Rain poured like spilled ink across the palace roofs, drumming against the stained-glass windows in a steady rhythm. Thunder rolled low and slow, as if the gods themselves were clearing their throats.
Ariana stood alone in the eastern tower, the highest point in the Virelian Palace, her cloak whipping behind her like wings. Below, the city flickered with torches—faithful flames unaware of the war building beneath their queen's skin.
She wasn't trembling anymore.
Not from fear. Not from pain.
She was beginning to remember who she was.
And what they took from her.
The truth burned in her veins now—hotter than poison, older than steel.
She was Veyl.
And that changed everything.
Down in the throne hall, the council gathered in uneasy silence.
Duchess Seraphine lounged in a carved silver chair, her eyes like polished garnet, glinting with veiled challenge. Several lords fidgeted under her gaze. General Solen whispered with two border captains, their words drowned beneath the crackling hearth.
Damian stood at the foot of the dais, silent and still, armor glinting with moisture from the rain. He was watching the doors. Waiting for her.
Then—like thunder in velvet—Ariana entered.
She wore a gown of black and red silk, threaded with ember gold. Her hair was pinned with a blade-shaped comb. A dagger was sheathed at her thigh, but it wasn't the weapon that made the chamber fall quiet.
It was her presence.
Like flame given flesh.
Even Seraphine straightened.
"I've summoned this council to name our enemy," Ariana said without preamble.
"Selene," muttered one lord.
"No," Ariana replied, voice steady. "She's a pawn. The hand behind her moves in shadows, ancient ones. And it wants my crown—my power."
General Solen scowled. "And what power would that be, Your Majesty?"
A hush. Everyone looked at her.
She didn't flinch.
"I'm Veyl. My bloodline was hunted. Buried. But not broken. That magic still lives in me."
A sharp inhale. Several nobles exchanged glances.
One brave fool—Lord Devron—spoke. "Then you're a witch."
Damian moved before Ariana could. In one swift step, he had Devron by the collar, eyes like frozen steel.
"Call her that again," he said softly, "and you'll be picking your teeth out of your lap."
Ariana raised a hand.
Damian dropped him.
"I am a witch," she said. "But I'm also your queen. And I won't hide what I am to make you feel safe."
She stepped forward now, fire curling at her fingertips—not uncontrolled, not wild.
Focused.
"Magic isn't our enemy," she continued. "Fear is."
She let the flame vanish, her voice gentling just slightly.
"And we don't have time for fear. Because Eldareth has moved."
Gasps echoed around the chamber.
Seraphine tilted her head, watching Ariana like a cat watches a lion cub—wary, intrigued.
"We received a letter from Queen Lysandra," Ariana said. "She knows I survived. She's asking for an audience."
"Why would she want diplomacy now?" someone asked.
"She doesn't," Damian said. "She wants to see how strong Ariana is. How broken. Whether she's a girl with a crown… or a queen with teeth."
Ariana met every gaze in the room.
"She wants to test me?" she said. "Then let her come."
Later, in the quiet of her chambers, Ariana sat before her mirror, fingers resting on the cool glass.
But this time, when the shadows stirred—when the whisper rose again from the depths of the mirror—
She didn't flinch.
"Soon," it said.
She smiled, slow and cold.
"I'll be ready."
Meanwhile, far across the sea, Selene stood at a marble balcony, watching a black ship rise through the mist of a midnight port.
A woman stepped off the deck, her cloak sewn with bone-white thread. Her eyes? Sharp. Silver. Serpent-like.
Queen Lysandra.
Selene bowed low. "Welcome to Virelia, Your Grace."
Lysandra's lips curled. "Let's see if your little flame can survive the storm I've brought with me."