The chains bit into her wrists—cold, cruel things that hadn't stopped burning since sunrise.
Elira didn't cry out as she was dragged across the soaked fields of Dravaryn. Each step sent sharp jolts through her split, blistered feet, leaving streaks of blood and mud behind her. Overhead, the storm had been rumbling for hours, heavy clouds pressing down like a hand over the world. But it wasn't the thunder or rain that unsettled her.
It was the quiet.
The guards barely spoke. And when they did, it was in whispers—quick glances, nervous mutters—like even their voices might stir the thing they believed she'd become.
Not a girl.
Not a princess.
Not even human.
A ghost. A witch. A weapon.
She was wrapped in a thin, torn gray cloak that barely held warmth. Her once-golden hair, now dull and matted, clung to her face in damp strands. Her hands were bound in cuffs etched with glowing runes that pulsed in sync with her heartbeat—a cruel, steady reminder of the power locked inside her. The power that had leveled cities.
The power they feared.
But she kept her head high. Her steps might falter, her throat might be raw from cold and silence, but she would not bend—not in front of them. Not again.
She'd broken once.
Six years ago.
They wouldn't get the satisfaction of watching her shatter twice.
A voice rang out through the rain. The guards stiffened instantly, forming a path through the storm.
A black horse approached, its hooves slicing clean through the flooded earth.
The man riding it wore no crown, no banners—only a dark cloak that whipped in the wind, and a helm shaped like a wolf's skull, gleaming obsidian.
The prince.
Elira's hands clenched as he drew closer.
Kael of Dravaryn.
Crown Prince. Warlord. Her kingdom's executioner.
He dismounted with calm, practiced ease—no pomp, no drama. He didn't speak to the guards. Didn't even look at them. His eyes were locked on her.
And he kept walking.
He stopped a breath away.
She was barefoot. Shackled. Soaked to the bone.
But she didn't look away.
Their gazes locked.
His eyes were a cold, unflinching gray. Not cruel—but unreadable. He didn't stare like the others. He examined her, like she was an ancient weapon found buried in a battlefield. Something dangerous. Something forgotten.
"So it's true," Kael said, voice low—smooth like silk stretched over steel. "You're still alive."
Elira didn't answer.
He circled her slowly. She didn't bother to follow him with her eyes, but she felt every inch of his presence.
"The forgotten princess," he murmured. "Locked away like a cursed relic… and yet, here you stand."
Still, she said nothing.
When he came to a stop in front of her, the rain was sliding down his face. He looked carved from stone.
"Did your people really think we'd forget you?"
Elira lifted her chin. "Did yours forget why I was chained?"
There was a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—just something close.
"They remembered," he said. "That's why you're still breathing."
He turned to one of the guards. "Unbind her."
The soldier flinched. "Your Highness, the cuffs—"
"Do it."
The guard hesitated, then obeyed. As the runes dimmed, Elira felt it—the faint stir of something deep inside her. A flicker of warmth. Of breath. Her magic stirred like it had been dreaming, and now it remembered its name.
The soldiers took a step back.
But she didn't move.
Kael studied her. "You've been silent for six years. I'd like to hear your voice."
She met his eyes. "You're still afraid of me."
His brow lifted slightly. "I fear what I can't control. And you… have no leash."
Elira's voice was soft. "You're wrong. You just can't see it."
Rain pounded the ground, but the stillness between them was louder.
"You'll speak before the war council tonight," Kael said at last, turning. "They'll decide if you're useful—or not."
The guards reached for her again, but Kael held up a hand.
"No chains."
There were murmurs.
"She's a prisoner," someone said.
"She's an asset," Kael replied. "Treat her like one."
He climbed back onto his horse and rode off.
They didn't bind her again—but five guards kept close, weapons ready, as they led her toward the looming fortress ahead. Veylor.
A mountain of black stone and iron, shrouded in mist. It looked more like a tomb than a stronghold.
Inside, the halls were narrow and cold. No banners. No warmth. Just bare walls and steel torch brackets. This wasn't a palace.
This was a warning.
They led her to a small room in the eastern wing. Not a cell, but not comfort either. A bed. A window. Bare walls. The air smelled of steel and smoke.
They locked the door behind her.
Elira walked to the window. Rain blurred the glass, but beyond it, she could see torches—hundreds—lining the cliffs like watchful eyes.
This wasn't her punishment.
This was her beginning.
An hour later, the knock came.
It wasn't a servant.
It was him.
Kael stepped inside like he belonged there, like she didn't need to say yes.
"You didn't run," he said.
She turned from the window. "I don't waste energy on what won't work."
He tilted his head. "You're more practical than I thought."
"You haven't seen me impractical yet."
No smile. But his eyes sharpened slightly.
"Tonight's council won't be friendly," he warned. "They see you as a threat. They think your presence risks our peace with Ilyria."
"There is no peace," Elira said, sharper than she meant to. "Just control."
Kael stepped further into the room.
"What do you want, Elira?"
She blinked.
What did she want?
To go back?
To burn everything down?
To matter?
She looked at him. "I want to matter."
For a moment, there was no answer. Just a shift in the air between them. Quiet recognition.
"Then prove yourself," Kael said. "Survive the court. Show them you're more than a threat."
He turned to leave.
But Elira stopped him with a single sentence.
"Do you always make your threats sound like choices?"
Kael glanced over his shoulder.
"No," he said. "Only when they are."
—
The war council chamber was vast, its circular walls lit by roaring fireplaces. A blackwood table dominated the center, carved with an ancient map. Generals and lords stood around it, voices sharp, tension thick.
They fell silent as Elira entered.
No chains. No leash. Just her.
She walked with steady steps. Chin lifted. Let them see her.
Let them see what they buried.
Kael stood at the head of the table.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I present Princess Elira of Ilyria."
A general snorted. "She's no princess. Just a cursed shell dragged from the dark."
"She's alive," Kael replied. "And she may be the only one left who can stop what's coming."
"The prophecy?" someone scoffed. "Old stories."
Kael's voice didn't waver. "Maybe. But we're running out of soldiers. And I'd rather place a bet on a living fire than a dying memory."
At last, the others looked at her.
Truly looked.
Elira stepped forward. No fear.
"I'm not here to beg," she said, her voice clear and sharp. "And I'm not here to be judged by men who fear their own shadows."
She placed both palms on the carved table.
"You think you pulled me out of darkness. You didn't. I survived it. I've lived through betrayal, hunger, silence, exile. Your war doesn't scare me."
Silence.
The fire crackled. No one spoke.
Kael stepped forward. "Then show us what does."
Elira met his eyes.
And smiled.