Page 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

SERAPHINE

T he wind howled through the broken arches of Skyforged as dawn bled into the stone like fire across frost. Seraphine stood at the altar, ink-dark sky burning out to pale ash behind her. The ancient beacon in the center of the ruins waited—untouched, unlit, forgotten by time and blood alike.

All she had to do was finish the seal. Light it. Send the call to the remaining Houses.

But she never got the chance.

The shadows behind her moved, and the temperature dropped like someone had dragged the Veil itself into the room.

“You were never good at staying in line,” came her father’s voice.

Seraphine turned.

Lord Drakar stood at the top of the broken stairway like a blade carved from obsidian. Robes dark, embroidered in threads that shimmered like ash in firelight. No crown. He didn’t need one. His presence said enough.

Two steps behind him—Vaela. Smiling.

Of course.

“Father,” Seraphine said, voice like stone, flat and cool.

“Daughter.” His gaze swept her, slow and measured. “You’ve made quite a mess.”

“I’m not cleaning it up.”

“Is that your final stance?”

She stepped down from the altar. “I’m not your pawn anymore.”

Something flickered in his eyes—mockery, maybe. Or irritation. The kind reserved for a child refusing orders.

“I raised you for more than this,” he said, stepping closer. “You are the future of Drakar.”

“No,” she said. “I was your insurance policy. A weapon you dressed up in silk and steel.”

He stopped within reach, but didn’t touch her. “You’ve aligned yourself with a danger.”

“His name is Cassian.”

“He’s a storm.” His voice tightened. “And storms destroy.”

“He saved me,” she spat. “More times than I can count. He bled for this realm. For me.”

“Because he wants it for himself.”

“No,” she said, eyes blazing. “Because he wants me to live. Free. Whole. Not shackled by your damn legacy.”

That struck something deep. The mask cracked. Just a flicker.

“You think you know sacrifice?” he said, voice low now. Threatening. “I gave up everything for Drakar’s survival. And I’ll burn it all again to stop what’s coming.”

“Then we’re already lost,” she whispered.

A pause. Then a breath—too calm, too cold. Vaela stepped forward from behind Lord Drakar like she’d been waiting in the wings of a play.

“I tried to warn you, cousin,” she said smoothly, her voice dipped in mock sympathy. “You’re too soft for war.”

Seraphine didn’t flinch. “And you’re too eager for the end.”

Vaela’s lips curved upward, a serpent’s smile. “I’m not the one who consorted with Hollowborn.”

The words hit like a slap. Seraphine blinked, her mouth parting.

“What?” Her voice cracked with disbelief.

Her gaze darted to her father. Waiting for denial. Fury. Any hint of shock.

But his face didn’t change.

That stillness. That silence.

It was the worst answer of all.

“You knew,” she whispered. “Gods. You knew.”

Her father finally moved—only to tilt his chin.

“Vaela was doing what needed to be done,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing trade routes. “To ensure Drakar’s supremacy.”

“You let her speak with Mirael?” Her voice rose. “You let her open the gate?”

“I guided her,” Vaela interjected coolly, stepping closer. “Mirael offered knowledge. A way to wield the Hollow. Not fear it.”

“You didn’t wield it,” Seraphine snapped. “You fed it.”

Her hands trembled, not from fear. But fury.

From her fingers, sparks flared—Whitefire.

The ancient flame licked up her arms, pure and bright and searing, unlike anything she’d ever summoned before.

The world seemed to freeze.

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t control that.”

“No,” she whispered, voice breaking with something deeper. “But maybe it’s time I stop trying.”

The flame surged—up her shoulders, her spine, blazing into a corona around her. It didn’t hurt. It remembered.

So did she.

Every queen before her. Every betrayal. Every secret buried by her House to preserve a legacy built on blood and lies.

Whitefire bloomed from her back like wings.

“Seraphine—” her father warned, his voice cutting now, his hand reaching for the hilt at his side.

But he was already too late.

She screamed, and the Whitefire answered.

It erupted from her like a star collapsing—brilliant, endless, devouring. It scorched the dais, the air, the very breath in her throat. Wind howled. The sky cracked.

Her father flew backward, smashing into a stone column with a sickening crunch.

Vaela screamed—caught in the blast, her body thrown to the floor, fire wrapping around her wrists and throat like shackles.

She writhed, clawed, tried to shift. But her shadow twitched wrong, peeled from her form like rot from skin.

“You let it in,” Seraphine growled, advancing on her. Whitefire seared the floor with every step. “You let Mirael inside you.”

Vaela’s body jerked. She clawed at her face, her throat. “No—she said—she said she’d help us?—”

“She lied. And you believed her.” Seraphine’s voice shook with grief and rage. “You betrayed me. You betrayed all of us.”

The Whitefire around Vaela pulsed—then lashed. A final strike wrenched something black and hissing from her chest. A memory—no, a fragment of something worse. It screamed as it was pulled free, flailing in the firelight before it was consumed.

Silence.

Vaela crumpled, unconscious, her skin ash-pale.

Seraphine turned slowly.

Her father was still on his knees, blood trailing from his mouth, one arm limp at his side.

But it wasn’t pain on his face.

It was fear.

It was as if he didn’t recognize her. Like the daughter he’d raised to carry on his name had become something else entirely.

“You’ve doomed us,” he rasped.

Seraphine’s heart cracked, but her voice didn’t waver. “No. You did. When you decided your legacy was more important than your people. When you chose fear over faith. Control over courage.”

“You don’t understand,” he croaked. “What I’ve sacrificed?—”

She shook her head, stepping away. “No. You sacrificed everyone else. And called it duty.”

Whitefire pulsed one final time, then vanished. The silence it left behind was almost louder.

Seraphine stumbled, breath catching.

Her father didn’t rise.

She didn’t check if he would. Instead, she turned back to the beacon. Lifted her hand.

Let the raw power inside her—Drakar-born, fire-forged, defiant and pure—spark against the old runes carved into stone.

The call ignited.

A flare split the sky—silver and white, fierce as vengeance, hot as promise. It burned like a beacon, brighter than any dawn, casting long shadows over the broken stone and fractured past behind her.

A summons.

Not to parley.

To war.

Seraphine didn’t look at her father. Didn’t offer him mercy. Just the truth, sharp as any blade.

“If I were you,” she said, her voice a whip crack over the ruin, “I’d start digging a grave for your lies. Because I’m about to bring the truth down on this kingdom like fire from the gods.”

She didn’t know if her threat was enough to make him retreat, but if he tested her, her father would find out soon that it was a promise. And Seraphine could not be controlled. Not anymore.

The wind ripped at her cloak, tangled through her hair, but she stood steady—anchored in fury, in memory, in fire.

She was flame, legacy, and she was done asking.

Blood slicked her palms. Whitefire smoldered behind her eyes. And she didn’t glance back.

Not at the man who’d used her name like armor for his ambition.

Not at the cousin who’d bartered their blood for shadowed promises.

There was nothing for her in the ashes of their legacy.

Only one path remained.

Forward.

Toward the Hollow. Toward Cassian. Toward whatever salvation or ruin waited at the end of this fight.

If the Houses didn’t answer?

She’d burn the gates down herself.