Chapter 2

The markets of Elarindor still bustled as the sun set, though their noise no longer sang with joy. Laughter was rare, smiles rarer still. Serenya Vale walked among the merchants with a healer’s basket in her arms, her hood shadowing her face.

To the world, she was Valeen, apprentice to Isolde Mirean, the city’s healer. To herself, she was the last ember of a fallen crown. Every step, every word spoken in disguise, weighed on her like a chain—yet without the mask, she would be hunted down before she ever saw dawn again.

“Valeen,” Isolde called from a nearby stall, her silver hair catching the fading light. The old healer’s eyes carried centuries of wisdom, and perhaps more secrets than Serenya would ever uncover. “Did you find the duskroot?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Serenya answered softly, lifting the herb from her basket. Her voice was even, polite, ordinary—everything she had trained it to be.

Isolde nodded, though her gaze lingered. For years she had taken Serenya in, never asking about the scar hidden on her wrist or the ring she kept tied on a chain beneath her tunic. And yet, sometimes Serenya swore Isolde saw more than she let on.

“Good. The soldiers will come for remedies tonight. Be sure to keep your head down.”

Serenya did not need the warning. The soldiers wore Duke Veynor’s crest now, their patrols more frequent, their tempers sharper. Each time she walked the streets, she risked recognition. The Vale bloodline was said to leave a mark upon its heirs—eyes the color of dawn. Hers were the same golden hue as her mother’s, a constant betrayal of her disguise.

She kept her hood lower, heart steady.

Yet as she turned, she felt it—the sensation of being watched.

Across the market, leaning in the shadow of a fruit seller’s stall, Kaelen Draven’s gaze found her.

Even in the crowd, he was unmistakable. A hunter wrapped in traveler’s leathers, his movements fluid, his stance effortless. Where others scowled at the soldiers, he studied them like prey. And when his eyes slid to hers, something in her chest tightened.

She turned quickly, as though annoyed by his persistence. But her fingers trembled slightly against the herbs in her basket.

That night, she found him waiting by the healer’s doorway.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” she said, brushing past him.

“I wasn’t following,” Kaelen replied with a wry smirk. “I was guarding.”

“I don’t need guarding.”

“Then why,” he asked, leaning closer, “do you flinch whenever the patrols pass?”

Serenya froze, the mask of Valeen slipping for just a breath. She hated how easily he saw through her, as though her disguise were a thin veil instead of the armor she’d crafted for years.

“You think you know me,” she whispered. “But you don’t.”

Kaelen tilted his head, his voice lowering to something sharp and deliberate. “I know enough. That scar on your wrist wasn’t from a healer’s work. That dagger you carry isn’t for herbs. And no girl with eyes like yours belongs to the dirt of these streets.”

The silence that followed was dangerous, crackling like the pause before lightning.

Serenya’s pulse raced. If he spoke her name aloud—if he dared to reveal it here—everything would unravel.

But instead, Kaelen stepped back, his expression unreadable. “I don’t care what you hide, Serenya Vale. I care that tomorrow, a man who murdered his way to power declares himself king. And if you stay silent, he wins.”

She swallowed hard, anger and fear warring within her. “Do you think it’s so simple? That I can walk into his hall and be welcomed as queen?”

“No,” Kaelen admitted. “I think you’ll have to bleed for it. But better your blood than your silence.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. She turned away, slamming the door between them.

Inside, the healer’s room was quiet, the air filled with the scent of dried lavender and burning sage. Serenya set down her basket with trembling hands, her mind a storm.

She wanted to hate Kaelen. She wanted to call him reckless, arrogant, foolish. But she could not deny the truth that burned in his words.

If she did nothing, Thalric Veynor would wear her mother’s crown by morning.

Sleep eluded her that night. She sat by the narrow window of her chamber, staring at the moonlit rooftops of Elarindor. Memories flooded her—the warmth of her mother’s hand, the weight of the crown she once played with as a child, the screams when the throne room fell.

Her mother’s last command echoed in her mind: Live hidden, until the time is right.

Was this the time? Or was it a trap woven to destroy her?

A knock startled her. She opened the door to find Isolde standing there, her lined face softened by candlelight.

“You’ve been restless,” the old healer said.

“I can’t sleep,” Serenya admitted.

Isolde studied her, then reached for her hand. Her touch was steady, warm. “You carry a burden too heavy for one so young. But remember, even the strongest mask must break when destiny calls.”

Serenya’s throat tightened. Did Isolde know? Had she always known?

Before she could speak, Isolde squeezed her hand. “Be careful, child. The night watches, and not all eyes are kind.”

When the healer left, Serenya lay awake until dawn bled faintly across the sky. The day of the eclipse had come.

By afternoon, the city was restless, crowds surging toward the duke’s hall. Serenya walked among them, hood low, her breath quick. The black banners of House Veynor hung from every tower, their silver serpent gleaming in cruel triumph.

Inside the hall, nobles gathered in silks and jewels, though their faces betrayed fear more than loyalty. The throne—her mother’s throne—loomed at the far end, draped in shadow.

And on it sat Thalric Veynor.

Serenya froze at the sight of him. His presence filled the chamber, his frame broad, his voice commanding as he addressed the hall. His dark eyes swept the crowd like a blade.

“For too long,” he declared, “Elarindor has languished under weakness and lies. Today, I claim what destiny has already chosen. By right of conquest, by strength of rule—I am your king.”

The hall erupted with applause from those too fearful to resist. Others clapped more hesitantly, their eyes darting as if seeking escape.

Serenya’s nails dug into her palms. Every instinct screamed to step forward, to cry out her name, to reveal the truth.

But then—across the hall, Kaelen’s gaze caught hers.

He stood near the shadows, unseen by most, but his expression was clear: Now.

Her breath caught. Her mother’s words echoed again, clashing against Kaelen’s defiance. Her heart pounded in her chest, torn between silence and revelation.

The crowd roared as Thalric raised the crown.

Serenya’s lips parted. Her body trembled. The moment she had dreaded and longed for was here.

“Serenya Vale—”

The words almost left her tongue.

And then a scream tore through the hall.

A noble collapsed to the ground, poison frothing from his lips. Panic spread like wildfire, and chaos consumed the chamber. Guards rushed forward, nobles fled, and the crown clattered from Thalric’s hands.

Serenya stood frozen, heart hammering.

Not yet. Not now.

But destiny was no longer waiting.