The explosion shattered the stillness of dawn.
A blast of fire and stone erupted from the eastern wing of the palace, sending a shockwave through the capital. Windows shattered. Birds scattered. The ground trembled.
Lucien was already running before the second tremor hit.
Maren was at his side, barefoot, her robe trailing behind her like smoke.
Guards were shouting. Bells were ringing. The scent of ash and blood filled the air.
And in the chaos, one thing was clear:
This was no accident.
This was a message.
---
By midday, the fire was contained.
But the damage was done.
Three guards dead.
Two servants missing.
And carved into the scorched marble of the courtyard, in jagged, blackened letters:
> You crowned peace too soon.
Lucien stood over the words, his jaw clenched, his fists bloodied from pulling rubble barehanded.
Maren approached quietly. "This wasn't Seraphina."
"No," Lucien said. "This was someone else."
"Someone inside."
He nodded.
And for the first time since Kael left, Lucien felt the weight of the crown press down like a blade.
---
In the dungeons, Seraphina smiled.
She hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
But when the guards came running, she looked up from her cot and whispered:
> "Told you."
---
Back in Virelyn, Kael and Elara were walking through the market, hand in hand, when the raven arrived.
The message was sealed in black wax.
Kael broke it open.
Read it once.
Then again.
Elara watched his face pale.
"What is it?" she asked.
He handed her the note.
She read the words aloud.
> The palace has been attacked. Three dead. Two missing. The fire breathes. Return at once.
Her heart dropped.
Kael looked at her.
"I should go."
She nodded. "We should go."
---
–
The letter arrived in a box of polished obsidian.
No seal.
No insignia.
Just a single scroll tied with crimson ribbon and the faint scent of myrrh and steel.
Lucien unrolled it slowly, his eyes scanning the words once, then again.
Maren watched from across the room, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.
"Well is it a letter from the person who attacked us?" she asked.
Lucien's jaw tightened. "No It's from King Ravean of Rithmar."
Maren blinked. "Rithmar? The trade kingdom?"
Lucien nodded. "The only realm with a monopoly on the northern ports. They control the sea routes, the spice roads, and half the continent's gold."
"And what does he want?"
Lucien looked up.
"Lyria."
---
Rithmar.
A kingdom of wealth and diplomacy, known for its opulent cities carved into cliffside harbors and its unmatched naval fleet. They rarely involved themselves in war—but when they did, they didn't lose.
King Ravean was young.
Unmarried.
And ruthless.
He had never met Elara.
Had never seen her face.
But he had heard the stories.
Of the queen who stood unshaken while her enemies burned.
Of the woman who ruled with both fire and grace.
And now, he wanted her.
Not for love.
But for legacy.
---
Lucien stormed into the war chamber, the scroll clenched in his fist.
The council fell silent as he threw it onto the table.
"Read it," he said.
They did.
And when they finished, no one spoke.
Because the message was clear.
King Ravean of Rithmar formally requested the hand of Queen Lyria in marriage.
Not as a gesture of peace.
But as a claim.
A challenge.
A warning.
---
In the dungeons, Dorian sat in silence, his wrists bound, his eyes hollow.
He had once dreamed of the crown.
Had once believed it was his by right.
But now, behind bars, he had nothing.
Nothing but regret.
And the knowledge that someone else had picked up the sword he dropped.
---
Back in Virelyn, Kael and Elara were preparing to return when the second raven arrived.
Kael read the letter.
Then handed it to Elara.
She read it slowly.
Then again.
Then laughed.
A cold, sharp sound.
"He doesn't even know what I look like," she said.
Kael's voice was low. "He doesn't care. He wants the symbol. The myth."
She met his eyes. "Then let's remind him I'm not a myth."
Kael nodded.
And for the first time in weeks, he reached for his sword.
---
The gates of the capital opened at dusk.
Kael and Elara rode in side by side, cloaks dusted with the golden dirt of Virelyn, their faces unreadable. The city had gathered in silence, lining the streets not with cheers—but with questions.
Why had the palace burned?
Why had the bells rung?
Why had the queen been summoned home?
And who was this Ravean of Rithmar?
---
Lucien met them at the palace steps, his expression carved from stone.
Kael dismounted first. "Report."
Lucien handed him the scroll. "He's not subtle."
Kael read the letter again, though he had memorized every word from the raven's message.
> *To the Crown of Thorne,
>
> I write not as a rival, but as a suitor.
>
> Your queen has captured the admiration of my court, my people, and my curiosity.
>
> I propose a union. A merging of our realms. A future of prosperity.
>
> I await your answer.
>
> —King Ravean of Rithmar*
Kael's jaw clenched. "He doesn't even know her."
Lucien nodded. "He doesn't care. He knows what she represents."
Elara stepped forward. "And what's that?"
Lucien looked at her. "Power. Stability. Legend."
She exhaled. "So I'm a prize."
"To him, yes," Kael said. "But not to me."
---
That night, the council convened.
The chamber was tense.
The nobles argued for diplomacy.
The generals whispered of war.
But Kael said nothing.
Until the room fell silent.
Then he stood.
And spoke.
"Rithmar is not our enemy," he said. "But Ravean is not our ally."
He turned to Elara.
"He seeks to claim what is not his. Not through battle. But through suggestion. Through pressure. Through politics."
Elara met his gaze. "Then we answer him."
Kael nodded. "With clarity."
---
The next morning, a letter left the palace.
It bore the royal seal of House Thorne.
And it read:
> *To King Ravean of Rithmar,
>
> The Queen of Thorne is not a prize to be claimed.
>
> She is not a symbol.
>
> She is not a myth.
>
> She is a sovereign.
>
> And she is not available.
>
> —King Kael of Thorne*
---
But in the harbors of Rithmar, King Ravean stood on the deck of his flagship, the Vigilant, the letter in his hand, the sea wind tugging at his dark crimson cloak.
He was a vision of dangerous elegance—tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-bronzed skin and dark hair swept back in waves that caught the salt air. His jaw was sharp, his mouth curved in a knowing smirk, and his eyes—storm-gray and unreadable—held the kind of confidence that came from never hearing the word "no."
He read the words.
Then smiled.
"Not available," he murmured. "We'll see."
Behind him, a fleet of black-sailed ships waited in silence.
And in the distance, the horizon burned gold.
---