Chapter 84

Moonlight spilled through the fractured windows of the grand council chamber, painting silver streaks across broken marble and fallen banners. The hall, once resplendent with tapestries of golden lions and star-forged crowns, now stood as a scarred reminder of what had been lost.

Serenya Vale walked its length with measured steps, the echo of her boots a lonely rhythm. Kaelen was gone—swallowed by the night and by the duty he had chosen above her love. But grief could not be her master now. Every eye in the kingdom turned to her, to the heiress who had stepped out of shadow and claimed her bloodline.

And already, whispers gathered like storm clouds.

At the far end of the chamber, three thrones stood side by side—once symbols of unity among the ruling houses, now fractured by war. The middle seat, carved of obsidian and silver, bore the crest of her line. It should have felt like destiny fulfilled. Instead, it loomed like a weight she had never wanted.

“Your Grace,” Darian Crestfall’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. The knight stood at her side, helm tucked beneath his arm, his gaze steady though his tunic bore scars of battle. “The council is restless. They will demand answers for Dawnspire’s ruin. And for Kaelen’s absence.”

The mention of his name tightened her chest, but Serenya only lifted her chin. “Then let them demand,” she said, her voice sharper than she felt. “I will not give them silence, but neither will I give them truth they are not ready to hear.”

The doors groaned open, and the chamber filled with figures cloaked in authority—lords, ladies, envoys, and pretenders. Among them, Eloria Thorne strode with calculated grace, her emerald gown trailing behind like a serpent’s tail.

“Ah, Serenya,” Eloria said, her smile edged with ice. “You wear the hall well. Shadows suit you, as they always have.”

“Eloria,” Serenya returned evenly, though her fingers curled tight against her palms. Rival, cousin, and constant thorn—Eloria’s ambition burned brighter now than ever. “I trust you came to swear loyalty to the crown.”

“To whichever crown proves strongest,” Eloria said smoothly, her eyes glinting.

Before Serenya could retort, a ripple of unease cut through the room. At the chamber’s edge, Cyrion Duskbane appeared, tall and silent, his cloak dark as midnight waters. The heir of a fallen kingdom, his presence was both a promise and a threat. He bowed low, yet his smile carried no warmth.

“Lady Vale,” he greeted, his voice velvet over steel. “Or should I say, Your Grace? Forgive me—I forget which title you claim today.”

The chamber hummed with tension. Serenya held his gaze. “I claim only what is mine by birthright and by fire. If you wish to contest it, speak now.”

Cyrion’s smile deepened, though his words remained wrapped in courtesy. “Contest? No. Observe? Always. Shadows, after all, reveal more than light.”

A murmur passed among the council, each lord measuring the balance of power. Darian moved subtly closer, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, but Serenya gave no sign of fear.

She would not falter.

“Let us begin,” she said, her voice carrying through the hall. “Dawnspire has bled, yes. But it still stands. The throne has not fallen. And while I live, it will not fall.”

Yet as the words left her lips, the heavy doors slammed once more. From the darkness beyond, Thalric Veynor emerged—the duke whose schemes had already drowned kingdoms in blood. His cloak was crimson, his crown wrought of stolen gold, his smile a dagger in disguise.

“Beautiful speech,” Thalric drawled, striding forward with the confidence of a man who feared nothing—not even gods. “But thrones, my dear Serenya, are not held by words. They are held by power. And power,” he spread his arms as if embracing the chamber, “is slipping from your grasp.”

The council stilled. All eyes turned.

Serenya’s heart thudded, but she met his challenge with steady defiance. “You speak of power as though it belongs to you. Tell me, Thalric—when you drown in shadows, who will remember your name?”

Thalric’s smile flickered. Just for a moment. Then he laughed. “Perhaps none. But tonight, my hand already moves where yours cannot see.”

A chill swept the chamber, sudden and suffocating. Serenya’s pulse quickened. She caught the briefest shift in Cyrion’s gaze, the way his fingers tapped the arm of his chair. Something unseen was at play—something twisting beneath the surface.

And in her chest, Serenya felt the hollow ache where Kaelen should have stood. He would have read the danger in an instant, whispered warning in her ear, steadied her hand. But he was gone, and she stood alone in this chamber of vipers.

Still, she would not bow.

“If shadows move,” Serenya said, her voice fierce, “then I will move faster. Let every schemer here know—I am no pawn. I am the crown that cannot be stolen.”

The chamber erupted into voices—some shouting loyalty, others doubt, others quiet schemes whispered into the dark. Amid it all, Eloria’s laughter rang clear, sharp as glass.

“How brave you sound, cousin,” she said. “But crowns forged in shadow break under light. And soon, yours will too.”

Serenya’s hands trembled, though she hid them in her gown’s folds. Every word felt like a blade, every glance a test. Yet she lifted her chin once more, forcing her heart to still.

The game of thrones had begun—and in shadows, the deadliest moves were made.