The throne beneath Kaelira was cold. Older than memory. Older than any crown. It had once belonged to tyrants, then reformers, then puppets.
And now?
It bore the weight of a queen born from ash. She sat still, watching the nobles as they slowly stood, uncertain whether they had just pledged themselves to salvation… or doom. Dorian stood to her left, silent and unreadable.
On her right, Marek—scarred, weary, but loyal—stepped forward and whispered:
"There's movement in the east. The rebellion has sent someone."
Kaelira's gaze didn't flicker.
"Let them come."
---
An hour passed. The court rearranged itself, recovering from the firestorm of Kaelira's ascension. Messengers were dispatched. Advisors whispered. The Circle of Nine did not speak—but they watched. Always watching.
And then…
The great doors opened again. This time, the guards did not announce the arrival. Because no one had summoned him. He came unescorted. Unafraid. A man in dark traveling leathers, face half-concealed by a hood, bearing a sigil scorched into the fabric over his heart:
A cracked crown.
The mark of the Eastern Rebellion.
Whispers swept the hall.
"He walked past the wards—"
"He carries no weapon—"
"He shouldn't be here…"
Kaelira raised a hand.
"Let him speak."
The man stepped forward. He looked young, but his eyes were old. Too old for his face.
"I bring a message," he said. His voice was low, rough. "From the rebellion's commander. From the trueborn blood."
Marek stiffened beside her.
Kaelira narrowed her eyes. "You'll address me directly."
"I will," said the messenger, "because you're the only one who might understand what's coming."
He reached into his coat. The guards flinched. But what he pulled wasn't a blade. It was a scroll, sealed in blood-red wax.
Kaelira made no move to take it. "Read it."
The man nodded and broke the seal.
"To Kaelira, flame of ash and heir of fire—
You have awakened. We felt it. The flame is stirring in the bones of the world again.
You sit on the throne that once condemned our bloodline.
We do not kneel.
We do not forget.
But we do remember what came before.
There is one chance for peace.
You will come to us, alone, on the night of the moon's turning.
You will enter the Hollow without your court, your blade, or your flame.
And you will speak to the one whose blood was spilled so you could rise.
Only then will we decide if war is necessary."
He lowered the scroll.
Silence fell again.
Until Kaelira spoke:
"What blood are they referring to?"
The messenger stepped forward slowly—too close, but calm.
"Your sister," he said.
---
The throne room erupted. Dorian stepped between them in a breath, sword drawn. Marek barked orders. Guards rushed forward. Kaelira stood slowly. Her breath caught in her chest.
"I don't have a sister."
"You did," said the messenger. "You just don't remember her yet."
And then, before he could be seized—he pressed two fingers to his lips and vanished in a flash of smoke and red flame.
Gone.
Not dead.
Gone.
---
Kaelira stood frozen. The scroll still hovered in the air, caught in a slow spiral down toward her feet. She caught it before it hit the marble. Her heart thundered.
Dorian turned to her, stunned. "You never told me—"
"I didn't know."
Her voice shook.
And then steadied.
---
She walked back to the throne.
Sat again.
And spoke so the court could hear:
"I'll go."
---
"Alone?" Marek asked.
"Yes."
"Kaelira—"
"She's my blood," Kaelira said. "If this is true… then this throne was built on more than my bones. And I need to know what else was burned to make it."
---
Behind her, the fire rose again.
But this time, it did not scream.
It whispered her name.