The throne had accepted her. The Council had bent the knee. But Seraphina knew better than to trust ceremony.
Power did not guarantee peace.
It only invited challenge.
The first blood spilled came three days after her ascension, beneath the banner of a forgotten house that once ruled a now-buried city. Their name had faded from history, but their thirst had not.
They called themselves the Crimson Dawn.
They believed Seraphina was an affront to the natural order.
That fire did not belong to the dead.
That her rise would end them all.
They were not wrong.
But that didn't mean she would let them win.
It began in the outer provinces—burned villages, headless corpses left in sunlight, vampire children slaughtered with silver. The Council tried to dismiss it.
"An isolated rebellion," they claimed.
"A rogue faction," said Lady Mirell.
"Insignificant," spat Malrik.
Seraphina knew better.
"They're testing me," she told Lucien, walking the war map with hands laced behind her back. "They want to see if I'll respond. Or if I'll hide behind my new crown."
Lucien didn't argue.
He was already sharpening his blade.
"We leave tonight."
They tracked the rebels to a ruined cathedral in the Ashvale Valley. A place that once held weddings and miracles—now desecrated, soaked in blood.
The Crimson Dawn was waiting for them.
Dozens of them. Marked in ash and crimson paint. Led by a man who wore no mask—only a ring of charred iron through his throat.
He stepped forward and bared his teeth.
"The flameborn comes in person," he said. "We expected a false queen to send others."
"I don't need others," Seraphina replied. "I am the fire."
The man laughed—and raised his hand.
Rebels surged from the shadows.
The first blade came for her heart.
She burned it mid-air.
Lucien moved like a god of war—silent, precise, lethal. Every rebel who reached him fell without a scream. But Seraphina… she didn't fight like a vampire.
She fought like a force of nature.
When a spear grazed her shoulder, she didn't flinch. She turned and snapped the attacker's neck with a flick of fire. Another lunged with a silver whip; she caught it in her hand, melted it to slag, and set the man's soul ablaze.
The crimson-painted leader watched, stunned.
"You were supposed to be unstable," he hissed.
"I was," Seraphina replied, stepping closer, heat warping the air. "Until I stopped denying what I am."
The man screamed as he combusted—his death echoing through the cathedral like a hymn to something ancient and terrifying.
When the battle ended, only ash remained.
Lucien found her standing over the altar, fire swirling around her like a storm.
"I didn't know if you'd hold back," he said quietly.
"I didn't."
"Good."
She turned to him.
"Now they'll know."
They returned to House D'Argent victorious. But the taste of battle hadn't left her.
It clung to Seraphina like perfume.
That night, she stood in the war chamber, blood on her skin, fire in her throat.
Lucien entered behind her, silent as smoke.
"You're changing again," he murmured.
"Stronger?"
"Darker."
She turned to him slowly.
"I liked killing them."
He stepped close, gripping her hips.
"I saw."
She leaned in, licking blood from her lip.
"Does that frighten you?"
"No," he growled. "It turns me on."
Their kiss was brutal—needy, violent, real. Clothes tore. Walls cracked from the force of it. And when he pinned her to the table, she laughed—feral and free.
She wasn't human anymore.
She wasn't a girl pretending to rule.
She was queen.
And her body was a battlefield he was ready to lose on.
At dawn, a raven came again.
But this time, it did not bear a challenge.
It carried a whisper: Lady Mirell requests a secret audience.
Seraphina met her in the catacombs beneath Myrris. The woman waited with two guards and a mirror made of obsidian.
"You're not here to flatter me," Seraphina said.
Mirell nodded. "You're walking a knife's edge. One misstep, and even your allies will bury you."
"I'm not afraid of being buried," Seraphina said. "I rise from ash."
The elder leaned close.
"There are others who want your crown. Not rebels. Not rogues. Your own Council."
Seraphina's jaw tightened. "Names."
Mirell shook her head. "Not yet. But you should know… the prophecy doesn't end with your rise. It speaks of your fall. And who causes it."
"I cause it," Seraphina whispered.
"No," Mirell said, eyes narrowing. "He does."
That night, Seraphina found Lucien standing alone on the castle ramparts.
She didn't speak right away.
Just watched him, watched the way he stared at the moon like it held answers he could never reach.
When he finally turned to her, there was something unreadable in his eyes.
"What did Mirell say?" he asked.
"That I would fall."
Lucien frowned. "And you believed her?"
"She said you'd be the one to do it."
A silence bloomed between them—cold and fragile.
Lucien stepped forward.
"If it comes to that," he said quietly, "know that I'd rather fall with you than live after you're gone."
Seraphina touched his cheek.
"Then stay with me. Even if I burn."
"I already am."