The wind over Verdane carried a different song now—one of silence, of waiting. From high towers to hidden alleyways, all eyes turned to the palace.
At dawn, the crown would rise again.
But not all waited in peace.
In the Moonlight Cloister, Elira stood before the glass mirror that had once belonged to her mother. Her reflection was bare—no jewels, no veil, just the quiet fire behind her eyes.
Meira entered, arms full of folded silk and gold-threaded robes. "They expect a queen dressed like the sun," she murmured.
"I'd rather be dressed like fire," Elira replied. "It burns longer."
Meira's smile faltered. "Are you ready?"
Elira met her gaze. "No. But I am willing."
---
In the council chamber, Lucien spoke with the High Priest, who trembled even beneath his sacred stole.
"She's not been anointed," the man protested. "Tradition demands—"
Lucien's voice cut through. "Tradition also demanded she be executed. That didn't stop her from returning with the Flame of Theralyn."
"She defies the Book of Twelve."
Lucien leaned in. "Then perhaps the book is wrong."
---
Outside the palace gates, Cael stood watching the carriages arrive.
Lords. Emissaries. Foreign spies dressed as dignitaries.
He wore no crest now—only black. But his sword was visible at his hip.
Matron Neria stood beside him. "You could leave."
Cael's jaw clenched. "And leave her unguarded on the day she becomes untouchable?"
"She has Lucien."
"I am not guarding her body," he said. "I'm guarding her memory."
---
At high noon, the bells rang.
Elira stepped into the Hall of Flame, where generations of Verdane rulers had taken the oath. She wore a gown the color of ash, with the Theralyn sigil—a phoenix rising from a crown—stitched in molten gold across her chest.
Gasps greeted her.
The nobles bowed reluctantly. Commoners pressed forward at the railings, unsure whether to cheer or curse.
Lucien stood at the foot of the dais. His presence was like stone—unshakable, unmoved.
She walked past him.
To the throne.
The High Priest cleared his throat. "Elira of House Verdane, do you swear—"
She raised a hand. "No."
The silence was deafening.
"I will not swear allegiance to a crown that once ordered my death. I will not kneel to a council that sold its soul for power."
Panic flickered across the priest's face.
"I will not rule as the queen they expect," she said, her voice rising. "I will reign as the phoenix that rose from their ashes."
Then, without waiting, she took the crown in her hands—fire-gilded, heavy with stolen history—and placed it on her own head.
The flames in the brazier surged.
A shockwave rippled outward.
Every candle in the hall flared to life.
The phoenix had crowned herself.
---
After the ceremony, Lucien found her alone in the balcony, wind threading through her hair.
"You scared them," he said softly.
"Good."
"You crowned yourself."
"I won't apologize."
He touched the base of her neck. "I didn't ask you to."
They stood in silence. Then he whispered, "Do you regret not choosing him?"
Her heart paused.
Then: "No. I loved Cael before I knew what love required. But I choose you, Lucien. Again and again."
He nodded, and in that moment, something in him softened—like snow melting beneath a long-held winter.
"Then choose me now," he said, voice husky.
She kissed him—slow, searing.
There was no court left to watch. No fire left to fear.
Only two souls, stripped of duty, claiming something rare.
Peace.
---
Far below the palace, in the crypts no one dared visit, Cael knelt before an empty sarcophagus.
He whispered the old vow of the Order of Flame.
> "I burn. I bleed. I return."
Then he drew his sword and placed it at the altar.
"I am no longer yours, curse or not."
Matron Neria appeared behind him. "You're letting go."
"I am setting us both free."
"She never asked you to stay."
"But she deserved to have the choice," Cael replied. "Now she does."