CHAPTER ONE
Ashes Return to Ashes
The road to Vaeloria was paved in bones no one could see.
Seraphine could feel them anyway — under the carriage wheels, under the horses' hooves, beneath the layers of moss and frost and dirt that had settled over centuries. The land had soaked up too much death to ever forget it, and now, as twilight settled over the crooked spires of the capital in the distance, she felt the weight of that memory pressing against her chest.
The carriage rocked violently as it hit a rut in the cracked road, the kind worn deep by years of neglect. Her hood slipped slightly, and she adjusted it with gloved fingers, careful not to expose her face. Not yet. Let them think her meek, faceless, forgettable. That was safer—for now.
The man across from her cleared his throat for the third time.
"You've been quiet since we left the outpost, my lady," Sir Elric said, shifting uncomfortably in his armor. His sword, an ornate silver blade etched with royal insignia, rested beside him, as though even in a moving carriage he feared being unarmed. "Are you well?"
Seraphine tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of her cloak. "As well as one can be when returning to the place their mother was burned alive."
Elric's face tightened, but he didn't deny it. He couldn't. Everyone knew the story, though they spoke of it only in hushed tones now. The day the Eternal Flame died. The last queen of Vaeloria, accused of witchcraft and treason, burned in front of the palace steps while the people cheered.
Seraphine had been ten years old. She remembered every scream, every cry, the scent of charred roses and scorched silk. And the eyes of the boy standing at the edge of the crowd — the crown prince — watching it all with a face carved from stone.
They'd called it justice.
She called it betrayal.
"My apologies," Elric said stiffly, after a moment. "It's not my place to speak of such things."
"No, it's not," she replied calmly.
They lapsed into silence again as the fog thickened around the carriage. It moved like living smoke, creeping up the wheels, licking at the edges of the windowpane. The shadows of the forest to their left loomed darker than natural, and Seraphine knew why.
The Curse was growing stronger.
"Has the palace changed?" she asked after a while, eyes fixed on the skyline ahead. The black towers of Castle Alraen pierced the clouds like rusted blades. The banners hanging from its walls were new — red and gold, bearing the phoenix crest of House Valen. Her family's crest had been a white flame, now outlawed.
"Much has changed," Elric replied. "There's more fear now. Fewer nobles walk the halls. The Queen Regent rarely appears in public, and the prince... well."
"Well what?" she asked.
"He's not the boy you may remember."
She let out a soft laugh, the sound bitter. "Good. I'm not the girl he left behind."
---
When they crossed the final bridge into the city, bells tolled in the distance — low and slow, like a funeral dirge. Seraphine peered out from beneath her hood. The streets were emptier than she expected. The commoners moved like ghosts, avoiding eye contact with the royal guards. No market laughter, no children running between stalls. Just silence and stone.
Vaeloria had become a kingdom of whispers.
The gates of Castle Alraen opened for them with a groan that echoed through the frostbitten courtyard. A line of armored guards stood waiting, spears crossed. A steward with a gaunt face stepped forward.
"My Lady Seraphine, ward of the outer provinces, welcome to Castle Alraen," he said.
She stepped down from the carriage, her boots crunching against snow-dusted stone. The chill bit through her cloak, but she didn't flinch. She looked up at the towering obsidian walls, the stained-glass windows like watching eyes, and said nothing.
"This way," the steward gestured.
As they led her through the castle, Seraphine took in every detail. The golden tapestries. The blood-red carpets. The statues of old kings — none of which bore her family's likeness anymore. They'd erased House Vaeloria as if it had never existed. But stone remembers. And so did she.
At last, they stopped before a grand set of double doors.
"You will meet with the Queen Regent before you are shown your quarters," the steward said.
Seraphine gave a tight nod and adjusted her cloak. As the doors opened, the scent of rosewater and old wine hit her like a wave.
The throne room was dim, lit only by the flickering flames of wall-mounted sconces. The throne itself sat atop five marble steps, flanked by silent guards. And seated upon it was Queen Regent Iralyn — once her aunt by blood, now ruler by treason.
The years had not been kind to Iralyn. Her once-golden hair was streaked with gray, her skin pale and stretched thin across sharp cheekbones. Her eyes, however, were as cold and calculating as ever.
"My lady," she drawled, lifting a jeweled hand. "Come forward."
Seraphine walked slowly across the stone floor, each step echoing in the silence. She stopped at the base of the throne, gave a shallow curtsy, and lifted her gaze.
"My Queen Regent," she said coolly.
Iralyn's lips curved. "So polite. I had heard you were... wild. Untamed. I suppose exile breeds strange manners."
"Exile breeds survivors," Seraphine replied.
The queen's smile didn't waver, but her fingers tightened around the armrest.
"I trust your journey was... uneventful."
"There were wolves on the road," Seraphine said. "But they turned away once they recognized what I was."
"Indeed. Even beasts know blood." Iralyn studied her for a long moment. "You have your mother's eyes."
"I hear that often."
"I wonder," the queen mused, "do you blame me for her death?"
Seraphine paused. The firelight danced across her face as she met her aunt's gaze.
"I don't waste time blaming tools," she said softly.
The room chilled a degree.
Before Iralyn could reply, the doors at the far end opened again. Footsteps echoed — slow, deliberate, powerful.
And then he entered.
Prince Kael.
Tall. Clad in black. A silver clasp held his crimson cloak in place, and a sword with a dragon-bone hilt hung at his side. His hair was dark, swept back in sharp waves, and his eyes — gods, those eyes — were like storms trapped in ice.
He stopped beside the throne, his gaze settling on her with measured interest.
Seraphine didn't bow.
"Prince Kael," she said.
"Lady Seraphine." His voice was low, refined. Dangerous. "It's been a long time."
"Not long enough."
His lips twitched — almost a smile. Almost.
"I see your tongue hasn't dulled."
"And I see yours is still wrapped in velvet and steel."
A flicker of something passed between them. Memory. Fire. The echo of a childhood lost in blood and betrayal.
"We'll begin the courtship rituals in two days' time," Iralyn interrupted. "Until then, you'll remain within the palace walls. You'll find your room prepared."
Seraphine nodded once. "Thank you... Your Grace."
She turned on her heel and walked away, never once looking back.
---
Her assigned chamber was high in the west tower — the old wing of the castle, long unused. Dust clung to the corners, and the windows overlooked the ruins of the Temple of the Flame, where her ancestors had once prayed.
She closed the door, locked it, and exhaled.
At last.
She pulled off her cloak, unfastening the hidden dagger from beneath her sleeve. The moment her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, the air shimmered.
From the shadows, a figure emerged — robed, hooded, and silent.
"You were watched," the figure said.
"I know," Seraphine replied.
"The queen suspects."
"Let her. It'll make her more careless."
The figure moved closer, and the candlelight revealed an old woman's face, tattooed with ancient sigils. "Are you ready?"
Seraphine walked to the window, looking out at the shattered temple beyond. The moon hung low above it, blood-red.
"I've waited eleven years," she said. "They thought they killed my bloodline. That I was the last spark of a dead flame."
She turned back, eyes glowing with something fierce and unholy.
"They were wrong."