Alera did not sleep.
The Bone Court had no concept of night. No moons to rise, no stars to fade, no silence to offer rest. The sky above the palace remained eternally twilight, a spinning canvas of violet light and ancient energy that pulsed without warmth.
Her chamber was colder than the rest of the palace. Not because of the temperature but because of what it lacked. No windows. No mirrors. No colors. Just pale stone, a slab-like bed, and a basin of water that rippled even when untouched.
She sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around her middle. The child had stirred again. Not violently, not urgently, but… rhythmically.
Like a drum.
A beat.
A calling.
She pressed her palm against her belly. "I won't let him have you," she whispered. "Whatever you are… you're mine."
From the other side of the wall, something scratched.
She rose instantly, heart thudding. The sound repeated slow, deliberate. Not rats. Not wind. A pattern. Like someone dragging bone across stone.
She stepped closer to the wall.
The sound ceased.
Then, a whisper barely a breath:
"He watches you even now."
Her blood chilled.
"Who are you?" she whispered back.
The voice didn't answer directly.
Instead, it said, "Find the Mouth of Truth. The palace remembers. But it also lies."
Then silence.
She waited several heartbeats. Nothing came. The wall was smooth beneath her fingertips. No openings. No cracks.
But the words burrowed into her thoughts like roots breaking stone.
She left the room.
The halls of the Bone Court did not change visibly, yet they always felt… different. As though they shifted while you blinked. This time, she walked without direction, without intent trusting some deeper instinct. One she didn't know she had.
She passed a corridor shaped like a ribcage.
A hall of floating candles, none of which cast light.
Then she saw it.
A narrow doorway different from the others. Framed not in bone, but in obsidian. At its base was a symbol: a mouth sewn shut.
She stepped through.
Inside was a vast chamber with no ceiling. The sky loomed above black and bruised. In the center stood a pedestal, and on it, a sculpture made of stone and shadow.
A human face.
Mouth agape.
Eyes closed.
Teeth cracked.
She approached slowly.
This was not a statue.
This was a piece of someone frozen mid-scream.
Etched above it were the words:
"Speak only what you do not know."
Alera felt her throat tighten.
She reached out, fingers brushing the mouth.
A sharp pain stabbed her temple.
And suddenly visions.
She saw a girl in chains, kneeling before the Ember Throne.
A blade was at her throat.
Her eyes were Alera's eyes.
But she was not Alera.
She saw the Bone Heir young, then. Human. Surrounded by priests and kings. A crowd cheered as he raised a child in the air his child.
She saw a burning kingdom. A mother screaming. A brother torn in two.
She saw a woman's hand igniting with fire and a man of bone falling beneath her.
Then…
A vision of herself.
Crowned. Glorious. Alone.
Slaughter all around her.
And the child at her side grown. Smiling with empty eyes.
She staggered back.
The visions stopped.
The pedestal now glowed faintly.
And behind her the Bone Heir stood.
"Curiosity is a fire few survive," he said calmly.
She didn't turn. "You said I'd remember."
"I did."
"Why show me lies?"
"They are not lies," he said. "They are truths you've buried."
She turned then.
"What is this place? What are you doing to me?"
He walked forward, slow, deliberate. "This place is memory incarnate. I am not doing anything to you, Alera. You are unfolding."
"Unfolding into what?"
He stopped inches away.
"The throne did not choose you because of your strength, your blood, or your will. It chose you because you are possible."
She shook her head. "I'm not your weapon."
He smiled faintly. "Then become your own."
Later, in her chamber, she found a gift waiting.
A mirror.
The first she had seen in this realm.
Its frame was made of vertebrae. The glass shimmered not with reflection, but with motion.
She approached it, heartbeat racing.
Inside, she saw herself but not entirely.
One eye glowed golden. Her hair floated as if underwater. And her stomach pulsed like a second heart.
She reached toward it.
The mirror cracked.
That night, she dreamed.
She stood atop a battlefield.
Corpses for miles.
Kieran and Kael lay at her feet lifeless.
The Choir bowed before her.
And the Bone Heir…
He knelt.
"My Queen," he whispered.
Her hand held the crown.
And she lowered it onto her own head.
She awoke gasping.
Sweat soaked her body.
Her hands glowed faintly veins of light dancing beneath her skin.
She rose.
She needed answers.
She found her way to the palace archives.
Scrolls of skin. Tomes bound in sorrow. Whispers echoing between shelves.
There, she read.
Hours passed.
She learned of the First Throne.
Of the Line of Fire and Bone.
Of the Pact of Blood an ancient ritual where power passed not through death, but through willing inheritance.
And she found a name.
Alera the Pale.
A queen who lived thousands of years ago. One who bore the child of prophecy. One who disappeared.
Buried in myth.
Or reborn?
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She turned.
But it wasn't the Bone Heir.
It was one of the Choir.
A woman, maskless.
Her face was burned, scarred beyond recognition. But her eyes were human.
"You shouldn't be here," the woman rasped.
"Then tell me why I am," Alera said.
The woman hesitated.
Then whispered, "Because he's not trying to rule the world, my Queen. He's trying to replace it."