Chapter 22

The great hall of Evermere glowed with torchlight, but beneath the brightness lingered a suffocating shadow. Every stone of the chamber seemed to tremble under the weight of hushed whispers and sharpened glances. News of rebellion had spread faster than fire through dry grass, and with it came suspicion—of friend, of foe, of blood itself.

Serenya stood at the edge of the dais, her emerald cloak brushing the marble floor. Her heart had not yet recovered from the flames of rebellion that roared in Black Hollow. She had survived the inferno, but survival carried no comfort; it only made the knife of betrayal twist deeper.

Kaelen stood close, ever watchful. His hand lingered near his blade though his eyes rarely left hers. He did not speak, but she could feel his unspoken vow: if treachery lurked among them, he would die before it touched her.

Yet the threat was not only beyond the walls—it had slithered inside.

Darian Crestfall entered then, helm tucked under his arm, his armor marked with soot from the rebellion’s embers. His stride was steady, but something in his eyes faltered. He bowed before Serenya, a gesture as crisp as the winter air outside.

“My lady,” he said. His voice was low, reverent, but frayed with something else—regret, perhaps, or guilt.

Serenya’s gaze softened. Darian was the knight who had saved her life more times than she could count, the one whose loyalty seemed carved into his very bones. And yet, tonight, a sliver of doubt pierced her. For had not the rebellion’s timing been suspiciously perfect? Had not the enemy anticipated their every move?

Kaelen stepped forward, shoulders tense. “You came late from Black Hollow,” he said flatly. “Later than any man sworn to protect her should.”

The hall grew quiet. Every breath from the lords and courtiers seemed to pause, as if waiting for the ground to split open.

Darian met Kaelen’s stare. “I stayed behind to cover our retreat. You know this.”

“I know you vanished into smoke, and when you returned, our enemies already knew her path,” Kaelen shot back.

“Enough,” Serenya cut in, though her voice was softer than steel, threaded with uncertainty. She looked between them. “If we accuse one another without proof, we are no better than the vipers who wait to see us fall.”

But proof would come—not in scrolls or whispers, but in a moment no one could have foreseen.

As the lords departed one by one, Serenya remained alone in the hall, the silence pressing heavy upon her chest. She let her hand rest against the cold edge of the throne she was not yet ready to claim. A thousand thoughts swirled—loyalty, power, love, lies. She felt as though she stood upon a precipice, the abyss yawning beneath.

Soft footsteps approached. She turned to find Darian, his expression shadowed.

“My lady,” he began, his voice quieter now, stripped of its knightly bravado. “There is something I must tell you.”

Serenya’s pulse quickened. She stepped closer, searching his face. “What weighs on you?”

He drew in a breath, as if preparing for confession. But instead of words, he reached for her hand. His calloused fingers brushed hers, tentative yet lingering. She froze, heart pounding.

“Darian,” she whispered.

His gaze locked on hers, filled with something raw—devotion, longing, desperation. “All my vows… all my battles… they mean nothing if I cannot tell you the truth. Serenya, I—”

He bent and pressed his lips to hers.

The world stilled. For an instant, the kiss burned with everything forbidden—his oath as knight, her hidden identity, the fragile threads of trust that bound them all. It was fierce, unyielding, as if he were pouring a lifetime of unspoken words into that single act.

But before Serenya could draw breath, before she could even process the betrayal of it, a voice cut through the silence.

Kaelen.

He stood in the doorway, frozen in place, his hand still gripping the hilt of his blade though his eyes betrayed far deeper wounds than any sword could inflict. His gaze moved from Serenya to Darian, then back again, and the storm gathering in his eyes was a thing to fear.

The spell shattered. Serenya tore her hand away, stepping back as if the floor itself had scorched her. “Darian—what have you done?”

Darian’s face was pale, lips parted in shock at his own audacity. “I… I could not hide it any longer. My heart belongs to you.”

Kaelen’s voice was a snarl, low and dangerous. “Your heart? Or your schemes?” He strode forward, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. “You call yourself a knight, yet you kiss the woman you are sworn to protect—while enemies close in around us? Tell me, Darian, was that kiss yours… or was it theirs?”

The accusation struck like a blade. Serenya’s mind spun. Could the kiss have been a ploy? A way to plant doubt between her and Kaelen, to fracture the fragile alliance holding them together?

Her chest heaved with unsteady breaths. “I will not be pawn to this war of hearts,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. She turned away, unwilling to meet either of their eyes. “If love means betrayal, then I would sooner rule alone.”

She fled the hall, the echo of her footsteps chasing her down the corridor. But even as she ran, the memory of Darian’s kiss clung to her lips like a curse—and the look in Kaelen’s eyes followed her into the shadows.

Behind her, the great hall erupted.

Kaelen’s hand gripped Darian’s collar, slamming him against the marble pillar. “If you touch her again, I will carve your oath into your chest and leave you to bleed beneath it.”

Darian did not fight back. His voice was quiet, yet firm. “You guard her with steel. I guard her with my heart.”

“Your heart is poison,” Kaelen spat. “And I will not let it kill her.”

Their clash was cut short as the doors burst open. Lyra Esthaven strode in, her scarred armor gleaming, her presence commanding. She looked between them, reading the scene with one sharp glance.

“Enough,” she barked. “While you two tear each other apart, Thalric’s men march on Dawnspire. The rebellion was only the beginning—this war has teeth.”

Kaelen released Darian, though the fire in his eyes remained. Darian straightened, his jaw tight, blood on his lip where stone had cut him.

Lyra’s gaze lingered on Serenya’s absence. “Where is she?”

Neither answered. The silence spoke louder than words.

Lyra cursed under her breath. “Find her. Both of you. Whatever feud you’ve kindled, bury it deep, or it will not be Thalric who destroys this kingdom—it will be us.”

As she stormed away, Darian and Kaelen exchanged a look. Not of understanding, nor forgiveness, but of war.

Some betrayals are kissed upon the lips. And some scars never fade.