By the time she reached the towering doors of the throne room, the air itself seemed to still. She placed her hand on the carved wood, felt the faint thrum of her own pulse beneath the gauntlet.
The keep was holding its breath.
The Great throne room of Emberholme was a cathedral of fire and shadow. Pillars carved with draconic spirals rose toward vaulted ceilings, where faint shafts of dawn bled through stained glass. Once, the chamber blazed with banners and braziers; now the light was dim, the braziers half-burned, their smoke curling like whispers of a dying hearth. Courtiers lined the walls, their silks rustling, their eyes sharp with secrets, yet all voices stilled as the heavy doors opened.
Serenya Valeblood entered. Her boots echoed against the marble floor, her armor still dusted with the grit of the training yard. She strode forward, unbowed, her presence cutting through the murmurs like steel through silk.
And there he was.
Not upon the towering dragon-throne where he always sat at the heydays of his magnificent reign, but on a chair dragged forward, hewn from obsidian and carved with serpentine wings. King Daerion Ashenfang.
Time had withered his body, yet not his command. His skin bore a pallid gray, veins beneath faintly glowing like dying embers. His breath has become ragged, labored, and when he lifted his gauntleted hand, a cough wracked him, crimson spattering the black steel. But his eyes—burning gold, sharp as a blade's edge—still ruled the room.
The courtiers bowed as one. Heads lowered, silks swept the stone, voices murmured titles. Only Serenya did not kneel.
Instead, she strode to the foot of his chair and unsheathed her sword. With a sharp crack, she drove the blade into the stone floor, sparks leaping as steel met rock.
Her voice rang clear, unshaken.
"So long as I breathe, no shadow will take you, my King."
A ripple moved through the courtiers—shock, awe, perhaps even fear. But Daerion did not rebuke her. He only regarded her, coughing once more into his fist, before speaking.
"Serenya Valeblood," he said, his voice a low thunder, "your vow is a flame in this fading hall. But flame alone cannot banish what festers within me."
He lifted his gauntlet, and for the first time, the court saw the truth. The veins in his arm glowed brighter, pulsing with an inner fire that seared as much as it sickened. His fingers trembled; his breath hissed through clenched teeth.
"The Cinderheart Blight," Daerion said, each word carrying weight enough to bend silence. "An ailment born of ancient fire—thought to be a curse that is older than Emberholme. Dragonflame runs through my bloodline… now it seeks to devour me from within."
A murmur rippled through the nobles, half-fear, half-greed.
Daerion leaned forward, golden eyes locking with Serenya's. "The healers cannot stop it. But there is one hope—a medicine brewed from the fruit of fire itself. The The Dragon's Apple."
Serenya's jaw tightened. The name was legend, spoken in the same breath as folly and death. To seek it meant stepping into lands where no mortal was meant to walk.
"You will lead this quest," Daerion said, his voice brooking no argument. "Not alone. Take Dorian the wizard with you and you can take as many people as you wish but, you must travel today."
Serenya bowed her head at last, the fire in her eyes unbroken. "If this is your will, my King, then I shall see it done."
Daerion coughed again, harder this time, nearly bending in pain. His gauntlet closed around Serenya's forearm with sudden strength, a fire in his touch that belied his weakness. His gaze seared into her, molten and unyielding.
"Serenya Valeblood… bring me the Dragon's Apple. Not for me alone, but for Emberholme itself. Should I fall, the kingdom burns with me."
The words struck like a hammer blow. She knew what he meant. Without him, the nobles would feast on one another's ambitions, and the fragile ember of unity would scatter to ash. Emberholme lived because Daerion held it together—through fear, respect, and the myth of Ashenfang blood. If he died, the flame of the realm would gutter and die with him.
Serenya's breath caught, torn between duty to her king and fear of leaving him defenseless in the den of wolves that was his own court. But there was no choice. This was the path laid before her.
She dropped to one knee, both hands on her sword's hilt. Her voice was low, steady, like the toll of a bell.
*"Then I swear… I will not return without it."*
The moment lingered. The courtiers shifted, whispering prayers or curses. The king's cough rumbled deep in his chest.
Then the torches along the walls flared, fire roaring as if answering her oath. Their light spilled across the chamber, bathing Serenya in a halo of flame. Her armor gleamed, her hair caught in the glow, and her shadow stretched long and unyielding across the throne room floor.
There, before the dying fire of her king, Serenya Valeblood became something more than a knight. She became an oath given form—bound to a quest that would either save Emberholme or doom it to ashes.
And with the hall aflame in torchlight, she rose, sword in hand, eyes hard with the weight of legend to come.