Chapter ,47

Shards glittered across the hall floor, fragments of shattered chandeliers reflecting the torchlight like fallen stars. Screams and steel echoed through the vaulted chamber, the clash of loyalty and betrayal tearing the great keep apart.

Serenya’s spear clashed against Duke Thalric’s dagger, sparks leaping between them. His strength was raw, merciless, but hers was guided by fury sharpened into purpose. Each strike reverberated not just in her arms, but in her heart—every blow carried the weight of her kingdom, her bloodline, her right to exist.

“You kneel and beg unity, yet you will never hold a crown,” Thalric hissed as their weapons locked. His breath was hot against her face, his eyes wild with a hunger that bordered on madness. “Your throne is glass, fragile and false. One strike, and it will shatter.”

Her reply came as a fierce push, breaking their deadlock. “Glass may break, Thalric—but it also cuts deep.”

He stumbled back a step, his dagger sweeping low in retaliation. Serenya twisted aside, her cloak tearing as steel grazed her ribs. Pain flared, but she refused to falter.

Behind her, Kaelen moved like a storm, blades flashing as he intercepted the crossbowmen raining bolts from the balconies. Darian fought shoulder to shoulder with him, his shield battered but unyielding, his loyalty a wall against the chaos. Yet even they were being pressed to their limits.

And Eloria—still chained, still bound—watched with an expression neither victory nor pity. Her silence burned into Serenya’s back more fiercely than any wound.

The tide shifted when Thalric bellowed a signal. From hidden doors at the hall’s edges, armored reinforcements surged forth, their banners marked with the black falcon of Veynor. Dozens of soldiers flooded the chamber, blades raised, their boots pounding like thunder.

Nobles who moments before had hesitated now rushed to pick sides, their jewels and silks tangling with steel as the great hall dissolved into civil war.

“Hold them back!” Darian shouted, his voice hoarse with effort. “Serenya—finish him!”

Thalric heard it too, and his laughter cracked through the chaos. He tore free a second blade, twin daggers gleaming, and lunged with a predator’s precision. Serenya parried once, twice, but the third strike slipped close enough to graze her throat.

Her spear shuddered under his relentless assault, cracks splintering through its shaft. Her chest heaved, breath ragged, but her eyes never left his.

“This ends with me,” she whispered.

And then, in a move as reckless as it was desperate, she let the spear break.

The wooden shaft snapped in her hands as she shoved the broken half forward. The jagged edge sliced across Thalric’s cheek, a deep crimson gash marking his once-imperious face.

He roared in fury, stumbling back as blood dripped to the stones. His dagger fell, clattering. For the first time, the Duke of Veynor looked vulnerable.

The hall seemed to freeze. Soldiers, nobles, even Eloria—all eyes turned to the scarlet trail down his cheek.

Serenya dropped the broken spear and seized the fallen crown from the dais. Its crystal points gleamed, fragile yet radiant, a crown of glass crafted to symbolize Astravale’s fragile unity. She held it aloft, her voice carrying over the din.

“This crown belongs not to those who scheme in shadows, but to those who bleed for its light. Break it if you will, Thalric—but know this: even in shards, Astravale will rise!”

Her words ignited the hall like fire through dry fields. Crestfall loyalists roared with renewed fury, driving back Veynor’s men. Kaelen’s blade sang through the air, Darian’s shield crushed through lines, and the nobles who had wavered now surged to her side.

Thalric staggered, clutching his wound, but his eyes burned with venom. “You think you’ve won, girl? That crown is glass, and glass… breaks.”

With a final, furious lunge, he drove his remaining dagger not at her—but at the crown in her hands.

The impact rang like thunder.

Crystal exploded in a rain of shards, glittering fragments cascading across the hall. Gasps filled the chamber as the symbol of Astravale shattered into ruin.

Serenya stood motionless, the broken circlet slipping from her fingers.

Shards of glass cut into her palms, bright beads of blood welling against her skin. She looked at the fragments, then at Thalric, whose chest heaved with ragged triumph.

“See?” he rasped, his voice a cruel whisper. “Nothing endures.”

But Serenya lifted her bleeding hands, shards glinting crimson in the firelight, and raised her voice so all could hear.

“You’re wrong, Thalric. Nothing endures—except the will to rise again.”

The hall erupted, not with fear this time, but with defiance. Her people roared, surging forward with a force that crushed Veynor’s last defenders. Crossbowmen fell, soldiers scattered, the tide turning at last.

Thalric, wild and desperate, tried to retreat toward the balcony—but Kaelen was already there. His blade barred the path, his voice low and final.

“No more moves left, Duke.”

Thalric’s eyes darted, searching, scheming, until they landed once more on Eloria. For a heartbeat, hope gleamed in his gaze—as if she might still side with him.

But Eloria only shook her head, her voice carrying across the hall. “I will not be your pawn any longer.”

It was the last thing Thalric heard before Kaelen struck.

The duke’s body crumpled, his lifeblood soaking into the stones he had once sought to rule. The hall fell silent, the storm of battle broken at last.

Serenya lowered her hands, shards slipping through her fingers, her blood mingling with glass on the floor. She felt no triumph, only the weight of what had been lost.

A crown of glass could shatter—but could it ever be remade?

As silence deepened, Maelis Rowan, the seer, stepped forward from the shadows. Her voice, soft yet heavy with portent, echoed through the hall:

“This was not the end, child. Shattered glass gives way to sharper edges. And those edges cut deeper still.”

Serenya met her gaze, a chill settling into her bones. The war was far from over.