The bell in the northern spire rang thrice—long, sharp, and cold.
Elira stepped through the palace gates as though returning from a brief walk in the garden. In truth, she returned from death, from war, from the very bones of forgotten memory.
Now, dressed in her old court robes with the new crown resting faintly above her brow, she was no longer merely a duke's cursed daughter.
She was a reckoning.
"Seraphina!" The chamberlain's voice broke the hush as she entered the main hall. "The Inner Court has summoned you. They say your return breaches ancient law."
"Then let them try and enforce it," she replied calmly.
Lucien followed two steps behind her. He wore a dark cloak and silent eyes, but his presence was like a sword drawn beneath velvet.
Together, they entered the Council of Elders—twelve lords and ladies seated in a crescent, silver rings upon their fingers. Behind them hung the banners of the founding families, and in the center, a polished floor where judgments were passed and thrones were denied.
Elira stopped before them, chin high.
Duke Yvarin, the oldest among them, narrowed his eyes. "Seraphina Elira Virelle. The cursed girl. You vanished for seven years and now walk through our gates wearing a relic of the Ancients. Are we to believe this is anything short of treason?"
"Treason?" she echoed. "I have committed no betrayal. Unless reclaiming a title stolen from my bloodline offends your delicate balance."
"Your father declared you dead."
"And he's dead now," she replied softly. "So are many who followed him."
Gasps flitted through the room. The lady in green—the Marquess of Therin—leaned forward.
"You return with strange power and stranger allies. What is it you want?"
Elira smiled.
"I want the truth unburied. I want the council records opened. I want the secrets sealed behind stone and blood to be brought into daylight."
"That is dangerous," another elder muttered.
Lucien stepped beside her then. "You fear danger because it exposes your weakness."
The room stiffened.
Duke Yvarin slammed his cane on the floor. "Silence! This chamber will not be turned into theater."
"It already is," Elira said, voice cool. "You wear masks of civility while hiding knives. But I am not here to entertain your guilt. I'm here to end it."
She stepped forward and placed a scroll onto the judgment altar.
"What is this?"
"The ledger from the Binding Chamber. My curse wasn't mine alone—it was shared, inherited, perpetuated. And this proves you knew."
Gasps turned to murmurs.
The Council looked at one another, old secrets suddenly alive beneath their robes.
"And if we refuse to act?" the Marquess asked.
Elira's tone sharpened. "Then I will not need your throne. I will become your storm."
A silence deeper than fear spread across the chamber.
Duke Yvarin's voice lowered. "You speak like a queen."
"I speak like a woman who remembers everything."
They had no immediate reply. One by one, they stood.
"We will deliberate," Yvarin said finally. "Until then, you are confined to the South Wing. Your movements will be watched."
Elira bowed slightly. "Of course. And may your deliberation not summon the ghosts I've already met."
That night, back in the South Wing, Elira stared from her balcony. The moon glinted off the crown beside her, casting shadows across the stone.
Lucien joined her. "You didn't back down."
"I never intended to."
"Do you think they'll accept the truth?"
She looked up at the stars. "They don't have to. Truth doesn't ask for permission."
Behind them, a knock echoed.
A young maid entered, trembling. "My lady, someone left this…"
She held out a black envelope. Wax sealed. Crimson-stamped with an unfamiliar sigil.
Elira broke it open.
Inside, a single line:
"He wakes. And he remembers you."
Her blood turned cold.
Lucien read over her shoulder. "Who is 'he'?"
Elira didn't speak for a moment.
Then, softly: "The one I betrayed. The first love I forgot to save."
The wind picked up. The candle flickered out.