Chapter 43

Flames licked the edges of the night as the first sparks of rebellion roared to life beyond Dawnspire’s walls. Serenya Vale stood at the high tower, her cloak snapping in the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon where torches moved like rivers of fire in the darkness. The Duke of Veynor’s forces were on the march—yet it was not his banners that chilled her blood.

Among the rebel ranks, she glimpsed the mark of the Shadow Knight. Kaelen Draven.

Her heart clenched so fiercely it nearly brought her to her knees. Darian’s words echoed in her ears—He has betrayed you. She wanted to deny it still, but the proof burned before her in a thousand torches carried by soldiers sworn to bring down her claim.

A knock sounded behind her. Orren Kaelith entered, his broad frame filling the doorway, his armor dusted with frost. His expression was grim.

“The outer villages have risen,” Orren said. “The people believe Kaelen fights for them—that he carries the torch of justice against a crown they think corrupted.” His gaze lingered on Serenya’s face. “They call it the Rebel’s Torch.”

Serenya’s breath caught. “A torch carried by the man I…” Her words faltered, her throat raw. She had once imagined Kaelen as her salvation. Now he was the spark that threatened to burn her world to ash.

Orren bowed his head. “Do you wish me to ride against him? To cut down this rebellion at its root?”

“No,” Serenya said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Kaelen Draven is not to be touched—not until I face him myself.”

The council chamber boiled with discord an hour later. Eloria Thorne, the rival princess who had once schemed to dethrone her, now stood at the long table, fire in her eyes.

“You’ve lost the people, Serenya,” Eloria declared. “They see Kaelen as a liberator, not a traitor. If you do not act, his torch will consume your claim before it is ever lit.”

“And what would you have me do?” Serenya shot back, her fists tight at her sides. “Slaughter the people I swore to protect? Strike down the man I—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard.

Darian Crestfall’s gaze pierced through her hesitation. He spoke calmly, though his words cut deep. “You must take the torch from him. If you do not, he will carry it to the throne. You are the rightful heir, Serenya Vale. Do not let love unmake you.”

Silence followed. Every eye was on her, waiting, weighing her strength. And though her heart was a battlefield, Serenya straightened her spine.

“Then we take the torch,” she said. “We remind the people who I am—not a shadow in disguise, but the heir who will not break.”

Night fell heavy and red with fire. Serenya rode at the head of her forces, her banner raised high. Snow melted under the march of boots, trampled into mud stained dark by blood already spilled.

They met the rebels in the valley of Blackhollow—a wide stretch where the river curved like a silver blade under the moon. Across the field, Kaelen’s army stood ready, their torches blazing like a living wall of flame.

And there he was.

Kaelen Draven, astride a black steed, armor dark as midnight, the torch of rebellion burning in his hand. His face was shadowed by his helm, but she knew every line, every scar hidden beneath. He lifted the torch high, and his soldiers roared.

Betrayal never looked so radiant.

Serenya’s throat tightened. She forced her voice to rise, carrying across the field. “Kaelen Draven! You carry a fire that does not belong to you. Lay it down before it burns us all.”

For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then Kaelen’s voice thundered back, deeper and sharper than she remembered.

“You hide behind crowns and secrets, Serenya. But I fight for the people left to starve while thrones bleed them dry. Tonight, the torch belongs to them.”

Her chest caved in. It was not the voice of a liar—it was the voice of a man who believed every word. And yet belief could be as dangerous as betrayal.

Darian urged his horse closer, sword gleaming. “He will not yield. Say the word, Serenya, and we charge.”

Her lips parted, but the order lodged in her throat. Her eyes locked on Kaelen’s, burning across the field, and she prayed for some sign, some spark of the man who once swore to stand by her side.

Instead, Kaelen hurled the torch into the air. It landed in the grass between them, igniting the valley in flames. The battle had begun.

The clash was chaos—steel ringing, arrows hissing, fire spreading like a living beast. Serenya fought with fury, her blade carving arcs of silver through the blaze. Darian was never far, his shield raised to guard her, his presence a constant anchor amid the storm.

But her eyes sought only one figure. Kaelen.

She found him at the river’s edge, cutting down soldiers with a ferocity that stole her breath. His blade moved like shadow and fire, every strike deliberate, unstoppable. She forced her horse through the melee, determined to reach him.

Their blades met with a clash that silenced the battle around them. Sparks flew as steel kissed steel. His eyes, when she finally saw them through the visor, were storms of anguish and resolve.

“You should have stayed hidden,” Kaelen said, his voice a dagger of grief.

“And you should have stayed true,” she answered, striking again.

Their fight was more than steel—it was love turned to fire, faith turned to ruin. Every blow was a question, every parry an answer they refused to speak. Around them, soldiers held their breath, as though the outcome of the battle rested not on armies, but on this duel of hearts.

At last, Kaelen disarmed her, his blade pressing against her throat. Time froze.

His hand trembled. His jaw clenched. “If I strike you down, the people will rise behind me. If I let you go, they will abandon me. Tell me, Serenya—what torch should I carry?”

Her eyes burned with tears. “Carry mine,” she whispered. “Together, we could light the world without burning it.”

For a heartbeat, his grip faltered. Hope surged—until an arrow hissed through the night and buried itself in his shoulder. Kaelen staggered, dropping his sword.

Serenya gasped, reaching for him, but Darian pulled her back, shield raised against the volley of arrows. Kaelen’s soldiers dragged him away, retreating into the smoke, the torch abandoned in the mud.

The battle ended not in victory, but in fire and grief.

When dawn broke, Serenya held the Rebel’s Torch in her hands. The fire had guttered out, its wood charred black, but it still smoldered faintly, as though waiting for new hands to claim it.

The valley was quiet, save for the groans of the wounded and the crows circling overhead. Darian approached, his armor bloodied, his expression grave.

“You hold the torch now,” he said. “The people will see it as a sign. But Kaelen still breathes. He will rise again.”

Serenya stared at the smoldering torch, her chest aching with the weight of it. “Then let him rise,” she said softly. “And when he does, I will face him—not as a lover betrayed, but as the heir who will not fall.”

The flame flickered in her grasp, tiny but alive. The Rebel’s Torch had passed to her hand.

And with it, the burden of love and war alike.