Chapter 55

The smoke from overturned torches curled toward the vaulted ceiling of the great hall, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the sour stench of fear. Serenya stood amid the uproar, Kaelen’s shadow steady at her back, while nobles screamed, soldiers clashed, and banners of loyalty burned.

Her heart hammered. Masks had fallen—hers, Thalric’s, everyone’s—and now the question thundered through every soul present: who would be heir?

Cyrion Duskbane’s voice rose above the din, commanding in its calm. “The line of Vale yet lives. The proof is before you. Will you deny blood, or will you deny truth?”

His words silenced some, but not all.

Darian Crestfall, armor bloodied from the scuffle, turned his face to Serenya. His eyes searched hers, torn between duty and the sting of betrayal. He had sworn loyalty to Serenya Vale the commoner, not Serenya Vale the hidden heir. And yet, the fire in her gaze had not changed.

“You have a choice,” he said hoarsely, his sword still raised though trembling in his grip. “Claim the crown now, and every blade in this hall will seek your throat. Step back, and the realm may yet have peace.”

Peace. The word pierced her chest like a dagger.

Serenya glanced at Thalric Veynor. The duke’s smirk was carved from malice, his cloak trailing like a serpent’s tail as his men encircled him. He wanted her silence—needed it. If she renounced her name, his rule would endure, and the true bloodline would fade into whispers once more.

Kaelen leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Your silence will kill more lives than your truth ever could. Don’t let fear chain you.”

Her gaze swept the hall. Nobles shifted uneasily, some with eyes of hope, others with daggers of suspicion. Isolde Mirean clutched her healer’s satchel, her lips moving in prayers Serenya could not hear. Lyra Esthaven stood with her sword dripping crimson, her cursed eyes blazing with defiance. Even Eloria Thorne watched intently, calculating whether to crush Serenya or crown her.

“An heir’s choice,” Serenya whispered, tasting the weight of the words.

Maelis Rowan’s voice, low and aged with prophecy, came from the shadows of the dais. “Choose with courage, child of Vale, for what you name yourself tonight will shape the dawn of centuries.”

Every heartbeat seemed to echo through stone.

Serenya stepped forward. Her gown was torn, her hands bloodied, but she stood taller than she ever had before. “I am no pretender,” she declared, her voice rising above the tumult. “I am Serenya of House Vale—last heir of a bloodline forged in sacrifice. And I will not bow to a throne stolen by lies.”

The hall shook with cries—half in acclaim, half in outrage.

Thalric’s laughter cut through it all, sharp as a blade. “Bold words for a girl with no crown and no army. Do you think they will bleed for you? Die for you?”

“I don’t ask for their blood,” Serenya shot back. “I ask for their courage.”

Her words rippled like fire across dry fields. Some nobles sank to their knees, murmuring oaths to her. Others clung tighter to Thalric’s shadow. The kingdom was fracturing before her eyes, but fractures let in light.

Kaelen raised his sword high, his voice booming. “I stand with the true heir. Who among you dares stand against shadow and tyranny?”

One by one, swords lifted, hesitant but resolute, until a third of the hall shone with steel reflecting her name.

Darian’s blade was last to rise. His voice cracked with emotion, yet rang clear. “I swore my oath to protect Serenya Vale, whoever she was. That oath does not change.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she forced them back. There was no time for softness. Not yet.

Thalric snarled, his mask of control slipping at last. “So be it. You’ve chosen war.”

He raised his hand, and his loyal guards surged forward. The hall erupted again—steel against steel, scream against scream.

Serenya grasped Kaelen’s arm. “We can’t hold here. We need ground that’s ours.”

“Then claim it,” he said fiercely. “Your choice must be more than words. Lead them.”

Her chest ached with the enormity of it. She had spoken her truth, but words alone would not win crowns. Blood would. Sacrifice would.

She mounted the dais, the same stone where Thalric had mocked her moments before. Raising her voice, she called out: “To those who believe in the legacy of Vale—rally to Moonspire! Tonight, we march not as shadows, but as a dawn reborn!”

A thunderous cry answered her.

Even in chaos, hope can rise like a storm.

Thalric’s roar split the hall. “Cut them down before they leave these walls!”

His forces surged again, but Cyrion and Lyra broke through with a sweep of blades, forming a path. Isolde tended to the wounded as arrows whistled overhead. Darian guarded her flank like a shield of iron.

Kaelen caught Serenya’s hand. “Your choice has bound us all. Now we see it through.”

They fled the hall in a blaze of steel and fire, her name echoing behind them like a prophecy fulfilled. Serenya’s heart thundered as she realized the truth: she had made her choice.

Not silence. Not surrender.

She had chosen to be heir.

And nothing—not Thalric, not fear, not even fate—could unmake that choice now.