Chapter 26

The battlefield still smoldered from the carnage of Black Hollow. Smoke drifted in thin ribbons across the broken plain, where torn banners lay trampled into the dirt, and the cries of the wounded pierced the heavy silence. Serenya walked among them, her cloak stained by soot and ash, her heart heavier than the armor strapped to her frame.

Every face she passed was another weight. Soldiers with glazed eyes stared skyward, whispering prayers for gods who had never come. Others clenched wounds with trembling hands, clinging to life, demanding aid she could not give. For every survivor, there were three who had fallen. Black Hollow had been a victory, but one that left the taste of ashes on her tongue.

Kaelen walked beside her, his blade strapped but his presence watchful. His dark eyes tracked the carnage with the same quiet intensity he carried into every battle. The shadows seemed to cling to him more tightly after the fight, as though he had poured too much of himself into the night.

“You can’t bear this weight alone,” he murmured when they paused near a wagon of wounded.

Serenya swallowed hard. “It is mine to bear. Every death is a chain forged around my soul. I led them here. I swore they would see the dawn.”

“They did see the dawn,” Kaelen said. “And because of you, the enemy broke. Don’t twist the truth into blame.”

But she turned her face away. Truth or not, her oath to her people was a cage with no escape.

That night, the war council gathered in the remnants of Black Hollow’s ruined hall. Once a merchant’s guild, it was now a place of cracked stone walls, scorched beams, and the faint stench of burning oil. Around the table sat those who remained: Darian Crestfall, battered yet unbowed, his knuckles scarred from the fight; Isolde Mirean, her healer’s robes streaked with blood; Cyrion Duskbane, who carried the air of a man forever haunted; and, of course, Kaelen at Serenya’s side.

Maps lay sprawled before them, marked with ink, blood, and desperate revisions. Thalric Veynor’s forces had retreated, but not destroyed. Already whispers spoke of him gathering fresh allies in the north.

“We cannot linger,” Darian said, his voice sharp. “If we allow Veynor time, he will return twice as strong. Strike before he rebuilds.”

“And risk the lives of every man left breathing?” Isolde snapped back, eyes flashing. “Half the army is wounded. The other half is too weary to lift their blades. Push them again, and you’ll slaughter them faster than Veynor ever could.”

The room fell into tense silence. Serenya stood at the head of the table, every eye fixed on her. She could feel the weight of her secret—her true identity as the lost heiress of Vale—pressing at her ribs. If she revealed it, if she claimed her birthright, she could rally more banners, summon loyalty, end this debate. But to do so would be to bind herself irrevocably, to expose Kaelen, to tear apart the fragile bond they shared.

“Serenya,” Cyrion said softly, breaking the quiet. His pale gaze seemed to pierce through her doubts. “What do you command?”

The question lashed around her like a whip. What do you command? Not what do you wish, not what do you dream—command. Her choices were shackles, forged by the crown she had yet to wear.

Her fists curled at her sides. “We hold,” she said at last. “We tend the wounded, we rebuild the ranks. A single desperate charge will not save us. Discipline will.”

Darian’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. “As you say.”

Kaelen studied her in silence, though she felt his approval in the calm steadiness of his presence.

Later, when the council dispersed, Serenya lingered in the hollow hall. She stared at the burned beams overhead, imagining them as chains stretching across the sky. Chains of duty. Chains of blood.

“You chose the path that spares the most lives,” Kaelen said, stepping closer. His voice was low, for her ears alone.

“And yet it feels like cowardice,” she whispered. “I should be stronger. More ruthless. That is what a queen must be.”

He reached for her hand, hesitated, then closed his fingers around hers with surprising gentleness. “No. Ruthlessness builds kingdoms of fear. But you—you’ll build one worth fighting for. That is why they follow you. Why I follow you.”

Her heart thudded. In that quiet moment, it would have been so easy to forget the crown, the bloodlines, the prophecy. To let her heart claim what it desired. But then she saw Darian’s scarred hands, Isolde’s exhausted eyes, Cyrion’s haunted silence. She saw every soldier broken at Black Hollow.

And she pulled her hand back.

“My heart cannot be mine to give,” she said, her voice cracking. “It belongs to them. To the kingdom. That is the chain I wear.”

Kaelen’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing. Shadows stirred at his feet, restless as if echoing the turmoil inside him.

The next day, Serenya walked the camp again. She carried food to the weary, pressed her hand to the fevered, whispered words of courage to those who had lost hope. Everywhere she went, the soldiers bowed their heads, not just in respect but in something more—a quiet devotion that burned hotter than loyalty.

“You’re no longer simply a commander to them,” Isolde said quietly when they met near the healer’s tents. “You’re becoming their queen, whether you speak the word or not.”

The truth struck Serenya like a blade. A queen. But queens could not love freely. Queens were bound by duty, chained by crowns, consumed by sacrifice.

That night, when the camp fell quiet, she sat outside her tent, staring at the stars. Kaelen approached, silent as always, a dark figure against the silver sky.

“They will never let you go,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“And you will never let yourself go.”

Her breath caught. He understood. He always understood.

Kaelen crouched beside her, his hand brushing hers again—just the barest touch, the whisper of what could never be. “Then let me bear some of the chains with you.”

She turned to him, her heart in her throat. For a moment, she saw not the shadow-bound protector, not the mystery he carried, but the man who had chosen her, again and again, even when she pushed him away.

“Kaelen…”

But the words died. Because no matter how much her heart longed to surrender, she could not. Duty bound her too tightly.

He saw the hesitation and, with a flicker of pain in his eyes, withdrew his hand. The chains clinked louder than ever in her mind.

Above them, the stars burned bright, but Serenya felt only the crushing weight of the crown she had yet to wear, and the heart she could never claim.

And in the northern dark, Thalric Veynor stood before his gathering army, a cruel smile curving his lips.

“Let her bind herself with chains,” he told his captains. “The more she clings to duty, the easier it will be to break her.”