Chapter 55
Alora
The great doors of the throne room boomed open with a thundering crack.
The sound tore through the vaulted chamber like a herald’s warhorn, but no trumpets followed, no fanfare or royal announcement.
The court took one look at Alora and fell utterly silent.
Lords, ladies, guards, and servants alike turned to stare.
Alora stepped over the threshold.
The marble floor stretched before her like a black sea, polished to a mirror shine. Pillars lined the path to the throne, gold etchings catching the light like veins of fire. Argyle’s stained-glass windows cast long shadows, cold, colorless, watching like ghosts.
It was once home.
But now, it was a mausoleum.
Her cloak billowed as she descended the center aisle, followed by an armed entourage of Minotaurs and demons.
Her people gawked at them in disbelief. Others watched with narrowed eyes, exchanging suspicious whispers. Her people. And yet, strangers.
Alora glided forward, black dress trailing like spilled ink behind her, the Harbingers in their fae forms flitting around her shoulders like tiny sentinels of shadow light. Her heels echoed against the stone, the steady rhythm of power on the march through the vaulted hall.
At the far end of the room, upon the throne meant for kings, sat Rihan.
Her brother drowned in its mass. His legs didn’t touch the floor, his shoulders stiff as a board in heavy velvet garments and an oversized cloak.
He looked like a boy playing dress-up, swallowed by duty and expectation.
His fingers clutched the golden armrests so tight his knuckles were white.
Flanking him were the high lords of Argyle, their gaunt faces bent in huddled whispers in his ears behind veiled hands.
Ser Tallin. Lord Graye. Lady Isolde. The Archbishop.
Snakes in silk.
And standing beside them like frostbitten delphiniums in full bloom was Queen Delphi. Her gown shimmered like sapphires, her expression as unreadable as stone.
The High Priestess stood to the left, holding a velvet blue pillow upon which sat a gleaming crown. Her father’s crown.
Alora came to stop before the stairs. “Oh?” she said, voice cutting through the hush like a dagger unsheathed. “My, my… have I interrupted a coronation? Curious, I don’t recall receiving an invitation.”
“I told you,” Delphi said, raising her chin. “The lords will not stand by an illegitimate child who holds no true claim to the throne. Not when she carries darkness in her veins.”
Gasps stirred at the edges of the chamber.
“Well,” Alora’s lips curled into a cool smile. “I suppose that’s true.”
The throne room rippled with magic. Even the sconces flickered low, bowing to her will.
Delphi’s composure wavered slightly. She stepped back, her hand tightening around the armrest of the throne. “You see her for what she is? She’s the daughter of a demon!”
Shocked cries rang out and the lords shrank back. She slowly climbed the steps, the shadows drifting in her wake.
Delphi paled as she approached but stood firm in front of Rihan.
Alora’s low chuckle carried in the stunned quiet. “And yet you thought it wise to challenge me.”
“The throne belongs to my son!” Delphi reached for the crown on the pillow, but Theia appeared from the curtained alcove and snatched it away.
Then Caelum marched forward with a unit of guards.
“How dare you!” Delphi screeched. “Both of you were her spies, weren’t you? Am I the only one protecting the kingdom?”
“You were never protecting Argyle,” Alora said. “Merely your own ambition.”
One of the lords muttered a protest but fell silent under her gaze.
“Something to say, Lord Tallin?” she asked.
The old man flushed, clearing his throat. “With respect, Your Majesty. Of course, I … well, we acknowledge your royal blood, but the court has not officially crowned you…”
“Then let her coronation be held today,” a voice declared.
Cloaked in amber silks, the woman stepped forward from the crowd’s edge. Her staff tapped softly against the stone. Hair like burnished bronze framed her sharp features, and golden eyes flicked toward Alora, not in awe, but recognition.
“The light remembers you, my queen,” she said, voice low and clear. “And so do I.”
Alora’s smile was faint but warm. She was relieved to see the Sun Mage among the living after Calveron’s invasion. “Lady Solara, I am glad to see you alive.”
The mage inclined her head. “And you, Your Majesty. I stand in full support of your claim.”
Lord Tallin gave a withering scoff. “Another hedge-witch to curry favor in court?”
Lady Solara turned to him, unblinking. “I am a sorceress, Lord Tallin. A Grand Magus of the Sun Guild. I curry favor with no one.” A faint shimmer of firelight sparked at her fingertips. “But I will burn through injustice, including undue insult.”
That made his mouth snap shut.
Alora’s smile widened, deciding she liked her fire. “Then I welcome your support, Lady Solara. Argyle needs every flame.” She turned to the court. “Who else here supports my claim?”
A hush followed, tense, waiting, until a deep voice broke it.
“I, Lord Zuma of the Forbidden Ridge, grant you my fealty,” he said, stepping forward. His broad form cast a long shadow in the torchlight. “My people will fight under no banner but yours.”
Skeptical murmurs hummed through the crowd.
Theia stepped into the open beside him and bowed her head. “I, Lady of Stormwatch, stand with you, my Queen.”
The murmurs quieted, shock following.
Caelum crossed the floor next, his movements crisp, the silver pauldron at his shoulder catching the light. “House Basile has always served Argyle.” He clamped a fist over his heart. “To the end.”
The room shifted, the air charged with something more than magic. Murmurs stirred through the crowd like the first roll of distant thunder. Nobles who once clung to old order now watched their peers rise in tandem.
And Alora stood taller, the fire in her spine catching like dawn on steel. The shadows fell like veil over her head, leaving behind a crown.
Delphi cut in, voice shrill. “You have no claim. Your mother ceased to hold any royal standing the moment she died.”
“And you gladly took her place before her body was buried in the ground,” Alora replied in the same tone. “Now you find yourself in the same position.”
Delphi paled, at last stunned silent.
The Archbishop stepped forward. “Now Princess, Prince Rihan is the rightful heir.”
“Yes,” Alora agreed, narrowing her eyes. “He is.” She let her voice rise, filling the throne room as she spoke to her people. “I pledge before the Seven, that Prince Rihan will become king—when he comes of age. For I refuse to place my brother in harm’s way. For he is not ready for what is coming.”
Behind her, the Harbingers pulled open the heavy curtains. The red rift in the night sky bathed the chamber in its ominous light. It had doubled in size over the weeks.
“A war is on the horizon,” Alora announced. “When the Blood Moon rises, the Primordial that cursed our land…and the one who gave me life…will come. He comes to destroy. To devour. To consume all you hold dear.”
A fear hummed through the room.
“I spent my life hiding from what I am.” Her voice wavered with the tightening in her chest. “Then I tried to run from it. But hiding and running will never set us free. So when the end comes, I will face the dark. For there is more at stake than bloodlines or thrones. This is a war for the world.”
Her gaze swept the room, meeting eyes across rank and station.
“Therefore, I, Alora Lark, daughter of Salvia and Laurent, King of Argyle. Wife to the God of Shadows. Queen by birth and bond…” Her voice strengthened.
“I ask you to fight beside me. Not out of duty or fealty, but for the hope of another dawn. For another spring. Another lullaby sung without sorrow.”
She stepped forward. “Fight with me and I swear to you all…” Her eyes misted. “When the war ends, so will the Sleeping Curse.”
The moonlight spilled through the dome above, catching in her crown. At her feet, moss coiled through the floor. Spider lilies bloomed through marble, glowing like scarlet stars.
A hush blanketed the room.
A rustle moved through the chamber as others stood to bow one by one.
Except Delphi and the lords.
Alora’s gaze swept over to them.
Lord Graye, wide as a boar and draped in layers of furs, rose with a sputter. “This is madness. We will not bow to a woman, let alone a bastard—”
He cut off in a wheezing gurgle, his face turning purple as the shadows tightened.
“Mind your tongue when speaking to your queen, or you will lose it.” Alora flicked a hand, drawing them away. “The Lords of Argyle, you have governed my father’s kingdom in my absence, and I thank you. But it’s time I step in, unless you wish to dispute that.”
With a shimmer of magic, Hadeon appeared at her side in full size, smoke rising off the blackened steel of his armor.
The lords faltered. Then slowly, bitterly lowered themselves to their knees.
Only Delphi remained standing. Her pale expression both defiant and fractured.
Then Alora commanded for the court to be dismissed, leaving only those in her party and the lords. When the doors closed behind her, she turned to Delphi.
“Queen Dowager,” Alora folded her hands. “You will return to your chambers under guard until I decide the punishment for your crimes. Any attempt to flee will be considered treason.”
The Royal Guard didn’t wait for protest.
They stepped forward at Caelum’s command and seized her arms.
Delphi turned to her frightened son. “Rihan, don’t allow this—”
“You have said enough,” Alora said. Her magic took hold of Delphi’s will, silencing her.
Stepmother.
Godmother.
Aunt.
None of those familial ties held any meaning to Alora anymore.
Delphi stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. And for a moment, there was something in her eyes that almost looked like shame.
Then she marched away, escorted by the guards as murmurs rippled in her wake.