The palace bells tolled for the third day in a row.
But this time, they didn't ring for judgment.
Not for a trial.
Not even for an execution.
They rang because Selene demanded it.
Not as queen.
Not as wife.
As a warning.
At the heart of Veredon, beneath skies streaked with red dawn, Selene stood alone in the Circle Courtyard, the place where royal proclamations were once whispered through veils and embroidered fans.
Not today.
Today, the stage was hers.
She wore black armor that shimmered with volcanic dust and twin pauldrons forged from melted rebel steel.
A new crown rested in her palm, raw obsidian, jagged at the edges, veined with silver flame.
Not a symbol of lineage.
A symbol of survival.
Ingrid stood nearby, scrolls clutched against her chest, waiting for orders that hadn't come.
Cassian remained absent.
He had withdrawn again, buried in silence behind stone walls and crumbling loyalty.
But Selene?
She was done waiting.
She stepped onto the raised dais.
The crowd below was silent.
Thousands had gathered, spilling into streets, onto rooftops, across balconies.
Eyes from every house.
Every rank.
Even foreign spies blending among commoners, pretending not to write every word she said.
Selene let the silence stretch.
Let it breathe.
Let them wonder if the fire was coming for them next.
Then she spoke.
"They told me I would kneel."
"To tradition. To history. To bloodlines I did not choose."
"They said the throne was a gift. A burden. A seat I should be grateful for."
"But I did not ask for a seat."
"I did not beg for their favor."
"I took it."
The wind shifted.
The crowd leaned closer.
Some in awe.
Some in terror.
But none turned away.
Selene held up the new crown.
Let the rising sun catch the glint of thorns carved into its surface.
Each one represented a house that betrayed her.
A bloodline that fell beneath her blade.
A lie she burned.
"This is not a crown forged in gold."
"It is a blade."
"And I will wear it not to rule you, but to remind you that I survived all who tried to bury me."
She placed it on her head.
The obsidian pressed into her scalp.
A single bead of blood ran down her temple.
And she let it.
Because this wasn't a coronation.
It was a funeral.
Selene spread her arms.
"Let this day be recorded not as a ceremony."
"But as a reckoning."
"From this moment forward, no god, no council, no bloodline may claim me."
"I am no longer your queen."
The crowd rippled in confusion.
Guards stiffened.
Elric reached instinctively for his blade.
Selene lifted her chin.
"I am your flame."
"And fire does not serve."
The silence shattered into applause.
Then fell into fear again.
Because only half the city cheered.
The rest… understood what she had just done.
Selene had rewritten the monarchy.
Uncrowned the gods.
Decapitated tradition.
And somewhere far beyond Veredon, in a darkened temple carved into the bones of a mountain, the Silent Throne's emissaries lit seven candles.
Each flame corresponded to a name.
Only one remained.
Selene Arlont.
The High Speaker touched the wick.
Paused.
Then whispered:
"Let her rise."
"The higher the flame, the longer the shadow."
"And the sweeter the fall."
Back in Veredon, Selene stood in the war chamber as Ingrid read the latest intercepted communique.
Another assassination attempt was being plotted.
This one from within the northern merchants' guild.
Selene didn't blink.
"Send a gift to their headmaster."
"What kind of gift?"
Selene's voice was ice.
"The tongue of the last man who lied to me."
Ingrid hesitated.
Then nodded.
Selene walked to the window.
The city burned in orange light.
Not from fire, not yet.
But from the promise of it.
That night, Cassian entered her chamber unannounced.
He stood by the door like a stranger.
No armor.
No crown.
Just grief dressed in velvet.
"You could've warned me," he said.
Selene didn't look up.
"You stopped listening."
"I don't recognize you."
Selene finally met his eyes.
"That's because I no longer belong to a version of myself you could control."
He stepped closer.
"I stood beside you through war. Through betrayal. Through fire. And you pushed me away."
"No," she said. "You stood behind me. There's a difference."
Silence.
Then:
"You really think you can do this alone?"
"I'm not alone," Selene replied.
"I have the fear of nations. The loyalty of fire. And the weight of silence watching my every move."
"And if they strike again?"
Selene's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Then I'll burn what's left of this world before I let them put a leash on me."
Cassian left without another word.
He didn't slam the door.
Didn't shout.
He just… left.
And Selene stood in the dark, her crown still dripping blood.
She did not sleep.
Instead, she walked to the royal forge, long since abandoned.
Inside, the air smelled of ash and ancient steel.
She placed her hand on the cold anvil.
And whispered:
"You broke every version of me."
"So now I'll become one you cannot hold."
She took the ceremonial scepter from the royal vault.
Brought it to the forge.
Melted it.
Recast it.
Not as a scepter.
As a blade.
Because the next time they came for her, she would not defend.
She would strike first.
By morning, the people of Veredon awoke to a new sigil etched into the palace gates.
A flame.
Encircled by thorns.
Below it, carved into stone:
She Does Not Rule. She Burns.
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