Chapter 46

The great hall of Veynor Keep shimmered with torchlight, the flames casting long shadows against the stone walls. Tapestries that once celebrated victories of old now seemed like mockeries of a crumbling empire. The air reeked of incense and steel, a suffocating mixture of prayer and blood.

Thalric Veynor, the duke who had maneuvered kingdoms into ruin, stood at the center of the chamber. His cloak, a deep crimson lined with sable fur, trailed across the flagstones like spilled blood. He had waited for this night—the final gambit of his schemes. His eyes, hard as black glass, were fixed on the throne dais where Serenya Vale, the newly unmasked heiress, now held court.

Around her, loyalists of the Crestfall banner formed a protective circle. Darian Crestfall himself stood closest, sword unsheathed, his posture taut, ready to shield her from whatever venom Thalric had prepared. Kaelen Draven lingered at her side, his shadowed gaze unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his blade.

“Your reign,” Thalric’s voice thundered, smooth yet sharp, “was forged on secrets. Lies cradle your crown, Serenya. A throne birthed from deceit cannot endure. Tonight, truth and power will tear it from your grasp.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles. Some shifted uneasily, others narrowed their eyes, measuring which side to favor should violence erupt.

Serenya did not flinch. She rose from her seat, slender yet commanding, her auburn hair catching the flicker of the torches like fire spun into silk. Her voice carried a quiet strength.

“You speak of truth, Duke Veynor. Yet every step you have taken reeks of poison. You twist loyalty into chains, love into leverage, hope into fear. If you call this truth, then I will have none of it.”

For a fleeting moment, the hall stilled. Her words had struck deeper than steel.

But Thalric only smiled, and from the depths of his cloak he drew forth a rolled parchment sealed with wax. He raised it high for all to see.

“Then let us test your conviction. Here lies the final decree of your father, King Aedric Vale. His words denounce you—not as heir, but as an impostor raised in shadows. It names another, hidden until this very hour, as the rightful ruler of Astravale.”

Gasps tore through the chamber. Even Serenya’s composure faltered, her fingers tightening against the carved armrest of the throne.

“Lies,” Darian spat, his voice sharp with rage. “You forged that seal.”

Thalric’s grin widened. “Did I? Or did your precious king conceal truths darker than any of my making?”

He snapped his fingers. From the doors at the far end of the hall, guards dragged in a figure bound in chains. The prisoner’s face was pale, bloodied, yet unmistakably noble. A woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that mirrored Serenya’s own.

Eloria Thorne.

Serenya’s breath caught. Eloria, rival princess, sworn enemy—and yet, the parchment claimed her as blood.

The hall erupted into shouts, confusion, and the crash of steel against the stone floor as factions formed in an instant.

Kaelen’s hand found Serenya’s wrist, grounding her. His voice was low, for her alone. “Do not let him unravel you. He thrives on doubt.”

But Serenya’s heart thundered. If the document was real, everything she had fought for was a lie.

Eloria raised her head, her lips curling into a bitter smile despite the chains that bound her. “I never sought the crown, Serenya. But if destiny offers it, who am I to refuse?”

Thalric turned, his cloak swirling, and addressed the hall like an actor before his stage. “Behold the last move of Duke Veynor—not through steel, but through truth. The blood of Vale does not lie. Serenya is a shadow, a usurper. Kneel to Eloria, and Astravale will endure. Resist… and this kingdom burns.”

He gestured sharply. From hidden alcoves, crossbowmen revealed themselves, their bolts aimed at Serenya’s loyalists.

The trap had been long laid.

Darian lunged forward, blade raised. “You dare—”

“Stop.” Serenya’s voice cut through the chaos. It was not a plea but a command. She rose fully from the throne, her presence silencing the storm for a heartbeat.

Her gaze swept the hall, lingering on Eloria, then on Thalric. Her voice rang with steel.

“You call this your last move, Thalric. Then hear mine. If Astravale must be broken to feed your ambition, let it break around me. But I will not bend. Not to forged seals, not to shadows of doubt, not to you.”

She stepped forward, leaving the throne behind, her every stride deliberate. The crossbowmen hesitated. The nobles watched, transfixed.

And then Serenya did the unthinkable. She knelt before Eloria.

Gasps rippled. Even Thalric’s smirk faltered.

“Blood speaks,” Serenya said, her voice steady. “If you are truly of my father’s line, sister, then claim me not as rival, but as kin. Together we can rule—together we can end his tyranny.”

The hall froze in anticipation, every ear straining for Eloria’s reply.

Eloria’s chained hands trembled. For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in her eyes, as though Serenya’s words pierced a wound deeper than ambition.

But Thalric saw it too, and fear sparked in his gaze. His last move teetered on the edge of collapse.

With a roar, he signaled the crossbowmen. “End this farce—now!”

Bolts flew.

Kaelen moved like shadow and fire, his blade a blur as he deflected the first volley. Darian shielded Serenya with his own body, steel clashing against steel. Chaos exploded, the hall drowning in screams and steel.

Thalric lunged for the dais, dagger in hand, his cloak whipping like a predator’s wings. His eyes burned with fury. “If I cannot crown my queen, I will carve the heir myself!”

But Serenya did not retreat. Rising from her kneel, she met his charge head-on, seizing a fallen spear from the floor. Their clash rang like thunder through the hall.

The last move had begun—but who would finish it was yet unwritten.