Chapter 85

The throne room reeked of iron and smoke. Torches hissed in their sconces, their light casting long, trembling shadows across marble floors veined with crimson stains. Serenya stood just inside the doors, her pulse a storm beneath her skin. Every instinct screamed to turn away, but destiny held her here. She had fought too hard, lost too much to retreat now.

Darian Crestfall knelt at the foot of the dais, armor battered, his sword broken beside him. Blood streaked his jaw, dripping into the cracks of the marble. His eyes—once steady as the northern stars—burned with something Serenya could not read. Defiance? Or surrender?

Above him, seated arrogantly on the high throne, Thalric Veynor lounged like a wolf satisfied after slaughter. His dark cloak spilled across the armrests, edged with silver thread as though mocking the very crown he sought to steal. At his side, a jagged spear leaned casually against the throne, still slick with fresh blood.

Serenya’s gaze darted to the crimson trail leading from the hall’s center. Her heart cracked as she recognized the fallen figure near the steps—Isolde Mirean, the healer who had stood beside her since the beginning, lay motionless, her hand outstretched as if reaching for something she would never grasp again.

“Too late, little heiress,” Thalric drawled, his voice echoing like poisoned silk. “Your guardian bleeds. Your healer breathes no more. And your knight—well, I’ve broken him.”

Kaelen Draven shifted at Serenya’s side, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade. Shadows stirred around him, alive, restless. She felt their pull as surely as she felt her own heartbeat. Yet Kaelen’s face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on Thalric with the cold stillness of a storm waiting to break.

Serenya stepped forward, each footfall a vow. “This throne was never yours, Thalric. You’ve only stolen blood to sit upon it.”

Thalric’s smile sharpened. “And blood will keep me here. That is the truth of crowns, Serenya Vale. You dream of starlight and mercy, but kingdoms are built on betrayals. Even your own heart knows it.”

Darian’s head lifted at that, his battered voice cutting through the silence. “Do not listen… he twists truth into chains.”

Thalric’s boot crashed against Darian’s ribs, sending him sprawling. “Chains?” He laughed, cruel and hollow. “You all forged them yourselves the moment you swore loyalty to lies. Serenya hides her true name, Kaelen walks in shadows not his own, and Darian… oh, poor knight, forever divided by your heart’s treachery.”

Serenya’s breath trembled. She knew Thalric’s poison too well. He struck not with steel, but with words that bled deeper. Yet beneath his taunts, something else lingered—a glimmer of desperation. He was clinging to victory like a drowning man to driftwood.

“Your reign ends here,” she whispered, lifting her hand. Power stirred at her fingertips, the echo of the bloodline she had denied for so long. The hidden crown within her surged, aching to be claimed.

But before she could release it, Thalric rose. He dragged the spear from its resting place and leveled it toward Darian. “Then choose, Serenya. Strike me, and your knight dies before your eyes. Kneel, and perhaps I’ll spare him… for now.”

The hall seemed to shrink, every breath a blade in her chest. Serenya’s eyes locked with Darian’s—bleeding, broken, yet unyielding. He shook his head ever so slightly, a silent plea. Do not surrender for me.

Kaelen’s voice cut low beside her, dark as midnight. “He cannot kill us all before the shadows close. Give me the word, Serenya.”

But could she? Every decision split her in two. If she chose Darian’s life, the kingdom would fall. If she chose the kingdom, she would live forever haunted by his blood on her hands.

Thalric sneered at her hesitation. “So fragile, this heiress heart. You speak of justice, yet you cannot even choose whose blood to spill.”

Then the world fractured.

Darian, with the last of his strength, lunged forward, seizing the spear’s haft in both hands. It drove through his shoulder, blood bursting in a crimson arc, but he locked it against himself, anchoring Thalric in place. “Now!” he roared.

Kaelen was already moving. Shadows surged, exploding across the hall like storm-tide. His blade met Thalric’s throat in a flash of silver, but the duke twisted free, dragging the spear from Darian’s body and slashing the air in wild defiance.

Serenya’s scream ripped through the chaos as Darian crumpled to the floor. She flung her power outward, and the air itself blazed. A thousand shards of light erupted, slamming into Thalric, driving him back against the throne. Stone cracked, fire roared, and for the first time, Thalric’s smile faltered.

He spat blood, eyes burning with hatred. “You think this is victory? Fools! Blood binds tighter than crowns, and betrayal breeds deeper roots than loyalty. Even if you kill me, my mark remains.”

With one last roar, he hurled the spear—not at Serenya, not at Kaelen, but at Darian’s fallen form.

Serenya’s power answered before thought. A shield of starlight flared, shattering the spear inches above Darian’s chest. The fragments clattered across the marble, glowing red like dying embers.

When the light cleared, Thalric lay broken against the throne, shadows consuming his last breath. His eyes, once so certain, dulled with disbelief as silence claimed him.

Serenya stumbled forward, her body trembling with the cost of her power. She dropped to her knees beside Darian, pressing her hand to his wound. Blood welled hot beneath her fingers, slipping through like sand through glass.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Darian. Don’t let this be the price.”

His eyes flickered open, pain and devotion warring within them. “You chose… the crown… and still saved me.” His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “That is why… you will never be like him.”

Tears blurred her vision. She pressed her forehead to his, feeling the heat of his fading breath. Around them, Kaelen stood watch, shadows receding, his gaze dark with a sorrow he did not voice.

The hall, once echoing with Thalric’s venom, was silent now save for Darian’s labored breaths and Serenya’s whispered pleas.

She had won the throne. But as she held Darian’s bloodstained hand, Serenya wondered if victory had already stolen too much.

Because in the end, crowns were not forged of gold, but of blood. And hers had only just begun to bleed.