Chapter 55 #2
“Princess,” the Archbishop scowled. “This is highly irregular. You cannot simply—”
The shadows instantly wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air.
“What is irregular, Archbishop,” Alora murmured idly. “Is your utter disregard for my standing. I am your queen.”
He stilled, his throat bobbing. “You endanger your soul, Your Majesty,” he wheezed. “This is not the will of the Seven.”
“No, it is mine.” Alora released him and he exhaled with relief, clutching his throat as he stumbled back. She turned to the others. “Make no mistake, my lords. Treason will be rewarded not only with loss of your titles and lands, but with the loss of your lives. Do not defy me again.”
The lords bowed deeper, then quickly got to their feet and left the throne room.
Once they were gone, she let herself exhale.
So did the boy on the throne.
Alora turned to her brother. Rihan’s chin trembled, hope and fear tangled like vines in his gaze.
She crouched down and smiled, her eyes softening. “It’s alright. I’m here now.”
Rihan scrambled from the throne and hugged her tightly, heavy cloak piling on the floor behind him. His eyes welled. “Please don’t Mother I asked Theia to send a letter. I didn’t want to be crowned.”
“I would never.” Alora sighed, brushing the hair from his eyes. “But they are right, Rihan. The throne is yours. I will hold it for your sake, until you are ready.”
He peeked at the imposing thing and looked no more inclined to sit in it.
“Why do they fight over a chair?” he whispered.
Alora stood and placed her hand on it, feeling the weight of its burden she would shoulder for a time. Until it was his to bear.
“Because of the power it represents,” she said softly.
“But power isn’t about ruling others. It’s the ability to protect.
To choose. To say no when the world tries to place you in a cage.
But wearing a crown doesn’t make you powerful, this does.
” She touched his chest gently. “It starts here, in your heart. In knowing who you are, and what you are willing to stand for.”
Nexus purred at Alora’s feet, appearing from another pocket of space as he liked to do.
Rihan picked him up and held the Vareth close, small knuckles white with tension. His gaze lingered on the throne, wide and uncertain. “What if…what if I never want to be king?”
“I never wanted a crown either, Rihan. But I’ve learned that sometimes, fate calls us to become exactly who we are meant to be. As it will always call on others to aid you along the way.”
Alora smiled faintly at Lord Zuma, Theia, Caelum, and the Harbingers. Then she cast a glance to the night sky, briefly thinking of Rune.
“Until one day, you will no longer fear the power you hold.”
Rihan will need help along the way, too.
She took her brother’s hand as she stood. “Caelum Basile.”
Caelum stepped forward from the lineup of guards. “Your Majesty.”
“Swear to me,” she said, voice even. “That you will guard Prince Rihan with your life.”
He knelt, fist over heart and bowed his head low. “He shall have my sword and shield … until my dying breath.”
She nodded. “Then rise, Commander of the Royal Guard.”
This time, no one was left to object.
“What comes now?” Theia asked.
Calla sighed. “There is much to be done.”
Lord Zuma grunted, large arms crossing over his chest. “Tell us what you need, Your Majesty. My herd and I are ready.”
Alora stood quiet for a beat longer, the weight of what was to come pressing into her bones. “Call on the banners and every noble House from the coast to the river plains. Argyle must prepare for war.”
Then she left the throne room with the last heir of Argyle clinging to her side. Neither of them looked back at the throne, though its weight remained. As the doors sealed behind them, something settled in her chest like the hush before a storm.
The world had named her many things: daughter, weapon, curse.
But none of them were true. Who she was would only be hers to decide.
It began with the light she denied, and in the dark she claimed for herself.
Her mother’s workroom smelled of jasmine and fresh parchment. The soft crackle of firewood in the hearth kept Alora company in the quiet space.
She stood before the tall stained-glass windows watching the coming of dawn, twisting the ruby ring around her finger.
Beyond the glass, the gray sky lightened with faint hues of pink and gold.
The city of Argyle stretched beneath her like a painting, familiar, yet distant.
She didn’t feel triumphant. Not exactly.
There was no victory song in her blood, no euphoria singing in her chest.
She felt… rooted and displaced all at once.
“You did well, your majesty,” Calla said behind her.
Alora turned. The Harbinger stepped into the room in full size, dressed again in her war leathers, braid tight, expression unreadable but edged with approval. She moved like a soldier who’d survived too many battles to offer praise lightly.
“You have successfully reclaimed your kingdom,” Calla bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I’m proud.”
Alora gave her a weary smile. “Rare praise.”
“But earned,” Calla agreed. She glanced around the room curiously, red eyes quickly taking in the dusty bookshelves, the moth-eaten settee, desk cluttered with old sketches, before landing on the spinning wheel on the corner. “Curious.”
“This was my mother’s workroom when she was alive,” Alora murmured, frowning sadly at it. “Or so Theia tells me. I don’t remember her anymore.”
Sometimes, if she was still, she caught faint fragments of her memories. A whisper of a voice. The gentle touch of a hand. Flowers dancing in the sunlight.
It’s what led her to place the crimson spindle on the spinning wheel.
It glinted now, ominously red as the ruby on her finger.
“Well, I can help with that.” Calla crossed the room and placed a small object onto Salvia’s writing desk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath glass.
The jar.
Alora’s spine stiffened, but she took a breath and let go of her reservations. She wouldn’t be ready to face her father if she couldn’t face herself.
“I’m not sure where to start,” Alora admitted.
“It is a part of you, my lady. I imagine the instinct will rise.” Calla canted her head, arching a brow at Alora’s ring. “But you have more than magic to reclaim.”
She bowed and turned to go.
“I asked Rune if he loved me…” Alora murmured.
Calla paused, arching an eyebrow. “And? Did he say no?”
She blinked at her, realizing Rune had said many things last night except that.
Calla smirked. “Rune is the founder of lies. He does so as easily as breathing, for he wears them as armor. Yet he willingly vowed to never lie to you.”
Alora frowned. “He still found ways to cleverly twist his words.”
“Of course, but if you listen carefully, you will find truth buried in them, too.”
With that, Calla slipped away and the door shut behind her with a quiet click.
Alora wrapped her arms around herself. Rune had hidden many things from her, including the part of her past he was part of. The part she didn’t remember.
Her gaze fell to the jar. Inside divine light danced like lustrous as strands of stars.
Heaven’s gift.
Her mother’s burden.
Hers.
Alora slowly approached the desk, but her hand hovered hesitantly over the jar. The siphoning had nearly killed her. Could she survive whatever past reclaiming her magic would uncover?
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Alora clenched her jaw and reached forward, fingertips grazing the cool surface of the jar. Her reflection shimmered in the glass.
This was her power.
The strands pulsed in response.
A tremor shot through her chest, sharp and hot, as the threads of magic inside the glass began to rise. They steadily blazed like a flame catching silk.
Alora stood before it, heart knocking against her ribs, hands trembling at her sides.
For days, she’d avoided it. Refused to look.
Refused to claim. But now, in the wake of curses, destiny, and blood-soaked inheritance, she saw it not as the magic that failed her, but the part of her she had cast away.
She had feared what it would show her. Of what it might awaken once it merged with the eldritch side she couldn’t deny.
But regardless of whether she was never meant to exist, even if she was born from a wish, this was what fate had called her to be.
It was time she stopped fearing her magic and herself.
Taking a breath, Alora reached out with her will and called the magic home. The jar glowed brighter, like the waking of a sleeping star. Something shook in her soul, and the light slammed into her like a riptide with a force that left her drowning.
Magic roared through her veins, pathways lighting across her skin like streaming starlight.
Her knees buckled. A scream clawed its way up Alora’s throat as a thousand sensations exploded beneath her skin. It stole her breath. Her hold on the world. Her lips parted in a gasp of pain when a force split into her head. Alora clutched her skull, her vision skewing.
Memories cascaded like a river breaking through a dam. A hand in hers beneath a violet moon. A kiss by firelight. A promise in the dark. Wind wrapping around her as she danced beneath the moon with a shadow in the dark.
The magic swept through Alora, carrying her away.
Through memory.
Through the past.
And the world bent.