Chapter 71

Ash drifted across the dawn sky like scattered embers from a dying fire. Serenya Vale stood atop the ruined balcony of Crestfall Keep, the stronghold that once gleamed with banners of gold and crimson. Now, its towers were fractured, its gates charred, and its halls haunted by the echoes of betrayal.

She pressed her hand against the stone railing, rough with cracks. The kingdom was fracturing—not just in stone and steel, but in heart and soul. Kaelen’s words from the night before replayed in her mind: “The betrayal came from within. Someone you trusted has opened the gates of war.”

Her chest tightened. Too many faces haunted her thoughts—Eloria’s sharp ambition, Darian’s torn loyalty, even Isolde’s strange silences. Who had betrayed them to Thalric Veynor’s crimson banner? Who had whispered secrets that had brought blood and ruin here?

“Your Highness,” a weary voice spoke behind her.

Serenya turned. Lyra Esthaven limped into the hall, her dark braid half-undone, armor dented, one hand clutching her side where a bandage barely held back the red. Yet her eyes burned fierce as ever.

“We’ve rallied what remains of the southern guard,” Lyra reported. “Barely three hundred men… maybe less if the fever spreads. Supplies are scarce. And…” her voice faltered, “the people look at us not with hope, but with fear. They whisper that the throne is cursed.”

The words struck like a blade. Serenya swallowed hard. “It is not the throne that curses us, Lyra. It is the greed of men who would tear a kingdom apart for their own gain.”

Lyra studied her, then stepped closer. “They look to you, Serenya. Even in whispers, they call you ‘the hidden flame.’ But flames burn out quickly unless fed. What will you give them?”

Before Serenya could answer, the sound of boots echoed from below. Kaelen Draven entered the ruined hall, his cloak stained with sea-salt and smoke. His sharp eyes caught hers immediately, steady and unreadable, but his jaw was tight.

“The eastern coast is lost,” he said flatly. “Thalric’s ships patrol the waters, cutting off supplies. Villages burn. And Cyrion Duskbane…” His voice lowered. “…has vanished. His standard was seen flying near Dawnspire. If he’s truly allied with Thalric, we face more than betrayal—we face the shadow of a dead kingdom risen again.”

Serenya’s breath caught. Cyrion—the heir of a fallen realm, the one who had sworn to her that their futures were bound by prophecy. Could he truly have turned? Or was this yet another illusion spun by enemies?

Eloria Thorne’s voice rang suddenly in memory: “Heirs are never loyal to hearts, Serenya. Only to crowns.”

Kaelen moved closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “If the people lose faith, everything collapses. You must act—not as a hidden heiress, but as the ruler they’ve waited for. Or this broken kingdom will shatter beyond repair.”

Serenya met his gaze, her heart torn. To act as ruler meant to reveal everything—to shed the disguise that had protected her for so long. But to remain hidden was to let the cracks deepen until nothing remained.

Her silence stretched, broken only when Darian Crestfall strode into the hall, helm tucked under his arm. His face was hardened, eyes shadowed.

“The men are restless,” he said, glancing first at Lyra, then at Kaelen, before fixing on Serenya. “Rumors spread faster than commands. They say you are more than you claim to be, Lady Vale. They say you are blood of the crown.”

The hall fell still. Lyra stiffened, Kaelen’s hand brushed his blade, and Serenya’s heart thundered.

“And what do you say, Darian?” she asked softly.

He stepped forward, each word deliberate. “I say the truth can no longer hide. If you are to lead us, claim it. If not… we are finished.”

The weight of his challenge pressed on her chest like chains. She looked around—the broken walls, the fading banners, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows. A broken kingdom waited for her choice.

Her voice trembled but did not falter. “I am Serenya Vale… daughter of the crown, heir of the realm. I have hidden in shadows, but no more. This kingdom may be broken, but I will not let it die.”

Her words echoed through the hall, carried beyond into the ruined courtyard where soldiers gathered. Murmurs rose into shouts, half in hope, half in doubt. But it was enough—it was a spark.

Lyra bowed her head slightly, eyes shining. Kaelen exhaled slowly, a flicker of relief—or fear—passing across his face. Darian knelt, pressing his blade to the stone.

But as hope stirred, a horn sounded in the distance—long and low, a call of war.

Kaelen’s head snapped toward the sound. “Scouts report Thalric’s forces advancing. His crimson banner rides with black sails. And…” His expression hardened. “…Cyrion rides at his side.”

The hall erupted. Soldiers cursed, Lyra’s hand gripped her blade, and Serenya’s heart clenched. Cyrion, once her ally, now leading her enemy.

A kingdom broken. A crown contested. And betrayal deeper than she had ever feared.

She raised her chin, forcing steel into her voice. “Then we meet them at Dawnspire. If Cyrion Duskbane has chosen the shadows, I will show him the fire of stars.”

Kaelen’s gaze lingered on her, unreadable yet fierce, as though he feared both her courage and its cost.

Outside, the horn sounded again, closer now. The broken kingdom braced for war.