Chapter 27

The high chamber of Crestfall’s fortress was a hall built for intimidation. Spears of moonlight filtered through narrow windows carved into black stone, casting long shadows across the council table. A map stretched wide between goblets of untouched wine and scattered wax-sealed scrolls. On it, the borders of kingdoms bled into one another—lines drawn in ink, but soon to be carved in steel.

Serenya sat stiff-backed at the far end, disguised as “Lady Vale,” the minor noblewoman she still pretended to be. To her right stood Kaelen, as immovable as a mountain, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. His watchful eyes never strayed far from her.

At the head of the table, Duke Thalric Veynor leaned forward, rings glinting as he planted both palms onto the map. His voice boomed, drowning the murmur of the gathered lords.

“Our scouts confirm it—the armies of Eloria Thorne mass on the eastern plain. Three legions, bolstered by mercenaries and deserters from fallen houses. If we do not strike first, we will be slaughtered in our own beds.”

A ripple of unease passed among the council members. Some nodded gravely. Others whispered behind their hands.

Darian Crestfall, his armor polished but his expression weary, shook his head. “A preemptive strike will cost thousands. The people are starving, our coffers near empty. To march now is to invite rebellion within our walls as well as war beyond them.”

“Better rebellion than chains,” Thalric snapped. “If Eloria crowns herself upon our corpses, there will be no kingdom left to feed.”

Maelis Rowan’s voice, soft but cutting, interrupted. “And yet, a kingdom bled dry by war is no kingdom either. Prophecy warns of crowns shattered by haste.” Her pale eyes, always distant, flickered toward Serenya as if to remind her the prophecy was not meant for Thalric, nor Darian, but for her.

Serenya’s pulse quickened. She could almost feel the invisible weight of the hidden crown pressing upon her brow.

The council fractured, voices rising like clashing swords.

“Strike now!”

“Defend the borders!”

“Summon allies!”

“Negotiate—”

“No! There can be no peace with traitors!”

The table quaked under fists, arguments growing more venomous. Thalric’s supporters barked for war; Darian’s allies pleaded for restraint.

Serenya rose slowly, her chair scraping across the stone floor. The sound silenced the chamber like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“May I speak?” Her voice was calm, but she felt the tremor in her chest.

Thalric sneered. “And what wisdom does Lady Vale bring? Will she tell us which pretty gown to wear to our funerals?”

Kaelen’s hand tightened around his sword hilt, but Serenya placed a gentle hand over his wrist. Not yet.

She met the duke’s gaze. “Wisdom enough to see that both paths—reckless war and cowardly retreat—lead to ruin. What we need is unity. A kingdom divided will fall before the first arrow is loosed.”

A few lords murmured their agreement, others glared.

Darian leaned forward, studying her. “And how, Lady Vale, would you propose we achieve unity when ambition blinds half the room?” His glance toward Thalric was sharp as steel.

Serenya forced herself to breathe steadily. This is not yet the moment to reveal who you are. But it is a moment to lead.

“By reminding every man and woman here that we do not fight for gold, or for pride, but for the lives of our people. Every farmer who tills barren fields. Every child who sleeps by ashes of burned villages. If we fight among ourselves, Eloria wins without lifting her blade.”

Silence held the room for a heartbeat too long.

Then Thalric slammed his hand onto the table. “Pretty words from a nameless lady. But wars are not won by speeches. They are won by power. And I, not you, hold the armies to wield it.”

He snapped his fingers. Two guards entered, armored in his colors. Their boots echoed across the floor as they flanked the table.

Kaelen shifted, eyes narrowing. Serenya felt the tension coil within him like a bowstring ready to snap.

Thalric’s voice was silk wrapped in steel. “I call for a vote of arms. Those who stand with me, we march by dawn. Those who stand against me… remain behind these walls and rot.”

A murmur swept through the council, uncertain, fearful. Hands began to rise, some reluctant, others firm. More than half lifted for Thalric.

Serenya’s throat tightened. The council was fracturing—exactly as prophecy warned.

Before she could speak, Maelis rose. “Then the eclipse begins,” the seer whispered. Her words hung heavy, chilling the chamber.

Thalric ignored her. “It is decided. War awaits.”

Darian pushed back from the table so hard his chair toppled. “You doom us all! This council was meant to unite, not crown a tyrant!”

Thalric’s smile was thin as a dagger. “And yet, unity has been achieved. You are simply on the wrong side of it.”

Kaelen moved closer to Serenya, his whisper urgent. “If we stay, you will be trapped. His guards already circle the room.”

She glanced at the doors. More soldiers had entered—quietly, efficiently. The council was no longer a debate. It was a trap.

Her heart pounded, but her voice steadied. “Then we will not stay.”

She tipped her goblet, spilling crimson wine across the map. The ink lines bled, borders vanishing in a sea of red. Gasps erupted.

In the chaos, Kaelen seized her hand and pulled her toward the side passage behind the dais, one known only to a few. Darian caught sight of them, his eyes widening—not in betrayal, but in understanding.

“Go,” he mouthed, before turning to block the nearest guard with drawn steel.

They fled into the narrow passage, the stone walls closing in around them. Torches sputtered, throwing jagged shadows. Serenya’s chest burned with every breath, but she did not slow.

“Kaelen,” she whispered between gasps. “The kingdom tears itself apart. How can we save it?”

His jaw was hard, but his grip on her hand was firm. “By surviving tonight. And by claiming what is yours before Thalric crowns himself on your blood.”

Behind them, the roar of steel on steel echoed. The council chamber had become a battlefield.

Serenya stumbled, pressing her palm against the cold wall. She felt the prophecy tighten around her like a chain. Chains of duty, just as the chapter’s omen had foretold. Duty to her crown. Duty to her people. Duty to a kingdom divided.

And she knew, with bone-deep certainty, that the moment was coming when she could no longer hide.