Chapter 4

The echo of footsteps whispered through the marble corridors of Moonspire’s royal keep. Serenya kept her head bowed, the hood of her servant’s cloak pulled low to shadow her face. Each pace forward felt like walking a blade’s edge, for every guard she passed was sworn to protect a crown she was destined to inherit but dared not claim.

She carried the tray of goblets with studied grace, balancing crystal like any well-trained handmaid, yet her eyes darted across tapestries and stonework that spoke of her lineage. Lions, eclipsed suns, the flowering vines of her house—her true house—decorated every hall. It was both a comfort and a torment.

At the throne room’s great doors, two armored sentinels crossed halberds to halt her.

“Wine for the council,” Serenya murmured, eyes downcast.

The taller guard studied her a heartbeat longer than necessary. She steadied her breath. For all he knew, she was simply another faceless servant.

Finally, the halberds lifted. The heavy doors creaked open, and she slipped inside.

The throne chamber glittered with gold and menace. Sunlight streamed from arched windows, casting long shadows across the council table, where nobles quarreled over matters of war and coin. At the dais, King Alderon sat upon the crescent-carved throne, his crown gleaming. He was not her father, but his bloodline had usurped her family’s generations ago. Every time she saw him, her hidden truth clawed closer to the surface.

She set the tray quietly at the table’s edge, pretending to melt into the background.

But words caught her ear.

“The border villages burn,” Duke Thalric Veynor said, voice low yet sharp as a dagger. “We need a stronger hand on the throne. Perhaps… a change of heirs.”

The king’s jaw stiffened. His eldest daughter, Eloria Thorne, sat with poise beside him. Her emerald eyes narrowed like a hawk ready to strike.

“Careful, Duke,” Eloria said coolly. “Your ambition leaks from every word.”

Thalric’s lips curved into a smile that never touched his eyes. “Ambition? Or truth? The people tire of weakness.”

Serenya’s heart thudded. She had heard whispers of Thalric’s hunger before, but never spoken so boldly within the throne room itself.

A goblet tipped. Red wine spilled across parchment, dripping onto the floor. Serenya knelt quickly, gathering the cloth she carried, but her ears strained on every syllable above her.

“Weakness?” the king growled. “My reign has held this kingdom through famine and plague. Do not mistake patience for weakness.”

“Patience?” Thalric leaned forward. “Or blindness? While you brood on patience, enemies grow stronger. Rumors of a lost heir spread—an ember that could ignite rebellion if ever it found air.”

Serenya’s breath caught. Her hands froze upon the cloth.

Eloria’s gaze flickered. She masked it quickly, but Serenya saw the tremor of unease ripple through the princess.

“Fairy tales,” Eloria said. “Superstitions told in taverns to rouse fools. No heir of the Vale line exists.”

Serenya forced herself to rise, tray in hand, her movements steady though inside her blood thundered.

She should have left. She should have turned from the throne room before suspicion burned toward her. Yet something heavier than fear rooted her in place.

“Superstitions can topple kingdoms,” Thalric murmured, voice low and dangerous. “Mark me, if that ember exists, I will find it. And I will snuff it out.”

Serenya’s fingers clenched the tray so tightly the metal cut into her palms.

That was when she felt it—a presence near the shadowed columns at the chamber’s edge. Kaelen Draven stood half-hidden, as if he had materialized from the air itself. His dark cloak blended into the marble, but his gaze found hers, steady and knowing.

Her pulse quickened. Why was he here, in the heart of the keep, where only trusted agents and nobles were allowed? His expression told her nothing, but his eyes… his eyes warned her.

Without a word, Kaelen tilted his head toward the side passage. A silent command.

Serenya lowered her gaze, bowed swiftly to the council as if excusing herself, and retreated. The heavy doors closed behind her with a sigh of finality.

In the corridor, shadows swallowed her. She pressed her back against cold stone, her breaths shallow, fighting the tremor in her hands.

“You linger too close to fire.”

Kaelen’s voice came from the darkness at her side. He stepped forward, every line of him carved with tension. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade as though danger followed him like a second skin.

“You were inside,” Serenya whispered. “How?”

“Doors are not always the only way into a room,” he said evenly. His eyes searched hers. “But I should be asking you the same. Why risk walking into the lion’s mouth?”

Her throat tightened. She had no answer that would not betray her secret.

Kaelen studied her, silence heavy between them. Then he leaned closer, his voice low. “You heard the duke. He hunts whispers. If he ever learns what you are—”

“I am nothing,” Serenya cut in, sharper than she intended. She turned, clutching her cloak. “A servant. That is all.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “Lies may shield you for a time. But shadows remember truth, Serenya. And secrets… secrets have a way of clawing free.”

Before she could answer, a page hurried down the corridor, carrying scrolls bound with the king’s seal. Serenya lowered her head quickly, masking her face. When the boy passed, Kaelen had vanished again into shadow, leaving her alone with her racing heart.

She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling the weight of every word spoken in the chamber. The ember of truth was no longer safe. It was aflame.

And soon, someone would burn for it.