Bride of the Forgotten Throne

Veyrhold's gates had always been closed after midnight. But the guards at the western outpost opened them without sounding the horn. They didn't know why. Only that the wind whispered Open. And the wind sounded like someone they once feared.

Kaelira stepped over the threshold in silence. Cloaked in dusk-colored velvet, hood drawn low. The moon painted her silver, but her eyes burned deeper—brighter—than when she left. Beside her walked Elarin, head high, unmasked now. No longer a rogue. No longer in hiding.

Two women. Two flames.

One crown.

They passed through the lower city unseen. The beggars stirred in their sleep. The dogs whimpered and backed away. The ivy across the temple walls reached for them as they walked. Whispers rustled the rooftops like wind through leaves:

"The Bride walks again."

"Two shadows wear her face."

Kaelira paused outside the orphan tower. She stared up at the windows—the same ones she'd once watched stars through, as a girl.

Elarin touched her arm. "You don't owe them silence."

Kaelira met her sister's gaze. "No. But they owe me an audience."

She reached into her cloak and drew out a flame sigil—a relic from the Hollow, forged anew from ash and blood. With one motion, she pressed it against the city wall. It burned. Softly. Not with destruction. But with promise.

Dorian didn't wake when it lit.

He jolted.

Sweat clung to his back. His dream still echoing in his ears. Kaelira, in a field of fire. Reaching for him. Calling his name—

Back in the Queen's chambers—long untouched, long preserved—Kaelira stood before her old mirror. Dust blurred her reflection. She wiped it away with one slow stroke. And whispered to herself:

"Let them see me."

"Let them all see what I've become."

Outside, Elarin stood on the balcony, looking down at the city that had once called her witch, traitor, curse. She smiled faintly.

Not for vengeance. But because tomorrow—finally—they would listen.