Chapter 32

Smoke curled against the rafters of Dawnspire’s great hall, choking the breath from those gathered within. Serenya’s gaze swept across the torchlit chamber where nobles, soldiers, and spies all pressed in tight, whispering rumors of her hidden bloodline. Their murmurs burned hotter than the flames dancing in the hearth. Tonight was not about whispers—it was about survival.

A trial had been demanded, one she could not escape. Not before a council that bowed to crowns, but before fire itself, an ancient rite of her mother’s people. If she faltered, if her skin bore a single mark of the flames, her claim as heir would crumble into ash.

Kaelen stood just beyond the circle, arms crossed, his dark eyes storm-tossed. Shadows clung to him as if reluctant to release their grip. He had offered to fight in her place, but tradition denied him. The fire would test only Serenya, and no shadow could shield her now.

Eloria Thorne lingered near the dais, lips curved in triumph. The rival princess had pressed for this judgment, her voice sharp with feigned righteousness. “If Serenya Vale is truly of the royal bloodline, the fire will recognize her. If not—” She tilted her head, gold circlet glinting under the firelight. “Then we crown truth, not deception.”

Serenya inhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in her chest. Beneath her plain cloak, her mother’s sigil rested against her skin—a star eclipsed by shadow. Maelis Rowan, the seer, had pressed it into her palm only hours ago, whispering: The fire does not only burn—it reveals.

Darian Crestfall, ever her knight, bent his head toward her shoulder. “Do not let them see your fear. Fear is the weapon they wield first.” His voice carried a weight of loyalty, yet behind it Serenya heard the strain of something deeper, something fragile.

She gave him a fleeting nod and stepped forward into the circle.

The chamber fell silent.

Two braziers were brought forth, flames roaring within iron basins shaped like the wings of a phoenix. Between them, a narrow path stretched, scattered with hot coals glowing like embers of a dying star. Her task was simple in design yet brutal in demand: cross barefoot, carrying the chalice of Dawnspire from one brazier to the other without faltering. Only one born of royal blood could pass unscathed, or so the tradition claimed.

Cyrion Duskbane watched her from the shadows of the hall, his expression unreadable. He too was heir, though of a kingdom long fallen to ruin. Was it sympathy in his gaze, or calculation? Serenya could not tell.

A horn sounded.

Serenya lowered her cloak. Her feet met the cool stone floor, a cruel contrast to what awaited. She reached for the silver chalice resting on the altar, its rim etched with ancient runes. Light shimmered through its surface as if starlight itself had been caught within.

Kaelen’s voice carried softly across the silence, meant for her alone: “Step with faith, not fear. Shadows and stars walk with you.”

Serenya clutched those words as tightly as the chalice and took her first step.

Heat struck instantly, searing against her skin. Yet no blister formed, no pain split her bones. The embers hissed beneath her weight as though recognizing something buried deep in her blood.

She took another step. Then another.

Gasps rippled through the hall. Some pressed closer, their disbelief sparking louder than their words. Eloria’s triumphant smile faltered.

But Serenya was not safe yet.

Halfway across, the fire flared higher, flames leaping from the coals as if summoned by unseen hands. The path shifted, embers scattering outward like shards of molten glass. The rite had been corrupted.

Whispers surged—sabotage. Someone had tampered with the trial.

Serenya staggered, shielding the chalice with her arms. Flames clawed at her ankles, and this time heat bit deeper, licking with cruel hunger. She gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out.

From the edge of the circle, Kaelen surged forward, only to be restrained by guards. His fury rumbled low, like thunder about to break. Darian’s hand hovered at his sword, but to interfere would condemn her.

“Fall, Serenya,” Eloria called sweetly. “Let the truth burn through.”

Her laughter fractured something inside Serenya.

She fixed her eyes not on the flames but on the chalice itself. Within its silver depth, starlight shimmered—faint yet unyielding. The sigil at her chest burned warm, as if answering.

Memories surged: her mother’s lullabies, sung beneath moonlit windows; her father’s quiet strength; Kaelen’s promise whispered in the dark. They wove together into a force stronger than pain.

She stepped forward again.

Fire roared, clawing higher. A wall of flame surged to meet her, taller than any mortal should endure. Yet Serenya raised the chalice high, her voice ringing clear above the crackling storm:

“Blood of stars, shield me.”

Light burst from the chalice, silver and gold entwining. The flames recoiled, parting like waves before a prow. Gasps turned to cries of awe as Serenya walked the final steps untouched, the chalice gleaming steady in her grasp.

When she reached the far brazier, she lowered the chalice gently within it. The flames dimmed instantly, leaving only glowing embers.

Silence hung heavy.

Then Maelis’s voice broke it, soft yet carrying to every ear: “The fire does not lie. The blood of the eclipse flows true.”

An uproar erupted. Nobles clashed in shouts—some swearing loyalty, others demanding deceit. Yet all eyes turned to Serenya, who stood barefoot upon the stone, her gaze steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Kaelen tore free of the guards and reached her side, catching her as her knees wavered. Heat radiated from her skin, but no burns marked her flesh. His hand pressed lightly against her back, grounding her. “You passed,” he murmured, voice breaking with relief.

Eloria’s face drained of triumph. Her lips pressed into a thin line before curving into something colder, sharper. “Fire bends to trickery. If not today, then tomorrow, we will see truth laid bare.”

Darian stepped forward, steel in his voice. “You would doubt the rite itself? Then you doubt the crown you claim to protect.” His loyalty rang clear, but Serenya caught the shadows in his eyes—shadows of a man torn between oath and heart.

Cyrion Duskbane approached slowly, every movement deliberate. He bowed, though his words carried weight enough to fracture stone. “A trial passed is not a throne won. Fire grants proof of blood, not the strength to rule. Remember this, Heiress.”

Serenya met his gaze, seeing neither malice nor loyalty—only warning.

The council clamored louder, voices crashing like waves. Some demanded coronation, others called for delay. Amid the storm, Serenya realized victory had not ended her trial. It had only begun another.

Kaelen’s whisper brushed her ear: “You’ve stepped through fire. But shadows move still, waiting to strike.”

She tightened her grip on the chalice, its silver light fading into stillness. Her heart burned with more than flame—it burned with resolve.

No longer would she walk hidden. Her path was written in both shadows and starlight, and it had only just begun.