The fire no longer frightened her.
It answered her now.
In the week following her Trial, Seraphina walked the halls of House D'Argent not as a guest or prisoner, but as something more. The guards bowed. The old wards recognized her blood. The silver mirrors no longer clouded when she passed.
She had stepped through the flame.
And emerged as its queen.
Lucien watched her from the shadows more than ever now—not out of suspicion, but reverence.
She moved like royalty.
Spoke like prophecy.
Loved like hunger.
But outside the castle, power stirred like a dying beast.
The vampire world had felt her awakening—and it was coming to judge her.
The Council of Ancients had not convened in three centuries. But her presence, her power, broke that silence.
A raven came bearing the seal of House Valtieri, the ruling bloodline.
The message was simple:
"The flameborn must kneel before the Council and be weighed. If she refuses, war is declared."
Lucien read it aloud in the war room, voice flat.
"They're afraid of you," he said.
"Good," Seraphina replied. "They should be."
His jaw tightened. "They'll try to trap you. Humiliate you. Make you question your right to rise."
"I won't kneel."
"You might have to… just long enough to stand and burn them."
Seraphina met his gaze. "Will you stand with me?"
Lucien crossed the space between them and pressed his forehead to hers.
"Until the stars fall."
The Council Hall was carved into the cliffs of Myrris, an ancient seat of power where night ruled even in daylight. Seraphina arrived in a long black gown with fire embroidery along the hem—each stitch enchanted to flicker like a living flame.
Lucien stood at her right.
A vampire priestess flanked her left.
Malrik—yes, Malrik—was already there.
He stood with the Crimson Vow, but his smirk was for her alone.
"You wore fire for me," he murmured as she passed.
Seraphina didn't pause.
"I wore it for your funeral."
The chamber was full. All seven bloodlines. The air thick with judgment.
At the center, a raised platform of obsidian.
The Trial Throne.
Seraphina stepped onto it without waiting to be asked.
A ripple went through the crowd.
"She does not kneel," hissed one of the elders.
"She is not bound by your old chains," Lucien growled.
An elder with hollow eyes rose.
"Speak your name, fireborn. Declare your lineage. Claim your blood."
Seraphina's voice rang like a bell in the dead.
"I am Seraphina Isolde D'Argent. I am flameborn. Soulbound. Trial-marked. I do not ask permission. I inherit."
Gasps. Shouts. One of the elders fainted.
And then the oldest voice spoke—ancient, sexless, rasping like smoke through bone.
"You are untested. Your fire is unstable. Your claim is dangerous."
"I am the weapon you buried," Seraphina said. "Now I rise."
The elders stared, and she could feel it: the doubt, the fear, the seething envy.
But one of them smiled.
It was Lady Mirell, matriarch of House Valtieri.
"The throne accepts you," she said.
Malrik's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Chaos," Mirell whispered. "Let's see what she becomes."
The council ended in blood and wine. A ball followed, as custom dictated—celebration masked as courtship, politics dressed as seduction.
Seraphina danced with noble sons and dagger-eyed daughters. They flirted. They tested her power. One tried to slip venom into her cup. Another challenged her to a mind duel.
She beat them all—calmly, beautifully, mercilessly.
But the moment she was alone, Malrik found her again.
He cornered her in the rose gallery, where the black blooms grew over the bones of failed kings.
"You think this is a victory," he said softly. "But now the world sees you. And it's starving."
"I don't fear hunger."
"You should. Because even your lover is afraid of what you're becoming."
Seraphina tilted her head.
"Is this jealousy?"
Malrik leaned in, lips close to hers.
"It's a warning," he whispered. "He's thinking of killing you if you slip too far."
She didn't react.
Then she smiled slowly, teeth sharp.
"If I slip… let him try."
Malrik stared at her, then laughed—dark and genuine.
"You might just be a queen after all."
Back at House D'Argent, the night stretched thin and tense.
Lucien sat in the war chamber alone, glass of bloodwine in hand. When Seraphina entered, he didn't rise.
"You're growing faster than any of us predicted," he said.
"Does it scare you?"
"Yes."
She walked to him, stood above him.
"Will you stop me if I go too far?"
Lucien looked up. "If I must. But I don't think I could."
"You could."
"I won't."
She sat on his lap, straddling him, her voice a purr.
"Then tell me the truth."
Lucien hesitated. "The council didn't just want to see you. They wanted to test the Soulbind."
"And?"
"If our bond is real… they'll come for you. Because it means your reign is inevitable. Because it means the prophecy is active."
Seraphina leaned in, lips brushing his.
"Then let them come."
At dawn, the skies bled red.
In the chapel courtyard, where the first flameborn was once crowned, Seraphina stood before the gathered houses. Her hair caught the wind like wildfire. Her eyes glowed with purpose.
She raised her hand.
Fire swirled above her palm—controlled, perfect, divine.
"I am not your enemy," she said. "But I am your reckoning."
And every vampire in the garden knelt.
Even Lucien.
Even Malrik.
For now.