Chapter 67

The hall of Dawnspire was hushed, save for the soft flicker of torches licking shadows across the stone. Serenya Vale stood at its center, her crown of moonsteel balanced lightly in her hands. It was not yet hers in truth, though the people whispered it already was. But tonight—tonight, the crown felt like a weight carved from grief.

For outside, the bells still tolled, mourning the fallen. Soldiers had perished defending the Silver Gate. Innocent blood had stained the cobbled streets, and though the city still stood, Serenya could not escape the truth: every victory carved a piece from her heart.

Kaelen Draven entered quietly, his boots echoing softly against the floor. The cloak he wore was slashed, a reminder of the battle that had nearly claimed him. His gaze swept to her, stormy and unyielding, but softer when it rested on her trembling form.

“You should rest,” he said gently, though his voice was hoarse. “No crown is worth breaking yourself.”

Serenya shook her head, her auburn hair falling in tangled strands about her face. “What good is rest when the dead cannot share it? What good is this crown—” her grip tightened on the circlet—“if every step toward it costs me another soul?”

Kaelen moved closer, his hand hovering, then settling on hers. Warmth. Steadying. A reminder that in the storm, she was not alone.

“Serenya,” he murmured, “a crown is not meant to be clean. It is forged with sacrifice. The question is whether those sacrifices were in vain—or whether you make them mean something greater.”

Her eyes glistened, tears she had held back finally breaking free. “And what if I fail them? What if I fail you?”

Kaelen’s expression hardened, though not unkindly. “Then the world fails with you. That is why you cannot.”

Before she could reply, the heavy doors burst open. Darian Crestfall strode inside, his armor dented and streaked with blood. He bowed stiffly, his jaw set. “Your Highness. The council demands your presence. Thalric Veynor moves faster than we thought. His men march at first light.”

At the mention of the duke’s name, Serenya’s grief tightened into steel. Thalric Veynor—the man who had stolen allies with whispers, who twisted the people with promises of false prosperity. The man who had once sworn fealty, then stabbed her lineage in the back.

“Let them march,” Serenya said, her voice trembling yet fierce. “We will not bend.”

Darian’s brow furrowed. “It is not only his army. Eloria Thorne has pledged her banners to him. Half the east now flies under his colors. We are outnumbered two to one.”

Kaelen cursed under his breath. Serenya swayed, the weight of betrayal crashing into her chest. Eloria—the rival princess who once shared stolen dances beneath starlight, who had looked her in the eye and sworn they were not enemies.

“Then she has chosen her throne over her heart,” Serenya whispered, broken.

Her crown slipped, clattering to the floor.

The sound echoed in the hall like a judgment.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Serenya bent to pick it up, her fingers trembling. As she lifted it, she saw her reflection in the moonsteel—eyes swollen with grief, cheeks streaked with tears.

She did not look like a queen.

She looked like a girl on the edge of shattering.

“Leave us,” Kaelen ordered Darian, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The knight hesitated, then bowed and withdrew.

Silence again, heavy and suffocating.

Kaelen knelt before Serenya, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Let yourself break, if you must. But do it with me here to hold you. Do not carry this crown alone.”

Serenya’s breath hitched, and finally, she collapsed against him. Her tears spilled freely now, hot against his shoulder. She sobbed not as an heiress, not as a commander, but as a woman who had lost too much too soon.

And Kaelen held her, strong arms wrapping around her trembling frame. His own eyes closed, grief shadowing him as well, though he bore it silently.

“You speak of reforging the crown,” she whispered between ragged breaths. “But how do you reforge a heart that has broken too many times?”

He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “You do not reforge it alone. You let me place my hands upon the cracks. You let me bear them too. And together, we make something unbreakable.”

For a moment, the world shrank to just them—shadows and starlight entwined, two hearts torn by duty and desire. The crown lay between them on the floor, gleaming faintly as if listening.

Then, a voice carried through the chamber. Low, sharp, edged with venom.

“Beautiful words, Kaelen. But words do not win kingdoms.”

Both turned sharply. From the shadows of the hall, a figure stepped forward. Cyrion Duskbane, heir of the fallen kingdom, his silver eyes gleaming with unreadable intent.

“Cyrion,” Serenya breathed, hastily wiping her tears.

He smirked, though his expression did not reach his gaze. “Your enemies do not sleep, Heiress. And while you weep for what is lost, they sharpen their blades. If you wish to survive, you must decide now—will you be queen, or will you be a grieving girl who cannot carry the weight?”

Serenya froze. Kaelen rose protectively, hand on his sword, but Cyrion only tilted his head, gaze cool.

“Do not mistake me, I have no wish to see you fall,” Cyrion continued. “But you cannot lead with tears. You must bleed with your people, yes—but you must also rise above them. Choose strength, Serenya Vale. Or watch Thalric Veynor claim everything you mourn for.”

His words struck like steel.

Serenya’s heart thundered in her chest. Was it cruelty—or truth?

The heiress bent again, lifting her crown with new steadiness. She wiped her tears, forcing her breathing calm. Her voice, when she spoke, was low but unyielding.

“I will grieve,” she said. “But I will not let grief bind me. If a crown must be reforged, then so will I.”

Cyrion’s smirk faded into something resembling respect. He bowed slightly. “Then perhaps this kingdom is not lost.”

Kaelen’s hand lingered on Serenya’s arm, steadying, proud. “You are stronger than you know.”

Serenya placed the crown upon her head. For the first time, it did not feel like a weight alone—it felt like fire, searing and alive.

She turned to them both, her voice carrying through the hall.

“Summon the council. At dawn, we march—not as shadows hiding from betrayal, but as a people who will not bow. Let Thalric come. Let Eloria stand beside him. We will show them that no crown forged of lies can outshine the truth.”

Her tears had not vanished. They still shimmered in her eyes. But now, they were not weakness. They were the fire of her resolve.

And in the silence that followed, it was not the bells of mourning that seemed to echo through Dawnspire—it was the beating of a thousand unseen hearts, rising with her.