The next morning, the city woke to rain. Thick, heavy, unrelenting — as if the sky itself was trying to wash away what was coming.
Lora Roth stood before the mirror in her dressing room, her reflection dressed in black silk and quiet fury. Behind her, an assistant waited, hands trembling slightly as she zipped the gown. The queen never liked to be touched, but today she allowed it. Perhaps because her mind was elsewhere — five years away, buried in ash and memory.
Her brother's name hadn't been spoken since the night the Roth mansion burned.
No one had seen the body. Only the flames, the screams, and Lora — blood on her dress, a crown of smoke on her head.
And now, five years later, his sigil had returned.
Luke entered without knocking. He always did. He was dressed in a dark suit, rain clinging to his shoulders, eyes a storm that matched the weather.
"They found the courier," he said simply.
Lora turned, her gaze cutting. "Alive?"
"For now."
He hesitated — which was rare for Luke. He wasn't a man who feared much, except what the truth could cost her.
"They found him at the docks," he continued. "He was told to deliver the letter and say one thing to you before he died."
Her heart stilled. "What thing?"
Luke's voice was quiet. "He said, 'The crown doesn't belong to the dead.' Then he bit down on a capsule before we could stop him."
Lora stared past him, out the rain-streaked window. The city shimmered like glass, beautiful and fragile. "He wants me to remember," she murmured.
Luke moved closer, his hand brushing her arm — grounding her. "Then we make him regret it."
Her lips curved — not into a smile, but something sharper. "No," she said. "We make him watch."
That night, the council gathered in the underfloor chamber — the one no one outside their inner circle knew existed. Candles flickered across stone walls, the air thick with whispers and perfume.
Lora sat at the head of the long table, Luke at her right. Around them were the faces that had once ruled the city's underground: businessmen, warlords, politicians with immaculate suits and tainted hands.
Soren — her chief of intelligence, quiet and sharp as a blade — laid a file before her. "All traces lead back to the Black Harbor. Someone's buying up weapons, laundering through old Roth accounts that were supposed to be closed."
Luke's jaw tensed. "Old accounts she burned herself."
Soren nodded. "Unless someone else had access to the biometric vaults."
The room fell silent. Only the sound of rain, steady and relentless, filled the pause.
Lora's fingers tapped once against the table. "Show me the footage."
He clicked the remote. The holographic screen flared to life. Grainy, black-and-white security footage. A figure cloaked in rain, face obscured by shadow. But when he looked up — just once, toward the camera — the light caught his eyes.
Lora's hand froze midair. Her throat went dry.
The eyes were unmistakable. Green — like the forest after a storm. Her brother's eyes.
Luke watched her face change, and for the first time in years, saw something like fear.
"Lora," he whispered, "that's impossible."
She tore her gaze from the screen, her voice low and trembling — not with weakness, but with rage.
"No," she said. "It's Ronan. And he's come to take back what I stole."
Outside, thunder cracked over the city.
In the nursery upstairs, their son stirred in his sleep — murmuring a word he had never heard before, but somehow knew.
"Uncle."