Rain lashed against the high windows of Darethmoor Manor. Thunder rolled across the moors, rattling the chandeliers that hung above the great hall. Candles guttered in their sconces, their flames shrinking low as if the air itself feared what was about to happen.
On the dais, Seraphyne Virelli-Dareth spread her wings. They filled the hall like a cathedral, feathers edged in pale fire, bones ridged like the spires of a dragon's skeleton. Her gown was black silk poured across the floor, the train heavy with jewels torn from the crown she had stolen.
At her feet, the last of the loyalists lay broken. Their blood crept down the steps in sluggish trails, darkening the marble. The stench of iron clung thick as incense, turning every breath into something bitter.
Seraphyne raised her chin. "The Virelli line is ended," she said, her voice low yet carrying to the far corners of the hall. "They were weak. They invited ruin. I will not break. I will not fail."
She stepped upward, her bare feet staining the white marble as she climbed. At the top of the dais, she turned and seated herself upon the throne of Darethmoor. The obsidian seat loomed high, carved with runes so old they no longer had names.
A servant knelt, holding out the coronation ring. Black metal. Garnet set like a drop of frozen blood.
When Seraphyne slid it onto her finger, the runes on the throne flared. A weight slammed down over the hall, forcing every noble spine to bend. Some bowed in reverence. Most in terror. The silence that followed was crushing.
The Regent had claimed her crown.
Yet not all bent willingly.
In the gallery above, half-hidden in shadow, a scribe gripped his quill so tightly the wood cracked. His hand shook as he wrote, ink blotting the parchment. He recorded the blood. The betrayal. The Regent's triumph. His pulse thundered in his ears as he dared to add a final line.
The child was not among the dead.
He froze. For a moment he thought the Regent's eyes had found him in the dark. But Seraphyne only adjusted her gown, one hand stroking the arm of the throne as if testing its weight.
Thunder crashed outside. The windows rattled. Darethmoor trembled as though the manor itself bowed to her will.
A new ruler sat upon the throne. And beyond the storm, hidden from every eye in the hall, the last heir still lived.