Chapter 98

The night sky was ablaze with silver fire. Beyond the walls of Dawnspire, where banners lay torn in the mud and the scent of iron clung heavy to the air, Serenya stood at the balcony of the shattered throne room. The moonlight spilled over her like a second crown, but her eyes were fixed on the horizon—where shadows writhed like a living tide.

The war was not finished.

Kaelen’s cloak brushed against her arm as he stepped closer, his dark hair plastered with sweat and blood. He had fought all day—on the walls, in the courtyards, at her side—and yet his gaze held a quiet steadiness.

“They will come again before dawn,” he said, voice low.

Serenya tightened her grip on the stone rail. “We cannot withstand another assault. Not with the gates splintered, not with half our guard lying in the ashes of the courtyard.”

Kaelen turned to her fully, the faint scar that cut across his jaw catching the light. “That is why it ends tonight. Shadows and stars—the prophecy was always about this hour.”

The words chilled her, because she knew he was right. She had carried the burden of her hidden birthright all her life, but never had it pressed on her so heavily as now. An heiress in exile, a queen by blood alone, and yet the people were looking to her as though she were already crowned.

Behind them, the throne room groaned with voices. Eloria Thorne, her once-rival and now the last ally she had not lost, paced across the cracked tiles, her crimson gown torn. Darian Crestfall leaned heavily on his sword, his armor dented, his breathing ragged but resolute. Even Maelis Rowan, the seer who had so often spoken in riddles, stood silent, her blind eyes clouded with unshed tears.

Every soul in that chamber waited on Serenya.

“Speak it,” Eloria said sharply, breaking the silence. “Say what must be done. You were born to it, even if you’ve hidden long enough.”

Serenya closed her eyes. For so many years she had run from destiny, believing her heart would be crushed under the weight of a crown. But now she saw the truth—there was no escaping it. To deny it would be to condemn all she loved to ruin.

Her voice, when it came, was not the trembling voice of a hidden child but the steady voice of a queen.

“Then we make our stand. Tonight, we meet the shadows with starlight.”

The fortress was a husk of its former glory, yet every corridor burned with defiance. Torches sputtered, banners were tied into makeshift bandages, and soldiers too wounded to wield blades still dragged arrows to the battlements. Serenya walked among them, Kaelen at her side, Darian following with sword raised though his strength faltered.

And everywhere she passed, the soldiers bowed—not to the empty throne, but to her.

“Your Majesty,” whispered one young guard, blood matting his blond curls. The words pierced her heart, not with fear, but with something far deeper: belonging.

By the time they reached the ruined courtyard, the night had split open with sound. Horns blared across the fields beyond the gates. From the fog emerged figures cloaked in shifting black, the shadowborn army whose very presence devoured flame and hope alike. At their head rode Thalric Veynor, the duke who had started this spiral of betrayal, his eyes glinting with hunger for power that no crown could sate.

“Serenya Vale!” His voice carried over the clash of steel and drumbeat. “Or should I say—Serenya Dravendale, last of a broken line. Hand me your claim, and I will spare your people.”

Kaelen bristled beside her, but Serenya raised her chin. “You will have neither crown nor kingdom, Thalric. Tonight, the shadows fall.”

The duke’s laughter was swallowed by the horn call, and the tide of darkness surged forward.

The battle of Dawnspire began not with steel, but with silence—an eerie moment as though the stars themselves held breath. And then chaos descended.

Serenya moved through it like a flame untethered. The blade Kaelen had pressed into her palm gleamed as she parried strike after strike, each blow a reminder that she was no longer merely hiding in another’s shadow. Every breath was survival, every heartbeat a choice.

Beside her, Kaelen fought with the grace of shadow itself, his movements a blur of precision. Darian planted himself at the broken archway, cutting down any who dared breach it. Eloria, her crimson gown now soaked with sweat, fought like a storm unchained, her dagger flashing at throats with merciless resolve.

But it was Maelis who startled them all. The frail seer, blind since childhood, raised her staff high, and light unlike any earthly flame burst forth, scattering the nearest wave of shadowborn. Her voice rang above the clash:

“Shadows bow to stars, but only if the stars burn willingly!”

Serenya staggered at the words. They were not prophecy—they were command. And she understood.

This was not a war to be won with steel alone.

At the heart of the courtyard, where the moonlight pierced through crumbling towers, Serenya dropped her sword. Kaelen spun toward her, shock in his eyes, but she lifted her hands to the sky.

“Stars above, blood of my blood, hear me,” she whispered. The ancient words, carried in her lineage, rose unbidden from memory. Her veins burned, her chest heaved, and then the light came.

It poured from her palms, not soft like dawn, but fierce like a nova. Shadows shrieked as the radiance tore through them, unraveling their forms into nothingness. The battlefield stilled as warriors on both sides froze to witness it—an heiress no longer hidden, a queen crowned not by coronation but by fire and light.

Yet the price of such power was clear. The energy drained her, threatening to crush her under its brilliance. She staggered, and Kaelen caught her before she fell.

“Serenya—stop, you’ll burn yourself away!”

But her gaze, steady even as tears streaked her cheeks, locked on his. “If the stars demand it, then let me burn. For them. For us.”

“No.” His hand tightened on hers. “We burn together, or not at all.”

The tide shifted. Inspired by the blaze, the soldiers rallied. Eloria cut a swath through the stunned shadowborn. Darian’s roar shook the gates as he held them with renewed fury. Even Maelis fell to her knees, smiling through her tears.

But Thalric was not yet defeated. He pushed through the carnage, his armor gleaming black, his eyes blazing with unnatural fire. “You think starlight can unmake me?” he spat, raising a blade forged in void. “I am the eclipse, the end of crowns!”

He charged.

Kaelen moved to intercept, but Serenya tore free of his grip. Her light surged once more, brighter, sharper, focused into a single, burning strike. When Thalric’s blade met hers, the air itself cracked open—shadow and star colliding in a roar that split the night.

For a heartbeat, nothing existed but silence.

Then, with a cry that was both fury and despair, Thalric shattered. His form dissolved into fragments of smoke that the wind carried away, leaving only the echo of his ambition behind.

The battlefield fell still. The shadowborn, bereft of their master, collapsed into dust.

And at the center of it all, Serenya swayed on her feet, her crown of light flickering.

Kaelen caught her again, his voice breaking. “Stay with me. Don’t fade now. Please.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, weak but sure. “Shadows and stars… you and I.”

Her eyes fluttered shut.

The survivors raised their heads toward the sky. Dawn had not yet come, but the stars blazed brighter than ever, as though the heavens themselves bore witness. The kingdom had not yet healed, the crown not yet reforged—but for this night, hope lived.

And hope, Serenya thought in the fading drift of her mind, was the one thing shadows could never eclipse.