The temple bells rang at dusk.
Not for prayer.
Not for peace.
But for spectacle.
For the first time in decades, Veredon was demanding a second coronation for its reigning queen.
Not a blessing.
Not an honor.
A challenge.
And the entire court knew it.
Selene stood before the mirror, wrapped in ceremonial black.
The robe was threaded with silver veins and lines of burnt crimson, not a symbol of royalty, but of trial.
It was tradition, they told her.
No queen could truly claim divine right unless she underwent the High Rite of Flame and Iron, a ritual that had been abandoned generations ago.
Abandoned… until now.
Revived not by faith, but by fear.
By the High Priestess and her loyal circle.
By nobles who whispered that Selene was rising too far, too fast, with a fire that could no longer be contained by a throne.
Ingrid adjusted the final clasp at Selene's shoulder, her fingers stiff with tension.
"You don't have to do this," she said quietly.
Selene met her eyes in the mirror.
"Yes, I do."
"They want to humiliate you. Strip you. Make you kneel."
"Then I'll make them regret giving me a platform."
She left the royal wing in silence.
No trumpets.
No fanfare.
Only footsteps echoing across marble, followed by Elric and four silent guards, not palace men, but her personal blades, hand-picked and loyal to nothing but her voice.
The Grand Temple loomed ahead, its obsidian pillars wrapped in ivy and old gold.
A cathedral of history.
A tomb of kings.
And tonight, a battlefield.
Inside, the pews were filled.
Nobles. Priests. Foreign envoys.
All watching. All waiting.
Cassian sat at the side altar, unadorned.
He hadn't spoken to Selene in days.
But his presence now, quiet, still, was as much a declaration as a speech.
He was no longer at her side.
He was beneath the storm.
The High Priestess stepped forward, her long robe trailing behind her like a shadow stitched to flesh.
She held a scroll of rites. Ancient. Cracked.
Her voice echoed across the chamber.
"Selene Arlont. Queen of Veredon. You stand here not as ruler, but as petitioner."
"Do you accept the judgment of the Flame and the Iron?"
Selene's voice rang sharp and clear.
"I do."
The chamber murmured.
The rite had not been spoken in over 60 years.
The last woman who stood here was burned alive in a symbolic pyre when the flames refused to acknowledge her.
Selene was about to step into that same fire.
She was led to the center of the temple, where an iron ring had been carved into the floor, a perfect circle of ash and rusted nails.
The priestess gestured to it.
"You must kneel."
Selene looked down.
Then back up.
And stepped into the ring.
But she didn't kneel.
Not yet.
Instead, she faced the High Priestess directly.
"And what if the Flame kneels to me?"
Gasps rippled through the audience.
The priestess's eyes narrowed.
"The Flame bows to no mortal."
Selene smiled.
"Then perhaps I'm not mortal anymore."
Acolytes stepped forward, holding twin torches.
They lit the circle.
A controlled blaze roared to life, surrounding Selene in a wall of heat and gold.
She knelt.
Not to the priestess.
To the fire.
The rite began.
The priestess spoke of gods and divine blood.
Of duty and submission.
Of loyalty to the crown and the temple.
Each word was a chain.
A test.
A trap.
Selene answered each one with silence.
Because her words weren't meant for the court.
They were for the fire.
She closed her eyes.
Felt the heat on her skin.
Heard the whispers in her mind.
The Circle.
Her mother.
Roen.
Cassian.
All the voices that shaped her.
All the shadows that tried to claim her.
"You were forged for war."
"You were trained for betrayal."
"You were born to burn."
Selene inhaled.
Held it.
And whispered:
"Then let them burn first."
The flame pulsed outward, as if answering.
The High Priestess took a step back, visibly shaken.
The fire should've faded by now.
Instead, it grew.
The torches lining the walls flickered.
The ceiling banners trembled.
And the flame ring turned white-hot, not from fuel, but from Selene's presence.
It did not consume her.
It crowned her.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then the priestess spoke, her voice now trembling.
"The Flame… has acknowledged her."
"The Iron… shall be hers."
She turned to the altar.
Lifted the ceremonial circlet, forged from raw iron, dipped in sacred oil.
It was heavy.
Ugly.
Unforgiving.
But it symbolized power untouched by bloodlines.
Selene bowed her head as it was placed upon her brow.
Not in submission.
In triumph.
Because the crown was not gold.
It was earned.
When she stood, the court remained seated.
No one dared clap.
No one dared speak.
Because the woman standing in that flame-rimmed circle was not just queen.
She was something else now.
A myth in motion.
Outside, the city held its breath.
Inside, Cassian met her eyes for the first time in days.
There was something behind them.
Not resentment.
Not regret.
Something older.
Fear.
Later, in the privacy of her war chamber, Elric stepped forward with a parchment.
"We caught one of the Marrow agents. He spoke."
Selene unwrapped it.
Inside was a list.
Dozens of names.
Half of them members of her court.
Trusted allies.
Loyal friends.
The betrayal wasn't just coming from Marrow.
It was already inside.
Already blooming.
She stared at the list.
Then turned to Elric.
"Fire doesn't ask for permission."
"No, my queen."
"It burns."
That night, Selene didn't sleep.
She drafted new orders.
Signed a list of executions.
And summoned Ingrid to prepare new decrees for the city.
Because Veredon had crowned her twice.
But after tonight?
It would never crown another.