The sky was red the day Thornehall burned.
Smoke curled into the heavens, thick and black, painting the clouds with ruin. Screams rose like a choir of ghosts, swallowed by the roar of fire and the thunder of enemy hooves. The marble towers of her home—once proud and gleaming in the sunlight—cracked and crumbled under the weight of war.
Princess Seraya crouched beneath a fallen archway, her breath shallow, her gown torn, her arms streaked with soot. All around her, the world was ending.
She'd never seen battle—not truly. Her tutors spoke of strategy, of treaties and retaliations. Her brother, Damien, always spoke of glory and dying with a sword in hand. But no one had ever told her about the sound a person made when they died. About the way the earth shook beneath marching feet. About how quickly everything you loved could be torn away.
"Seraya!" a voice shouted.
She turned—just in time to see Damien rush toward her, a cut bleeding freely down the side of his face, his sword dark with blood.
"We have to go," he panted. "Now. The west wing is lost. The royal guard's fallen back."
She scrambled to her feet, grabbing his hand.
"Where's Mother? Father?"
Damien didn't answer.
That silence told her more than words ever could.
Her knees buckled, but he held her up, gripping her tighter. "Listen to me. We'll find a way out. I won't leave you."
But the gods had no mercy left for House Thorne.
A blast of force—magic, raw and brutal—struck the ground just behind them. Seraya screamed as she was thrown forward, ripped from her brother's grasp. She hit the ground hard, the breath torn from her lungs.
She heard his voice calling her name, hoarse and desperate.
Then arms seized her from behind—soldiers in dark armor, bearing no crest but a burning sun etched in gold. The mark of the Conqueror. The God-King.
Then she saw him, King Malek, in all his glory. With his blackened armor and skull-like helm, he looked like a god of vengeance and destruction. His aura was enough to bring her to her knees, though she fought it off, her knees swaying with the effort.
His eyes roamed over her. She felt exposed underneath that gaze and it felt unfair, she could not see him back, his helm obscured his face.
Though he seemed bored. As if large scale murder and toppling an entire civilization was nothing but a mere inconvenience to him. It enraged her.
But then he said the words that would condemn her forever.
"Take her."
"No!"
Strong hands gripped her but she saw no more of the king.
She fought his men. Kicked. Bit. Screamed. But there were too many. Her wrists were bound, her crown torn from her hair and crushed beneath a boot.
Through the chaos, she caught one last glimpse of Damien—surrounded, his sword still raised, refusing to surrender.
Then everything went black.
________________________________________________________________________
She awoke to silence.
Gone were the screams, the heat, the smoke. She was lying in the back of a cart, the wooden floor hard against her cheek. Her hands were bound. Her mouth dry. The world swayed with the movement of the wheels beneath her.
She tried to rise and was met with a soldier's boot pressing her back down.
"Lie still, girl," he growled. "You're lucky you're still breathing."
Seraya didn't speak. Her throat was raw, her heart hollow. Somewhere out there, her brother was either dead or fighting alone. Her parents—her kingdom—lost.
All she had left was her name. And even that felt like ash on her tongue.
Princess Seraya of Thornehall. Last of her line. Captive of the God-King.
She didn't know what fate awaited her.
But she would endure it.
She had no other choice.