“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 saynowhen 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.”
