Ember Crown of Promise

The bell in Saint Varyn’s tower rang the way bad news always did. Slowly, deliberately, and without apology.

Alina of Brackenmere hovered around the edge of the herb garden, her fingers still wrapped around a stem of basil. The leaves were warm from the sun, their scent sharp and clean, but the sound of the bell cut through everything else. It moved over the palace walls and into the city beyond, heavy enough to settle in her chest.

Three tolls.

Not a celebration. Not a funeral.

A summons.

She did not need anyone to tell her what that meant.

Beyond the low stone wall, the palace rose in pale tiers, its windows catching the morning light like watchful eyes. From a distance, it looked strong. Up close, it always felt tired. The banners were clean and the courtyards swept, yet something unseen weighed the air. The kingdom felt stretched thin, as though it had been holding its breath for years and was running out of air.

Beside her, Mara clicked her tongue softly.

“They rang it for you,” the older woman said.

Alina tightened her grip on the basil. “They ring it for everyone.”

Mara shook her head. Her hands were stained with earth and berry juice, the marks of work that fed people rather than ruled them. “Not that bell. Not that pattern.”

Alina swallowed. “It cannot be.”

Mara looked at her, eyes steady and unafraid. “It is.”

The basil snapped under Alina’s fingers. She stared at the broken stem as if it had betrayed her. Inside the palace, servants would already be hurrying. Councilors would be gathering. Whispers would be moving faster than footsteps.

And the Ember Crown would be waiting.

“I did nothing,” Alina whispered.

Mara reached out and brushed dirt from Alina’s hands. “You were born. That is sometimes enough.”

Alina hated how true that was.

She wiped her hands on her skirt, plain linen instead of silk, practical instead of regal. It was easier to breathe when she dressed like this. Easier to forget that she belonged to a world of marble halls and measured expectations.

Mara pressed a small glass vial into her palm. “Rosemary oil. For steadiness.”

Alina closed her fingers around it. “They will not listen to me.”

“They might,” Mara said. “And if they do not, stand anyway.”

The bell rang once more, distant now.

Alina lifted her chin and turned toward the palace path.

The guards at the eastern gate straightened as she approached. They bowed, formal but not unkind.

“Your Highness.”

“Please,” Alina said softly. “Just Alina.”

One of them hesitated, then nodded and opened the gate.

Inside, the palace smelled of stone and beeswax and old decisions. Servants moved quickly, eyes lowered. Conversations stopped when Alina passed, then resumed in whispers once she was gone.

She walked the corridor without rushing. Fear did not deserve haste.

At the far end, the Council Chamber doors stood open.

Warmth spilled from within, along with tension thick enough to taste. The long blackwood table dominated the room, polished to a mirror shine. Maps and ledgers lay scattered across it like wounds that refused to close.

At the head sat King Roderic, her father, his hair more grey than black now. He wore no crown; he had not worn one in years.

Around him gathered the familiar faces of power. Chancellor Elowen with her careful smile. Lord Merrow with his sharp cologne and sharper opinions. High Priestess Sera, calm as winter light.

And near the hearth, half in shadow, stood a man Alina had not expected to see again.

Cael.

Her steps faltered.

Time folded in on itself. She remembered him laughing once in the stables. Remembered his hand on her wrist, stopping a horse from biting her. Remembered the night everything burned.

Cael lifted his head and met her gaze.

He looked older. Harder. His armor was gone, replaced by a dark coat worn thin at the edges. A faint scar cut through his brow.

He bowed, restrained and respectful.

Alina forced herself to look away.

Her father rose when she reached the table. “Alina.”

“Father.”

The Chancellor leaned forward. “You know why you were called.”

“No,” Alina said. “I do not.”

High Priestess Sera stood and unwrapped the cloth in her hands.

The Ember Crown lay beneath it.

Cold. Waiting.

And watching.