamed as flames leapt to the outpost’s roof. Serenya’s chest clenched. She wanted to run to her, to tear away her cloak and reveal herself as their rightful heir, to beg them to lay down arms. But Kaelen’s hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Not yet,” he murmured. His dark eyes bore into hers. “If you reveal yourself here, in this chaos, they’ll see not a queen but another tyrant. Let us find the root first. A fire cannot be quenched by shouting at the smoke.”

Serenya swallowed her impulse. He was right. The people did not need a crown—they needed hope.

“Then we strike?” Darian asked, already sliding his blade free.

Kaelen’s nod was slight, but his steps forward were a predator’s stride.

The clash that followed was brief but brutal. Darian moved like fire itself—fury and loyalty burning in every strike. Kaelen was shadow, slipping through gaps in the fight, striking where no one looked. Serenya, though not yet revealed, could not stay back; she picked up a staff from the ground and struck down a rebel who lunged for a wounded guard.

When the last torch fell, smothered in the dirt, the outpost still stood—but barely. The villagers who had fought lay bound, their eyes clouded with both rage and shame.

“Look at them,” Serenya whispered, staring at their hollow faces. “These are not traitors. They are desperate.”

A gaunt man spat at the ground near her boots. “Desperate because your crown starves us. Because your dukes bleed us for coin.” His voice broke with raw fury. “If a tyrant falls, what do we care if another rises?”

Serenya’s heart twisted. If only he knew who she truly was.

Darian raised his blade as if to silence the man, but Serenya stepped forward. “No,” she said firmly. “He speaks a truth we must not ignore.”

Kaelen’s eyes flicked to her—approval glimmering beneath his shadows.

That night, they made camp on the ridge. The fire crackled low, wary of drawing attention, but still the scent of smoke from burning villages carried on the wind.

Serenya sat apart from the others, staring into the embers. The rebel’s words clung to her chest like chains. If the people saw the crown as nothing but a cycle of tyrants, what hope did her hidden heritage hold?

“You want to save them,” Kaelen’s voice broke her thoughts. He had come silently, as always. His presence was a comfort she could not admit aloud.

“Yes,” Serenya said, her voice barely above the fire’s hiss. “But how do you save those who already believe you are the enemy?”

Kaelen crouched beside her. His shadow fell across the firelight, yet his eyes burned with a rare intensity. “By proving you are not your bloodline. By showing them you bleed with them, not above them.”

Her chest ached. “And if I fail?”

He reached for her hand, hesitated, then let his fingers brush hers—a fleeting, forbidden touch. “Then you will fail with honor. But you will not fail alone.”

Her breath caught. That moment—the closeness, the promise—was more dangerous than any rebel blade. She pulled her hand back before her resolve fractured.

A shout rang out from the edge of camp. Darian’s voice. “Riders! Approaching from the south!”

They leapt to their feet. From the darkness of the plain came a wave of torches—dozens, maybe hundreds. Rebels, marching under a banner Serenya had never seen before: a black falcon clutching a crown in its talons.

Her heart froze. “The Falcon’s Warning,” she whispered, recalling the prophecy Maelis had uttered.

Kaelen’s sword hissed free. “The rebellion is no scattered fire. It’s an army.”

The battle that night was chaos wrapped in firelight. Arrows rained from the ridge, rebels surged like a tide, and their banner of the black falcon snapped against the smoke-filled sky.

Darian fought like a man possessed, shouting for the guards to form ranks. Serenya, torn between hiding and leading, finally cast off her cloak. If hope could not be whispered, it had to be shouted.

“I am with you!” she cried, her voice rising over the clash of steel. “Stand, not for dukes or crowns, but for the people beside you! Stand, and we will not fall!”

For a heartbeat, silence cut through the battle. Eyes turned to her—guards, rebels, even Kaelen. Her secret teetered on the edge of revelation.

Then a cry split the night. “The hidden heir!”

The words spread like wildfire.

Serenya’s chest tightened. Too soon. Too raw. Yet as the rebels faltered, doubt flickering in their ranks, she saw something else spark in the guards’ eyes—faith.

Kaelen’s gaze found hers across the battlefield. A warning. A vow. Flames licked at the edges of the night, but in his shadowed stare, she saw both danger and destiny.

The rebellion had found its fuel. And she had just lit the spark.