The road to the capital was a lie.
There were no smooth cobbles, no merchant caravans offering safe passage, no laughing travelers trading songs for bread under twilight skies. What maps called "roads" were really scars across the land—rutted, broken, and littered with dangers both human and inhuman.
Eritrea and Ronan never walked the road.
They walked beneath it.
Three days had passed since the Elderwood. Three days of crawling through half-collapsed tunnels, sleeping on wet stone, and dodging the occasional shiftling—blind, rat-like creatures that fed on echoes and blood. The ash tunnels, as Ronan had called them, were a forgotten network of escape routes and smugglers' veins carved beneath the kingdom centuries ago—long before Ronan's father wore a crown.
And though they were treacherous, they were safe. Or safer than anything above ground.
They emerged one grey morning into the remains of what looked like a broken church, deep in a ruined valley hidden by fog and bramble. Ivy curled through shattered stained-glass windows, and fractured pillars leaned at drunken angles. Nature had claimed the structure, but Eritrea could feel something pulsing beneath the ruin—like history trying to breathe again.
"Where are we?" she asked, brushing dirt from her tunic as Ronan eased himself down onto a cracked altar stone.
"The Church of Light's Fall," he said, coughing slightly. "Old gods were buried here after the War of Flame. It's abandoned now, but close enough to the capital to be our last stop before we surface."
Eritrea turned slowly, taking in the remnants of murals on the walls—faded images of fire, wings, and figures with halos bound in chains. Her eyes locked on one carving in particular: a woman with red hair and silver eyes, standing between a lion and a serpent, holding out her hands to stop a burning city from falling.
"Who is she?" Eritrea asked.
Ronan followed her gaze, eyes narrowing. "That's Saint Caelora. She tried to end the Flame War with peace. Was executed for treason instead."
Eritrea traced the edge of the carving with her fingers. "She looks like me."
"You're not the first to say that."
"What do you mean?"
He hesitated. "There were rumors… years ago. That the Saint had descendants. Hidden ones. My father had every known bloodline tested. All came back clean."
"And mine?"
"You were never tested," he said. "Because your name wasn't on any record. Because you didn't exist."
Not officially.
Not legally.
But now—she did.
"Do you think your father knows?" she asked. "About me?"
"I think," Ronan said slowly, "he suspects something. And I think he's looking for proof."
He didn't say what would happen when that proof arrived. He didn't have to.
Eritrea sat beside him, brushing her hands against the moss that had overtaken the altar. "This world worships liars and forgets those who speak the truth."
Ronan nodded. "That's how crowns are made."
They sat in silence for a while, the distant hum of wind through cracked stone like a lullaby sung by ghosts.
Eventually, Eritrea spoke again.
"There's something strange about the tunnels."
"What?"
"They're not empty. Not really."
She stood and crossed to the back wall, where a passage—almost hidden—descended deeper into shadow. Her torch barely lit the stairs beyond, but the air that drifted up was warm and scented with burnt parchment.
Ronan frowned. "That passage wasn't there last time."
"I don't think it was meant to be found… unless I wore the ring."
"But the ring's gone."
"Maybe. But the mark remains."
She held up her hand. The skin where the ring had been was faintly discolored, a soft line of glowing silver just beneath the surface—barely noticeable, but unmistakably unnatural.
"The stone awakened something in me," she said. "I feel… pulled."
"Then let's see where it leads."
Eritrea hesitated.
This wasn't on the path. This wasn't part of any plan. But then again, nothing had been since the night Ronan fell through her roof.
She descended first, torch held high.
The stairs wound downward, slick with moss and soot, until the air grew warmer, then hotter. Ronan followed close behind, each step echoing like a heartbeat.
At the bottom, they stepped into a vast cavern—one that didn't look like any natural formation. The walls were carved smooth. Lanterns hung from rusted iron chains, though none burned.
And in the center stood a circular platform, etched with ancient glyphs.
Eritrea's torch flickered—and died.
But the platform glowed.
A soft white light, pulsing with quiet rhythm. It responded not to touch, but to presence.
To her.
Ronan breathed in sharply. "This is… old magic."
"Pre-crown," Eritrea whispered. "Before kings. Before palaces. This was here before your family ever rose."
She stepped onto the platform.
The light intensified, rushing upward in a silent column—and then—
Vision.
She stood in a city made of white stone, towers spiraling toward the sun, rivers flowing with molten silver. A woman stood on a balcony—her. But older. Crowned. Alone.
A voice echoed in the air: "The throne is not your destiny, Windborn. The ruin is."
Then the vision shattered.
Eritrea stumbled backward, heart racing. Ronan caught her just in time.
"What did you see?" he asked.
She looked up at him, breathless.
"My future," she whispered. "And the end of everything."
Eritrea sat on the stone floor of the ancient chamber, knees pulled to her chest, trying to steady her breath. The vision had vanished, but its imprint lingered—like smoke curling through her mind.
The city she had seen wasn't just grand—it was impossible. Towers that glowed like moonlight, roads made of stardust, rivers that flowed uphill. And her own face, aged by time but not sorrow, gazing down upon it all with a gaze cold as winter steel. She hadn't looked noble.
She had looked… alone.
And the voice—
"The throne is not your destiny, Windborn. The ruin is."
It kept echoing, twisting the air even in silence.
Ronan watched her carefully from the edge of the platform. His sword—now returned to his side—was unsheathed slightly, as if expecting something else to rise from the stone.
When Eritrea finally looked up, her eyes had changed. Not in color—but in depth. Like someone who had seen the ending of a story long before the first chapter was written.
"It was a memory," she said. "Or a prophecy. I can't tell."
"Of what?" he asked.
"Of what comes after I take the throne."
Ronan's jaw tensed. "So you do believe it now?"
"I don't want to," she said softly. "But that vision—it wasn't hope. It was a warning. A throne that stands alone, a city too perfect to last."
"Did you see me there?"
She hesitated. "No."
A long silence passed.
"Good," Ronan said quietly. "Because I don't think I'll live that long."
Eritrea frowned. "Don't say that."
"I'm bleeding inside. Slowly. The blade that cut me was poisoned, laced with Fadevine. I didn't want to worry you before."
"You are worrying me," she said sharply.
He gave a small smile. "That's your job now. Future queen and all."
She stood abruptly and paced the chamber, hands clenched. "There must be a cure. There has to be.*"
"There is," he said. "But it's not in any apothecary or healer's tent. It's in the capital."
"Where?"
"In the Royal Conservatory," he said. "My uncle—he kept a vault there. Filled with remedies, herbs, and vials from every corner of the world. Including Fadevine reversal agents. But the conservatory is now sealed. Guarded."
"Then we'll break in."
He arched an eyebrow. "You say that like it's simple."
"Compared to everything else we've survived? It is."
He laughed despite the pain. "You haven't even been to the surface side of the capital."
"No," she said, walking back toward him. "But I know someone who has."
Ronan blinked. "Who?"
"I grew up hearing stories. Traders, smugglers, fugitive monks—all passing through Derenval. One of them used to talk about a man called Graylock. Said he ran the undercity."
Ronan froze. "That's a name you don't speak lightly."
"Then it's the right one."
"He's a ghost. A myth. Some say he used to sit on the High Council. Others say he was once a king who gave up his crown to become a shadow."
Eritrea crouched in front of him. "Either way, I'm going to find him. If there's anyone who can break us into the conservatory, it's Graylock."
Ronan looked at her like she had grown wings and fire.
"You realize you're planning a royal vault break, through tunnels haunted by the Blackguard, to steal from a kingdom you technically own a blood right to?"
She smiled thinly. "Sounds about right."
He exhaled, nodding. "Then we'll need disguises. Safehouses. Maps of the new walls. The city has changed in five years. Nothing is where it once was."
"Then we'll learn fast."
They exited the chamber in silence, but the warmth of the old place clung to them—like memory. As they ascended the stairs, Eritrea could feel something shift behind her. Not physically—but spiritually. The platform had branded her, not with flame or fire, but knowledge.
She didn't yet understand what she had become. Only that it was bigger than royalty.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of the capital.
The city of Haldrath rose from the valley like a dying god refusing to fall—towers chipped and smoke-stained, walls rebuilt over crumbling ruins, and the golden spires of the palace rising from the heart like a blade piercing the sky. Banners of deep crimson fluttered across the parapets, each marked with the sigil of the reigning king: the twin lions.
But from this distance, the palace didn't gleam.
It glared.
"We can't go through the gates," Ronan said. "They'll have your face by now. Sketches, posters, every checkpoint alert."
"Then we don't use gates," Eritrea replied. "We go through the graveyard."
Ronan stared at her. "You're serious."
"There's a crypt beneath the Old Quarter. The priests call it the 'Throat of Dust.' It leads to the catacombs—and the catacombs lead to the undercity."
"And you know this… how?"
"I paid attention to the wrong kinds of stories as a child."
Ronan shook his head, chuckling. "You are going to get me killed."
"You already did that to yourself," she teased.
And then her smile vanished.
A horse galloped past in the distance.
Not just any rider—a royal courier, bearing a scroll sealed in gold.
"Where's he going?" Ronan asked, narrowing his eyes.
"To deliver news," Eritrea said.
But in her gut, she knew what that scroll carried.
An announcement.
A bounty.
A name written in ink and blood.
Hers.
The crypt was older than the capital itself.
It lay sunken behind the ruins of an abandoned chapel in the city's outskirts, partially buried beneath rubble and time. Most people didn't even know it existed. Those who did pretended otherwise. The "Throat of Dust," as it was once called in whisper and superstition, had a reputation older than the crown: those who entered seeking fortune or passage rarely returned whole. Or at all.
Eritrea stood before the cracked stone steps that led downward, her torch flickering in the growing dusk.
Ronan stood beside her, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane fashioned from a snapped bannister. His skin had grown paler over the last day, but he never once complained. She admired that. She hated it too.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
She nodded. "This tunnel connects to the old catacombs. From there, we slip beneath the outer walls and into the undercity."
"And then we find Graylock."
"And then we steal from the kingdom."
He gave a dry laugh. "Just a typical royal rebellion."
Eritrea descended first. Each step down felt colder than the last. The air was thick with mildew and old incense, like the breath of something long buried. Her torch lit the space ahead in flashes—revealing crumbling statues, decayed offerings, and names etched into every wall.
Some she recognized from her mother's stories.
Others… she swore she saw move.
"Don't look too long at the writing," she warned.
"Why?" Ronan asked.
"Because it looks back."
They walked in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the distant trickle of water from unseen cracks.
Half an hour in, the path split.
To the left: a wider, more worn tunnel.
To the right: a narrow crawlway, recently disturbed—dirt shifted, stones pulled aside.
Eritrea knelt to examine the prints. "Someone's been here recently."
Ronan frowned. "Which way leads to the undercity?"
"Left. But the recent trail goes right."
"Could be Graylock," he offered.
"Or someone looking for him."
She made a choice. "We follow the new trail."
Ronan hesitated. "You sure?"
"No. But we're not the only ones moving in the dark. And if someone knows a shortcut to Graylock, we need it."
They crawled into the narrow tunnel, backs scraping against rock. The air was hotter here, metallic. Eritrea's torch guttered in the dampness but held on.
Suddenly, a voice echoed from ahead.
Low. Male. Confident.
"Don't turn around. And don't lie."
Eritrea froze. Ronan stiffened behind her.
They emerged into a small stone chamber—round, unmarked, empty but for a single hooded figure seated on an overturned sarcophagus. A candle flickered beside him, illuminating only his mouth and jawline.
"You've come far," he said. "Too far for comfort."
Eritrea raised her dagger instinctively.
The man chuckled. "If I meant harm, your blood would already be part of the stone."
Ronan spoke, voice cold. "Graylock?"
The man tilted his head. "That depends. What does a half-dead prince and a girl with a mark she doesn't yet understand want from a myth?"
Eritrea stepped forward. "We need your help breaking into the Royal Conservatory."
He laughed. "Of course you do."
Ronan narrowed his eyes. "We'll pay."
"You already have," Graylock said, standing slowly. "You broke the seal at Elderwood. You shattered the balance. You woke more than just memories."
Eritrea's mouth went dry. "You know."
"I felt it," he said. "Everyone in the deep did. Old blood hums louder than steel."
He stepped forward, cloak shifting. Eritrea saw now that his right arm was silver—not armor, but forged flesh—crafted magic, living metal laced with veins of blue.
"You carry the last name of Seren in your blood," Graylock said. "And you seek to use it."
"I don't seek the throne."
He raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because thrones always take more than they give."
"We want the Fadevine cure," Ronan said. "From your old vault."
Graylock's smile faded. "That vault was sealed with blood rites. Mine. My brother's. And my father's. Only one of us lives."
Eritrea stepped forward. "Then open it."
He stared at her.
She didn't flinch.
Finally, he nodded. "There's a tunnel from here. It leads to the vault, but the path is guarded—not by men, but by something far worse."
"What?" Ronan asked.
"The memories of kings," Graylock said simply. "Trapped in stone. They speak lies. They show truths. They twist."
"I've already seen a vision," Eritrea said. "A possible future. It didn't kill me."
"It wasn't meant to," he replied. "But the next one might be."
He walked toward the far wall and tapped a pattern into the stone with his silver hand. The rock rumbled and opened, revealing a narrow corridor lit by flickering green fire.
"Follow me," he said. "But understand this: once you pass through the Mirror Hall, you'll never see yourself the same way again."
Eritrea met Ronan's eyes.
"We're running out of time," she said. "Let's go."
And together, they followed the myth into the madness.
The corridor twisted downward like a spiral carved by giants, its walls shifting subtly as if breathing with invisible lungs. The green flames that lit the way burned cold, casting warped shadows that followed Eritrea and Ronan like ghosts unsure of their allegiance.
Graylock moved ahead without hesitation, silent, his silver hand occasionally grazing the wall—each time lighting up a rune or causing the stone to pulse. He didn't explain. He didn't need to. The path was his.
Eritrea kept pace despite the rising pressure in her chest. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was memory—hers, and not hers. Every step deeper into the vault stirred something ancient in her bones. A rhythm she had never learned but somehow knew.
Beside her, Ronan struggled to breathe. His lips were pale, sweat beading down his temples. The Fadevine was worsening.
"We need to hurry," she whispered to Graylock.
"No one hurries through what comes next," he replied. "Run through it, and you're lost. Listen too long, and you'll drown."
They reached a narrow arch carved with symbols of lions and serpents entwined in endless battle. Beyond it was a domed chamber filled with broken mirrors—shards suspended in air like stars caught mid-fall.
"The Mirror Hall," Graylock announced, his voice a hush.
"What is this place?" Eritrea asked.
"A test. A truth. A trap."
"Will it kill us?"
"Only if you refuse to see."
He stepped aside. "You go alone. Both of you. I wait beyond."
Eritrea's hand reached for Ronan's instinctively, but he shook his head. "I'll go first."
"No. I will."
He met her gaze. There was no use arguing. She was already walking forward.
The moment Eritrea stepped into the Mirror Hall, the air snapped shut behind her. The floating shards began to vibrate, their edges shimmering with impossible light. Each piece held a reflection—but not the present. Not her.
Her as a child, eyes hollow from hunger.
Her as a warrior, clad in white armor, bathed in blood.
Her as a queen, seated on a throne of ash, alone.
Her, dead in a gutter. Stabbed. Forgotten.
"No," she whispered. "These aren't me."
A shard pulsed brighter.
Her, laughing with people she didn't recognize. A boy with green eyes. A sister? A handmaid?
Her knees shook. The reflections weren't just images. They were possible lives. Choices not yet made. Wounds not yet received. Dreams she hadn't dared dream.
Then a voice spoke.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just hers.
"You are not ready."
Eritrea closed her eyes. "I never will be."
"But you walk anyway," the voice said.
"Yes."
Another shard began to glow, golden light pouring from it like sunlight through tears.
In it, she saw her mother—Serenya—standing beside a woman in armor she didn't know. Both of them stared at a map of the kingdom, lines drawn through it like scars.
"You were supposed to end this cycle," Serenya said. "Not continue it."
Eritrea walked toward the vision.
"I didn't ask to be born," she said aloud. "But I was. And I'm not running from that anymore."
With that, the shard shattered—silently—and the others dimmed.
The way forward opened.
She stepped through.
Ronan followed after. His passage was different—quieter. The mirrors didn't shake. But when he emerged, his eyes were wet, and he didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Graylock stood before a final gate now. It was carved from obsidian and blood-iron, thrumming like a heart. His silver hand reached out, touching three glyphs in sequence.
The door cracked open with a hiss.
Inside was a vault like none Eritrea had imagined. No dust. No ruin. Just rows upon rows of shelves, perfectly preserved. Crates sealed with wax. Potions glowing softly in floating flasks. Weapons wrapped in velvet. Books chained to their pedestals.
"Your cure," Graylock said to Ronan, gesturing toward the center shelf.
Ronan limped forward and took a vial marked with the red roots of the Fadevine.
He drank it in silence.
And his breathing eased.
Color returned to his cheeks.
He stood straighter.
Eritrea didn't smile—but relief bloomed in her chest like warmth in winter.
Graylock turned to her. "There are things here meant only for you."
He pointed toward a black box set high on a crystal stand.
Eritrea approached. The box didn't have a lock. It didn't need one.
She touched it.
The lid opened.
Inside lay three things:
A silver circlet shaped like entwined feathers and fire.
A scroll bound in star-thread.
A dagger with the Seren sigil and a word etched into the blade: Truth.
She took the scroll first.
As she opened it, Graylock whispered behind her:
"That is the map to the hidden throne. The one beneath the throne you see."
Ronan frowned. "There's another throne?"
"No," Graylock said. "There is the real throne."
Eritrea stared at the map.
Lines twisted beneath the capital. Circles marked vaults, tombs, and one—deepest of all—marked with a single word:
WINDTHRONE.
Ronan's voice was barely a breath. "What is that?"
Eritrea answered, her voice quiet but clear.
"Where this all began."