The capital smelled of smoke.
Even three days after the Veilspawn's attack, ash still clung to the streets, carried on the wind like gray snow. Citizens swept endlessly, but the soot returned as if the city itself bled shadows from its veins. The golden towers of Solareth gleamed under the sun, yet the radiance seemed brittle, cracked, unable to hide the scars gouged into marble and heart alike.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the great plaza, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had stood watch in war camps and border villages, but never here—in the very heart of the kingdom he had once sworn to serve. His armor bore no crest now, only steel burnished from years of exile, and the stares of the people cut deeper than any blade.
"Heretic," someone whispered as he passed. "Cursed knight."
Others murmured prayers beneath their breath, clutching charms of the sun as though his presence were an omen. He ignored them, though his jaw clenched with each word. Once, they would have bowed to him as a knight of the Order. Now he was nothing more than a shadow walking in daylight.
And yet, it was not himself they feared most.
It was her.
---
Princess Serenya sat within the upper halls of the citadel, her hands folded tightly in her lap as voices echoed through the chamber doors. The lords quarreled again, louder each day, circling like vultures around carrion. Her father lay ill, her kingdom restless, and still they bickered about alliances, dowries, and whispers of treachery.
But what chilled her most were the murmurs spreading beyond the chamber walls.
The princess bears a mark.
The Mark of Twilight—shadow's curse upon Solareth.
She is the reason the Veil weakens.
Serenya pressed her fingertips against her collarbone. Through the thin silk of her gown, she felt the faint thrum of her Mark pulsing like a heartbeat. It had glowed that night in the Greywood, when Kaelen's Seal of Dawn had answered it. And again when the Veilspawn had struck the city. Too many had seen. Too many now whispered.
A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. Lyra slipped inside, her auburn hair disheveled, face drawn. "Highness," she said softly. "It's worse."
Serenya's stomach tightened. "The council?"
Lyra shook her head. "The streets. The people are afraid. Some say the Veilspawn came because of you. That your mark called them."
The words struck like ice. She had known fear, but never this—the twisting of her very existence into a weapon against her people. She rose abruptly, moving to the balcony. From here she could see the city sprawling outward, rooftops scarred, banners tattered. Soldiers patrolled in tighter numbers than before, yet the fear was heavier than the steel they carried.
"Kaelen waits in the plaza," Lyra said gently. "He said he must speak with you."
---
She found him in the shadow of a broken statue, where ash swirled like dying snow. He straightened as she approached, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his expression carved from stone. But when their eyes met, she saw the flicker of warmth there—the one thing that still steadied her.
"You shouldn't be seen here," she said softly. "The people blame you as much as me."
"Let them," Kaelen muttered. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword. "I've never feared whispers. It's what hides behind them that worries me."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
He glanced around before lowering his voice. "Scouts returned from the northern forests. Villages gone silent. Not burned, not looted—just…empty. As if the shadows swallowed them whole."
Her breath caught. "The Veil?"
"Worse," he said grimly. "Survivors speak of a figure leading the Veilspawn. A man—or something wearing the shape of one. They call him the Herald of Night."
The name sent a shiver down her spine. It was no longer mindless beasts spilling from the breach. Something commanded them. Something with will and purpose. She touched her Mark unconsciously, feeling it pulse in dread.
"Why tell me?" she whispered. "Why not the council?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "Do you truly believe Malrik and his ilk would listen? They would twist it. Blame the shadows on your mark, and me for daring to speak."
She looked down, silence pressing between them. He was right, of course. Malrik had already poisoned the court with doubt. If she revealed her fears, it would only tighten his grip.
"Then what do we do?" she asked at last.
His gaze softened, though his voice remained firm. "We go ourselves. Leave this city before the council binds you in chains of silk and lies. Find the truth at the border. If the Veil is weakening, we'll see it with our own eyes."
Her lips parted, shock and hesitation warring within her. "Leave? Kaelen, if I abandon the court now—"
"You don't abandon them," he interrupted. "You protect them. Do you think Malrik will lift a finger if the shadows march again? He'll bargain away your hand, crown, and soul, and call it victory. If the people are to survive, someone must face what's coming. Someone who isn't blind."
His words struck her with painful clarity. She wanted to argue, to cling to the walls of duty and tradition. But when she looked at him—at the fire in his eyes, the steel in his stance—she saw the truth. The council would never save Solareth. Perhaps only she could.
And she would not walk alone.
---
That night, as the citadel fell into uneasy slumber, Serenya moved silently through the shadowed halls. Lyra followed at her side, cloak drawn tight, while Kaelen waited by the stables, his sword strapped to his back. Horses stamped restlessly, as though sensing the weight of destiny pressing upon them.
But before she could step into the courtyard, a voice rasped from the darkness.
"Serenya…"
She froze. From the doorway of his chamber, her father stood, frail and pale, one hand braced on the wall. His crown sat askew upon his thinning hair, and his eyes—once sharp as sunlight—now glimmered with fevered haze.
"Father," she whispered, rushing to him. "You should not be awake—"
His trembling hand caught hers. "No time," he murmured. "They told me… long ago. The prophecy. The Veil's wound. The lovers who broke it. And now… you."
Her heart thundered. "You knew?"
His lips curved in a bitter smile. "Not enough. Only that the true enemy… was never the shadows beyond. It is the darkness within our own halls. Malrik… beware him…"
His grip tightened weakly, then faltered. He sagged into her arms, coughing raggedly. Lyra cried out, rushing forward, but Serenya held him, tears burning her eyes. "Rest, Father. Please. I will protect them. I swear it."
He looked at her one last time, pride flickering through the haze. Then his eyes closed, and his breath faded into silence.
---
The bells tolled moments later, carrying across the city like a dirge. The King of Solareth was dead.
Serenya stood in the courtyard, the weight of the crown already pressing upon her though it had not yet touched her brow. Kaelen's hand brushed her shoulder, grounding her. She looked at him, grief and determination warring within her chest.
"There is no turning back," she whispered.
"No," he agreed, his voice steady as steel. "Only forward."
And as the bells rang and the city mourned, three figures rode into the night—princess, knight, and handmaiden—leaving behind a kingdom that would wake to both loss and betrayal, unaware that its last hope had already vanished into the shadows.