The rain did not fall over the capital that night. The sky simply opened its mouth and bled.
In the high tower of the palace, Queen Ravaria stood before a stone altar darkened by centuries of blood rites. Around her, the air trembled with unsung magic, the kind spoken only in the old tongue—the tongue of kings before memory.
Her robe dragged behind her, black velvet embroidered with golden serpents. At her feet lay three bound scrolls: the Edict of Succession, the Black Marriage Writ, and the Testament of Flame—all inked with lies.
"It was never supposed to be him," she whispered. "Theron was broken. He should have remained so."
Behind her, the Circle began to chant. Each voice rose like smoke, curling around the chamber. At the center of the sigil-carved floor, an obsidian urn began to stir. Ash rose from it like mist.
"By the blood of the first, by the betrayal that birthed a kingdom, rise," she intoned. Her voice cracked. The spell fought her, resisting. "Rise, King of Dust."
The ashes spiraled upward, forming the shadow of a man—faceless, cloaked, crowned in jagged obsidian.
The Dead King had returned.
Outside the Palace Walls
Thorian stood at the edge of the ravaged woodlands, staring toward the spires of the capital. Rain slicked his bare skin, and the marks on his body—those cursed symbols—glowed faintly beneath it.
Aria approached quietly, wrapped in a weather-worn cloak. Her face was pale, too still.
"You burned them," she said. "You didn't even raise a sword."
"They came for blood," he replied. "They found fire."
She didn't flinch. "That power. It isn't Vesryn. It isn't even human."
He met her gaze. "Then what am I?"
She stepped closer, brushing a finger across the sigils on his chest. Her touch was warm against the storm. "Something born of us both, I think."
He caught her wrist. Not harshly. Not possessively. But with need.
"Tell me what you remember," he said.
Her breath caught. "I remember another tower. Another crown. I remember standing above you as you knelt—bloodied, begging. I remember loving you."
His fingers tightened. "And killing me."
She nodded. "Yes."
The silence between them was deeper than storm.
He let go.
In the Capital – The Throne Room
Queen Ravaria emerged from the ritual chamber with slow, deliberate steps. The obsidian crown now rested in her arms, wrapped in bloodied silk.
The courtiers assembled below whispered in confusion. Many had not seen her in weeks. Those who did barely recognized her—drawn, pale, eyes alight with something cruel.
"The heir is false," she said.
A silence fell.
"The traitor Theron walks again in my son's skin. But the blood of true kings cannot be challenged by a revenant."
She lifted the crown.
"Tomorrow, I will name a new successor. The kingdom will not be ruled by fire and ruin."
Whispers turned to outcry.
"A bastard?" someone murmured. "A usurper?"
Ravaria smiled. "A savior."
That Night – In the Chapel Ruins
Aria stood before an altar overgrown with ivy. It was the last place Marion had been seen alive. Here, the Queen's cast-off daughter had tried to claim her place—and failed.
The stone still bore scorch marks.
Aria knelt, pressing her hand to the earth. Words, not hers, slipped from her lips:
"You died without a name. But I remember it now."
She opened the leather pouch at her belt, revealing the medallion taken from the fallen soldier—the Firstborn of Crows.
"You were one of us. You were mine."
Behind her, Thorian approached. She didn't turn.
"She's going to raise something," Aria said softly. "Not someone."
"Then we end it before it wakes."
She stood. "We ride before dawn."
He nodded. "Together."
Their hands touched, not as prince and noblewoman, nor as soul-bound enemies—but as equals, standing on the brink.
And the wind that stirred around them carried the scent of ash—and war.
End of Chapter 10