Chapter 49

The night had thinned into fragile silence. Only the distant calls of rebels securing the forest broke the hush that fell over the glade. Serenya knelt in the dew-soaked grass, Kaelen’s weight heavy against her lap. His breath came shallow, uneven, and every hitch in his chest carved a deeper fear into her bones.

The shadows still lingered around her, coiling gently like smoke from an extinguished fire. For the first time, they had not devoured but shielded. They pressed against Kaelen’s wound now, staunching the blood, pulsing with a strange rhythm as though the night itself willed him to survive.

“Hold on,” she whispered, brushing a damp lock of hair from his face. “I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I won’t lose you.”

Kaelen’s eyes fluttered open. Even through pain, his gaze burned with stubborn clarity. “You should… worry about yourself. Veynor won’t stop. He saw your power.” His hand found hers, weak but insistent. “You’ve shown them who you are, Serenya. The whole world will come hunting now.”

“Then let them,” she snapped, gripping his hand tighter. “I’m done hiding.”

Lyra Esthaven stormed into the glade, sword still dripping from the skirmish outside the forest. Her bronze hair was tangled, her armor streaked with mud, but her eyes blazed with the ferocity of someone who had carved her way through a battlefield.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, relief softening her expression for just a heartbeat before steel returned to her spine. “But gods, what have you done? Shadows bending at your command? Serenya, do you realize what they’ll call you now? Witch, monster—”

“Queen,” Serenya interrupted, her voice low but steady. “They’ll call me queen.”

Lyra stiffened, her hand tightening on her sword hilt, but there was no mockery in Serenya’s tone, no pride—only inevitability.

The rebels gathered, a circle of exhausted faces lit by the pale moon. Some looked at Serenya with awe, others with unease. Whispers darted between them like startled birds.

She commanded the shadows…

Did you see Veynor retreat?

What does this mean for us?

Darian Crestfall arrived last, his armor battered but his posture unbowed. His eyes found Serenya immediately, then dropped to Kaelen bleeding in her arms. The knight’s jaw clenched, and he sank to one knee beside them.

“He needs a healer,” Darian said quickly. “Where’s Isolde?”

“Here.”

Isolde Mirean pushed through the crowd, her satchel clinking with vials and herbs. She knelt opposite Serenya, her hands calm though her eyes betrayed urgency. “You’ve kept him alive with… something. I can feel it. But if I don’t act now, no shadows in the world will keep him breathing.”

Serenya hesitated, then released her hold. The shadows recoiled reluctantly, like wolves driven back from prey. Kaelen groaned as warmth fled his body, but Isolde worked swiftly, pressing poultices, whispering incantations in a language older than stone.

“Stay with me,” Serenya urged, her fingers brushing Kaelen’s temple. His hand twitched in reply, fragile but unbroken.

Hours blurred. Dawn spread a pale veil over the forest when Isolde finally sat back, her face drawn with exhaustion.

“He’ll live,” she said. “If he rests. If he doesn’t tear the stitches by doing something reckless.”

Kaelen’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Reckless? Me?”

Relief swept through Serenya so swiftly her body trembled. She bowed her head against his shoulder, and for a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of tears—quiet, unyielding tears that burned but did not break her.

When she lifted her face, Kaelen’s eyes were open, fixed on her with an intensity that stole her breath. “You’re stronger than you know,” he whispered. “And I don’t mean the shadows. I mean you.”

Serenya swallowed hard. In his gaze, she saw no fear of what she had become—only faith.

But not everyone shared it.

As the rebels dispersed to rest, Darian lingered near the edge of the glade, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Lyra approached him, her voice hushed but sharp.

“She’s dangerous,” Lyra said. “You saw it too. Shadows obey her. That isn’t just power—it’s a curse. What if it consumes her? What if she consumes us?”

Darian’s gaze flickered toward Serenya, still bent over Kaelen. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “Or what if it saves us?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “You’re too loyal. It will blind you. I won’t let her tear this kingdom apart, even if she means well.”

“Careful,” Darian warned, his voice steel. “Speak of treason again, and I won’t shield you.”

Lyra turned away, but her silence was heavier than words.

Later, when the camp had quieted, Serenya sat by Kaelen’s side, her hand entwined with his. His breathing was steadier now, though his skin still burned with fever.

She gazed at the first blush of dawn above the treeline. The sky was awash with crimson—like blood spilled across the heavens.

“Do you regret it?” Kaelen’s voice rasped softly.

She turned to him, startled. “Regret what?”

“Showing them who you are. Claiming the shadows.”

Serenya’s throat tightened. Images flashed through her mind—her mother’s death, years of hiding, the weight of secrets pressed upon her shoulders like chains. And then Kaelen bleeding in her arms, Veynor retreating in fear.

“No,” she whispered. “For the first time, I don’t regret anything.”

Kaelen’s lips curved faintly. “Then hold onto that. Don’t let them make you doubt.”

She pressed her forehead to his, her voice trembling but fierce. “Whatever happens, whatever crown or curse they throw at me—I won’t leave you behind. This bond…” Her fingers tightened around his. “It’s unbroken.”

Beyond the camp, unseen by all but the trees, a figure watched.

Cyrion Duskbane emerged from the shadows, his cloak torn, his eyes haunted. He had returned at last—but the look on his face was not one of triumph.

He whispered to the silent forest, “The bond may hold… but bonds can break. And when they do, the kingdom will bleed.”

Then he vanished back into the dawn.