Chapter 7

Ash clung to the horizon like a lingering ghost, the ruins of the western watchtowers smoldering in the distance. Serenya tightened her cloak, watching the plumes spiral into the dimming sky. A message lingered in those ruins—one carved not in words but in fire.

Beside her, Kaelen leaned on the hilt of his blade, silent as the shadows he wore so easily. His eyes never left the blackened skyline.

“Another outpost lost,” Serenya murmured. “At this pace, the kingdom will be a skeleton before winter.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “Not lost. Claimed.”

Serenya turned to him. “By whom? No one has confessed to these raids. Not the border clans, not the mercenaries, not even the duke—though the flames carry his signature.”

Kaelen finally met her gaze, and for the briefest moment, she saw it—something unspoken simmering behind his quiet restraint. Then it was gone. He looked back toward the ruins.

“They’re not meant to claim territory,” he said. “They’re meant to erase it. To leave nothing standing.”

The words sank into her like ice. She had known destruction before—her exile had taught her its bitter taste—but there was something different here. It wasn’t conquest. It was deliberate annihilation.

She pulled her cloak tighter. “Why burn what could be ruled?”

“Because,” came a new voice, deep and velvet, “ashes do not remember their kings.”

Serenya stiffened. From the haze of smoke and twilight, a rider emerged. His stallion was black as pitch, its bridle adorned with silver thorns. The man atop it was young, but his presence was older than steel. He carried himself like a crowned sovereign, though no crown rested upon his head.

Kaelen’s hand was on his sword instantly. “Identify yourself.”

The rider dismounted with ease, his boots striking the earth as though the ground itself recognized him. His hair was dark as midnight, and his eyes carried a strange glow, like embers refusing to die.

“I am Cyrion Duskbane,” he said, his voice steady. “Last heir of the Duskbane line… though perhaps it is more fitting to call me heir of ashes.”

Serenya’s breath caught. She knew the name. Everyone did.

The Duskbane line had ruled the western dominions decades ago, before the Crown of Vale consumed their lands. They had vanished in rebellion, slaughtered to the last child—or so the histories claimed. If Cyrion stood before her now, alive and breathing, then half the kingdom’s recorded truth was a lie.

Kaelen didn’t lower his sword. “Impossible. The Duskbane heir was executed as a boy.”

Cyrion’s lips curved, but it was not quite a smile. “That’s the tale your kings wanted you to believe. In truth, I was taken in the chaos, hidden until the smoke cleared. The ashes raised me, and now I return to them.”

The silence between them was thick, pressed with the weight of history. Serenya felt her own secrets claw at the edges of her throat, threatening to expose themselves in the reflection of his confession. A hidden heir, like herself.

“What do you want here?” she asked, her voice steadier than her heartbeat.

Cyrion stepped closer. He carried no visible weapon, yet power trailed him like a cloak. “Not your pity, if that is what you fear. I have not come to beg. I have come to warn you.”

Serenya’s eyes narrowed. “Warn me of what?”

“The fire you see in those towers was not my doing,” Cyrion said, his ember-gaze fixed on her. “Though I am blamed for every flame, every ruin. Someone else wears my name like a dagger and strikes in the dark. They want my legend to rise in terror, not truth. And soon, Serenya Vale—”

She stiffened at the sound of her true name, spoken aloud like a curse loosed into the night.

Kaelen lunged forward, blade at Cyrion’s throat. “How do you know that name?”

Cyrion didn’t flinch. He only looked past the steel to Serenya herself, as though Kaelen were nothing more than a shadow blocking the view.

“Because heirs recognize heirs,” he whispered. “No disguise can hide the fire in your blood.”

Serenya’s pulse thundered. She had been careful, endlessly careful. Yet here he stood, tearing the veil apart with a single sentence.

“You’re mistaken,” she forced out. “I’m no one.”

“Lies weigh too heavily to be worn for long,” Cyrion replied softly. “And the kingdom you love will turn to dust unless truth takes its rightful throne.”

Kaelen pressed the blade closer, a bead of crimson welling at Cyrion’s throat. “One more word and you’ll never speak again.”

But Cyrion only laughed, low and hollow. “Kill me, shadow-guardian. Strike me down, and you’ll confirm everything I’ve said. The truth cannot be silenced with steel.”

Serenya reached forward, her hand closing over Kaelen’s arm. His muscles were taut, fury thrumming through him like a storm, but at her touch, his blade wavered.

“Enough,” she whispered.

Kaelen’s jaw clenched, but he pulled the weapon back, though not without reluctance.

Cyrion touched the blood at his throat, smearing it with a strange reverence. “I see loyalty burns bright in you, Kaelen Draven. Yet loyalty to a lie is still betrayal.”

“Speak your warning,” Serenya said, ignoring the shiver of her unveiled identity echoing in her bones. “Then leave.”

Cyrion nodded once. “The duke—Thalric Veynor. He is not content with the throne of men. He seeks the Throne of Embers, an artifact forged from the last fire of the world’s beginning. With it, he will not rule… he will consume.”

Serenya frowned. She had heard whispers of old relics, half-truths passed through bard’s tales and seer’s riddles. But a throne carved of eternal fire? That was no children’s song.

“Why tell me this?” she asked.

Cyrion’s ember eyes softened. “Because whether you choose it or not, you are part of this war. You can burn with it… or you can rise from the ashes.”

With that, he mounted his stallion once more. Smoke swirled around him, and then he was gone, swallowed into the ruins as though he had been born of them.

Silence lingered long after his departure.

Kaelen finally turned, his gaze sharp as the blade he still clutched. “You didn’t deny it strongly enough.”

Serenya’s stomach knotted. “Deny what?”

“That you’re more than you claim to be.” His eyes pierced her like an arrow. “He spoke your name as if it belonged to him. And you let him.”

Her throat constricted. She wanted to lie, to tell him she was still just the girl he found, the girl hidden in shadows. But Kaelen’s gaze stripped her bare, leaving little room for deceit.

“I can’t answer what you’re asking,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Kaelen looked away, fury and hurt warring on his face. “Then you’ve left me with shadows. And shadows break loyalty.”

Before she could speak, he turned and walked into the smoke, leaving her standing alone beneath the ruin of the twilight sky.

Serenya pressed a hand to her chest, where her heartbeat was a drum of fear and fire.

Cyrion Duskbane’s words echoed in her mind.

Heirs recognize heirs.

And for the first time, she wondered not only whether her disguise could endure—but whether her destiny would let her refuse it.