The crown of the Human Realms was forged centuries ago from iron and faith, both of which had now begun to crack.
The King of Men, Therald the Fourth, ruled not from a place of might, but from a crumbling throne carved into the cliffs of Caer Thalion, a city perched above the Sea of Whispers.
He had refused Seraphira's summons.
So now… she came to him.
🜃 The Court of Caer Thalion was built to intimidate.
White stone columns. High glass arches. Walls lined with painted saints and past kings.
But when Seraphira entered, her spiral mark glowing faintly at her wrist, all the painted eyes seemed to look away.
The court fell silent.
Elena flanked her.
So did Theryn, robed in flame-sigil cloth.
The King sat upon his throne, grey-bearded and flanked by half a dozen noblemen, all of them murmuring like startled crows.
You should have sent word before violating royal airspace, the King said coldly.
I sent flame, Seraphira replied.
He chuckled. Yes, and half the western sky burned for it.
His words tried to carry power. But his crown gold-plated, dulled with age tilted slightly on his brow. Seraphira saw it for what it was:
Hollow. Ornamental.
A symbol of control long since lost.
You've come to demand loyalty? the King asked. Or kneeling?
I've come to offer peace.
The nobles scoffed.
Peace from what? one of them asked.
From yourselves, Seraphira said. From the cycle of kingdoms grasping for power while the world burns beneath their boots. From the underworld rising behind your ignorance.
The King rose slowly.
You come here with demon whispers and speak of peace?
I come with fire, she said. And truth. You may dress your rule in light, but you cannot silence the shadow creeping behind your throne.
The spiral on her wrist flared. The court flinched.
Your light, she said, was always a borrowed spark.
Then, before any could speak, the doors burst open.
A cloaked figure entered, robes flickering with smoke.
All eyes turned.
It was Vaerik, the Demon Envoy.
Again.
He walked to the center of the court and bowed low.
My Queen, he said, Kaelreth Azarion sends a gift.
He opened his hand.
Inside it, floating and spinning slowly, was a crown of black glass and fire.
Alive.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Gasps filled the hall.
The King turned pale. Is this a threat?
Seraphira didn't move. It's a reminder.
She looked at the crown and did not take it.
Instead, she turned her eyes on the King.
You may keep your gilded throne, she said.
But remember: when the real war begins, your crown will weigh nothing.
That night…
Seraphira stood on the cliffs of Caer Thalion, watching the moonlit waves crash far below.
Elena joined her.
You didn't take the crown.
I'm not ready, Seraphira murmured. And it's not mine yet.
Elena glanced back toward the city. But they're starting to see it, aren't they?
Seraphira nodded slowly.
"That every kingdom that cast me out... may one day kneel not by force, but by truth."
And the flame in her blood whispered in answer.
🌑 In the Underworld…
Kaelreth stood beside the Pool of Memory, watching her reflection ripple in the black water.
She did not wear it, Malkor noted.
Kaelreth touched the fire-crown once, then let it vanish into shadow.
"She will."
"When she understands what it truly costs to rule."