The night smelled of smoke and betrayal.
I still remember the taste of it, bitter, like ash and sorrow.
They said the royal blood of Aravelle could never be broken, that the gods would watch over our crown. But that night, even the stars turned their faces away. I stood by the throne, my crown too heavy for my trembling head, and I watched the doors burst open.
My brother entered first.
Not the one who used to bring me flowers from the garden, but the one the throne had turned to stone. His sword gleamed like a lie, and behind him came soldiers who once swore to die for me.
I didn't scream when the blade touched my chest.
I think I smiled instead, not out of forgiveness, but because I finally understood the curse of royalty. You don't live for love. You live to be remembered.
When I fell, I felt the world fade, like the closing of a book. But then came the whispers, soft, ancient, and familiar. The spirits.
"You are not done," they said.
And for a heartbeat, I wasn't dead. I was becoming.
I woke beneath a blood moon, in a forgotten garden choked with vines. My hands were my own, but the air around me pulsed with their voices. Spirits of the fallen — queens, warriors, orphans, all calling my name like an echo from centuries past.
"Elara," they whispered. "Rise. The crown remembers."
So I rose.
With no kingdom, no throne, and no pulse steady enough to call life. But with vengeance in my bones, and the dead as my counsel.
This time, I would not die quietly.
This time, the crown would fall for me.