CHAPTER TWO
The silence after the altar dimmed was worse than the noise.
Raven's pulse hammered in her ears, and every inch of her skin buzzed as if her blood was trying to rearrange itself. The air inside the chamber no longer shimmered—it held its breath, thick with tension. The crown had dimmed, but its presence lingered like heat after a flame.
The man—Alexander Draven, though she didn't yet know his name—remained motionless a few feet away, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, silver eyes unblinking.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said finally. "And yet… the realm allowed you in."
Raven pushed to her feet, hands braced on her knees. "Trust me, I didn't want to be here."
His gaze sharpened. "That's not how Elarion works."
She scoffed, brushing damp hair from her face. "Elarion? What, is this some underground cosplay cult? You people wait for trespassers and throw them into a glowing magic room to see if they catch fire?"
"Magic room," he echoed with quiet amusement, though there was no humor in his tone. "You stepped through a sealed Threshold—one that hasn't opened in twenty years."
"Well, maybe your door just needed a good shove."
He stepped forward, closing the space between them. Raven stiffened. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the weight of him—his energy, his command.
"You touched the crown altar," he said. "And it responded."
"Lucky me."
His voice dropped low. "Only one with royal blood can awaken it."
The words landed like a blow.
Raven swallowed. "You've got the wrong girl Mr."
He tilted his head, studying her face as though trying to see beneath her skin. "What's your name?"
She hesitated.
"Raven."
"Raven…" he repeated thoughtfully. "Raven what?"
"…Quinn."
A flash of something crossed his face. A flicker of recognition. Then it was gone.
"Quinn," he said, almost to himself. "Of course."
Before she could question him, the chamber doors creaked open. Three figures stepped through—two guards in dark armor and a third woman dressed in a robe of flowing crimson silk, hair coiled high like a crown of fire.
"Your Grace," the woman said with a shallow bow. Her eyes flicked to Raven, unreadable. "We felt the pulse."
"I know," Alexander replied.
The woman approached Raven, slow and deliberate, and stopped a pace too close. "She doesn't smell like Elarion."
Raven blinked. "Excuse me—?"
"Unfamiliar blood. Muddled." The woman sniffed again, then frowned. "But the altar called."
"She's staying in the west wing," Alexander ordered.
"What?" Raven turned on him. "I didn't agree to that!"
"You're not a prisoner. But you are… a complication. One that needs answers."
"And if I don't feel like playing along?"
"Then you're free to go," he said simply. "If you can find a way out."
Raven hesitated. The door she'd come through—the rusted one in the alley—it was gone. She hadn't just walked through space. She'd passed into somewhere else. And now, it felt like the entire place was closing around her, locking her in.
She crossed her arms. "Fine. I'll play along. For now."
———
They led her through winding corridors lit by floating spheres of warm light. The palace—Elarion—was nothing like she expected.
It was ancient, yes, but alive in a way she couldn't explain. Every wall was carved with runes that pulsed faintly under her gaze. Doors moved. Shadows flickered in ways that didn't match the light. And there was a constant hum beneath her feet, like a heartbeat buried in the stone.
The woman in red walked beside her. "You are Raven Quinn. Born above. A half-blood, perhaps."
Raven rolled her eyes. "A what now?"
"Half of this realm. Half… other."
"Other being 'normal human,' I assume?"
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she paused at a towering arched doorway. "You may call me Sarah Val. Keeper of Lore. And your guide, should you choose to remember who you are."
Raven narrowed her eyes. "I know who I am."
Sarah Val's lips curled faintly. "Do you?"
The doors opened.
———
The west wing was no guest suite.
It was a self-contained suite of marble and velvet, with walls etched in gold and windows that overlooked an underground lake shimmering with bioluminescent vines. The bed was absurdly large. A tray of fruits and delicacies rested on a silver cart near a roaring hearth.
But Raven's eyes locked onto one thing: a mirror, cracked through the center, leaned against the far wall.
Her breath caught.
The mirror.
The dreams.
"When the mirror shatters, run."
She walked to it, slowly. Reached out.
A whisper brushed her ear. Not a voice. A memory.
"You were born beneath two crowns. One of fire. One of ash. Only one survives."
She jerked her hand back.
Suddenly, the fire in the hearth flared. The reflection twisted. For a moment, she saw not herself—but a woman with the same eyes, older, regal, cloaked in silver.
Then it was gone.
————
Elsewhere in the palace, Alexander Draven stood before a sealed chamber—its doors covered in chains, bound with ancient runes.
Behind him, Sarah Val approached.
"She is the child," she said. "The lost heir."
"I don't want it to be true."
"Your crown was always borrowed, Warden King. She is the bloodborn."
"She has no idea who she is."
Sarah tilted her head. "Then she will have to remember."
He turned to the door.
"What would you have me do?" he asked.
"Test her," Sarah said. "Break her, if you must. But do not fall for her."
Alexander's eyes darkened. "I don't fall."
———
That night, Raven woke to footsteps.
Not outside.
Inside her room.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding.
A figure stood near the mirror.
"Hey!" she shouted, grabbing the nearest thing—a glass goblet.
The figure turned.
It was… her.
Her own face.
But older. Wearing a silver crown.
The mirror cracked again.
The room went black.
"The Voice in the Flame"
Somewhere in her dreams, the world is on fire.
Not a fire that consumes—but one that sings.
She stands in the middle of a marble chamber draped in night, the walls rising endlessly into nothing. Above her, a chandelier of living flame hangs, flickering without smoke, swaying to music she can't hear.
Raven turns slowly, breath catching in her throat. There is no heat, only… light. Golden. Liquid. Alive.
A voice calls her name—not aloud, but from somewhere inside her bones.
"Nova."
She turns.
A woman stands at the far end of the chamber, cloaked in silver robes, her face veiled. She holds a mirror in one hand and a dagger in the other.
Raven tries to speak, but her voice won't work.
The woman steps forward—and the floor ripples like water beneath her feet.
"When the fire forgets your name, remember mine."
The woman's voice is familiar, but Raven can't place it. It's the sound from the lullabies that used to come in pieces, like echoes in static. A voice that wrapped around her as a child, just before the dreams turned to nightmares.
Raven reaches out. "Who are you?"
The woman removes her veil.
It's Raven's own face.
Older. Wiser. Tired.
"You were born beneath two crowns," she says softly. "One was taken. One will burn. You are the heir of what was broken."
The dagger in her hand begins to glow red-hot.
The mirror in the other cracks, line by line.
"Do not trust the one who wears the crown of silence. He gave you away."
Raven stumbles back, the room quaking around her.
The flames above twist into a serpent of light, coiling toward her. The woman's silver cloak bursts into ash.
And Raven hears a scream—not the woman's. Her own. As a child. As a baby.
A memory buried so deep, it punches through like ice.
A man's voice yelling.
A woman sobbing.
The feeling of being ripped from someone's arms.
And the scent of burning roses.
She gasps—eyes wide.
She's no longer in the dream.
But her room smells of ash. The hearth is cold.
And on the cracked mirror by the wall, new words are scrawled in fog:
"One will burn. One will bleed. Which crown will you take, Raven Quinn?"