Chapter 89

The council chamber echoed with the sound of boots striking against stone, each step carrying the weight of tension that clung to the air like storm clouds before lightning. Serenya Vale stood at the head of the round table, her fingers curling against its cold surface. Maps of fractured kingdoms lay scattered, the ink smudged with urgency.

Her heart throbbed with the ache of shattered loyalty. Only hours ago, Orren Kaelith—once her fiercest guardian—had fallen in the ambush at Starspire Pass. His sacrifice had saved her life, but it left a wound far deeper than any blade could cut. And yet, there was no time for grief. Too many eyes burned into her now, demanding decisions, demanding strength she barely felt she had left.

Kaelen Draven leaned close, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “They’re restless. Every rumor spreads faster than fire on dry grass. If you hesitate now, Serenya, they will devour you.”

Her gaze flicked to the gathered lords, generals, and heirs. Among them, Eloria Thorne sat with a cool, detached expression, her jeweled hand resting elegantly on her chin. Darian Crestfall, weary from too many battles, tightened his jaw as though bracing for some unseen blow. And in the shadows near the edge of the hall, Cyrion Duskbane lingered, his eyes unreadable as always.

Serenya drew in a breath, steadying herself. “The crown is not yet lost. Orren’s sacrifice was not in vain. We still hold the loyalty of Dawnspire, and the gates of Moonspire remain under our command.”

But before she could continue, a voice cut through the chamber, sharp as a dagger unsheathed.

“Your words are gilded lies, Serenya Vale.”

Every head turned. From the far side of the hall, Thalric Veynor strode forward, his cloak snapping like the wing of some dark bird. The ruthless duke, who had once pledged his sword in fragile alliance, now revealed the venom beneath. His smirk curled like poison ivy.

“You speak of loyalty, yet you hide truths even from your own council,” Thalric sneered. “Tell them—tell them who you really are. Not Serenya Vale, servant of peace. But Serenya Duskbane, blood heir of the fallen crown.”

A shocked murmur erupted across the chamber. The maps rustled as lords shifted in their seats.

Serenya’s heart stumbled. Though the secret of her bloodline had already begun to leak in whispers, this was the first time it had been cast into the open, used as a weapon against her. She steadied her voice, though her hands trembled.

“Yes. I am of the Duskbane line. The last to bear it. But that does not make me unworthy of your loyalty—it makes me the one destined to unite these fractured lands.”

Eloria Thorne’s lips curved, as though amused by the unfolding spectacle. “Or it makes you the spark that will ignite their destruction.”

Kaelen’s hand brushed against Serenya’s beneath the table, grounding her. But the hall erupted with voices—accusations, suspicions, half-formed loyalties cracking apart like thin glass.

Darian slammed his fist against the table. “Enough! If you would question her right to lead, then let us remember who bled to keep this council alive. Serenya has earned her place—heir or not.”

Thalric’s eyes glittered. “And what of your loyalty, Crestfall? How much of it is sworn to the crown, and how much to her heart?”

The chamber hushed at the venom in his words. Darian’s face burned, but he did not answer. His silence was louder than any denial.

And then it happened—the moment that would shatter the fragile unity forever.

Cyrion Duskbane stepped forward from the shadows. His dark gaze swept over the council, and for an instant, Serenya thought he would defend her, his sister by blood, his ally in destiny. But instead, his voice fell like a hammer on fragile stone.

“Thalric is right.”

The air seemed to still, as though the walls themselves strained to listen.

“She speaks of unity,” Cyrion continued, his tone cool, almost detached. “Yet what has she brought us but death and ruin? Villages burned in her name. Armies scattered in her cause. Orren Kaelith dead because he followed her. If this is what it means to be heir of the Duskbane line, then perhaps the line should end.”

Serenya’s breath caught in her throat. Betrayal—real, deep betrayal—twisted through her like a blade. She had trusted Cyrion. Believed he carried the same burden of blood. But now his words condemned her.

“You would cast aside your own sister?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Cyrion’s jaw tightened. “I would save this kingdom. Even if it means saving it from you.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Kaelen leapt to his feet, fury blazing in his eyes. “You dare speak of saving anyone, Cyrion, when you hide behind shadows and whispers? Serenya has carried burdens no one else would. She has sacrificed everything—”

But Cyrion cut him off. “And you defend her because your heart is shackled to hers. Do not pretend it is loyalty to the realm.”

The council divided in an instant—some rising to stand with Serenya, others drifting toward Cyrion’s cold certainty. Thalric’s smile widened, for it was clear the seeds of division had bloomed at last.

Serenya’s vision blurred. The council’s voices became a storm of accusations, but all she heard was the echo of Cyrion’s words: Perhaps the line should end.

Her hands pressed against the table, forcing her trembling frame to remain upright. She would not crumble here—not in front of them. Not when the weight of Orren’s sacrifice still burned within her veins like fire.

“You want to call me unworthy?” she said, her voice rising over the din. “Then test me. Not with whispers, not with daggers in the dark—but in the open, before the people. Let them decide who carries the right to lead. Me… or the traitors who fear my blood.”

A hush fell. Even Cyrion’s eyes narrowed, calculating.

Kaelen touched her shoulder, his whisper fierce. “Serenya, you’re risking everything—”

“I already lost everything,” she murmured back. “Now I must decide if it was worth it.”

Her gaze swept across the chamber, catching the eyes of friend and foe alike. Darian, torn between his heart and his vows. Eloria, ever the opportunist, delighting in chaos. Isolde, the healer, her eyes shining with sorrowful warning. And Cyrion, her brother in blood, now her greatest threat.

The council was no longer a council. It was a battlefield.

And Serenya Vale, heiress of shadows and stars, stood at its heart, knowing that the final betrayal had only just begun.