Smoke tastes of iron when you breathe it long enough.
That was the first lesson of the night Blackspire Keep began to burn.
The bells of Lunaris tolled over the storm, hammering against my skull. Below me, the city writhed in fire, its streets slick with rain and ash. Our banners, black and silver, tore in the wind, flapping like wounded wings. Every clang of steel echoed through the keep as if the stones themselves were crying. The House of Corvin was under siege, and the walls would not hold forever.
I could hear my father's voice in my mind, steady and unwavering even from beyond death:
"The crown is not a right, my daughter. It is a weight—and those who chase it will drown beneath it."
He had spoken those words the night before the fever took him, before his chest stilled in my arms. I was seventeen then, too naive to understand them. Now, they beat through me with every clash of swords outside our walls.
"Your Highness!" Captain Rowan's voice cut over the storm as I climbed the outer stair. "The western wall has fallen!"
I did not stop. My boots slipped in mud and blood, but I forced my legs to move. Lightning split the sky, and for a heartbeat, I saw them—golden banners cresting the outer courtyard, a tide of Lysander soldiers pressing forward.
"Hold the inner gate," I called, voice raw. "Buy us minutes. That's all we need."
Rowan's eyes widened, but he nodded. "For the House of Corvin," he said, disappearing into the chaos.
Every corridor I ran through was a battlefield. Smoke stung my eyes, shattered glass crunched beneath my feet, and the bodies of soldiers I had known since childhood littered the stone floors. One man reached for his sword and collapsed before he could lift it. I grabbed him and dragged him to safety, my hands slick with blood.
The Lysander banners appeared through a shattered window, gold and deadly against the storm-dark sky. I could hear their shouts even over the rain. They had breached the outer courtyard; soon, the inner halls would be theirs. The crown still rested atop the throne dais where we had placed it after my father's death—untouched, heavy with meaning.
I paused for a moment, feeling its weight through my fingertips. It was not just metal and jewels—it was every life lost, every oath broken, every betrayal and promise bound up in a single object. And it was mine to defend.
A crash resounded down the hall, and I ducked instinctively. A piece of ceiling had collapsed where I had been moments before. Sparks flew from a fire nearby, and the acrid smoke made my lungs burn. I stumbled past a group of soldiers pinned against the wall, dragging one free while another shouted at me to flee.
I could not flee. Not tonight. Not while Blackspire Keep still stood, not while my father's crown waited.
From the corner of my eye, I caught movement—a figure darting between the shadows, a Lysander scout testing the defenses. I raised my hand, signaling Rowan and the other guards. The men struck quickly, and the intruder fell. Sparks from crossed blades illuminated their faces, a dance of shadow and fire.
I pressed on, every step a prayer. The inner gate, the last barrier to the throne, waited ahead. I could hear the storm outside, the pounding of water on stone and the distant cries of men fighting for their lives. I pressed forward, chest burning, mind sharp, every sense alert.
The inner corridors were no less chaotic. Fires leapt from overturned braziers, smoke curling in thick clouds that made every breath a challenge. I dragged wounded soldiers toward safer rooms, issuing orders while my sword cut through anyone foolish enough to block our retreat.
A small group of Lysander men had broken into the northern hall. I did not hesitate. I met them head-on, blade striking, deflecting, parrying. Sparks flew with every clash. My hands burned, my muscles screamed, but still I fought, dragging the injured to safety while pushing the enemy back.
Every step, every swing, every life I saved reminded me why I had to endure. The crown was more than gold and jewels—it was my father's legacy, my family's honor, my people's hope. And I would not abandon them.
As the hours dragged on, exhaustion threatened to claim me. My chest heaved, my arms shook, and yet I continued. The storm outside battered the keep, but inside, the battle raged with a fiercer, more personal intensity. I could feel the Lysanders pressing closer, their banners glimpsed through broken windows and doors, soldiers' shouts echoing like distant thunder.
Finally, I reached the throne room. Its doors were cracked, charred by fire and battle, but the crown still rested on the dais. My legs gave way, and I sank to the floor beside it, clutching the rubies as if they could give me strength.
The noise outside seemed to fade as I caught my breath. Every fiber of my being ached, but I refused to leave the crown unguarded.
And then… a sound that stopped my heart.
The doors of the throne room creaked. Slowly. Deliberately. My hand went to my sword, but it was too late.
And finally… I saw someone very familiar open the door. I couldn't believe it. It was one of my friends… or at least someone I had trusted. My stomach turned, and my heart froze.
Then he spoke. Henry Lysander.
"I told you, Elara… I told you. The universe brings us against each other… and yet… so close to see our fate, our destiny… together."
Time seemed to stop. The firelight reflected in his eyes, gold against the storm, and for a moment, the chaos around us—burning keep, screams, smoke, blood—fell away. It was just him, just the crown, and the unspoken truth between us: love tangled with betrayal, destiny tangled with war.
I gripped the crown tighter, my hands trembling. Blackspire Keep had survived the first wave, but nothing would ever be the same now that Henry had returned.