Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The goblet hit the floor with a crash that silenced the entire hall.

But it was the silence afterward that truly thundered.

Elira didn't flinch. She stood still in the center of the Great Hall, surrounded by the glittering remains of the shattered crystal, scattered at her feet like splinters of old lies. The nobles froze mid-toast. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the orchestra faltered, the last note of a harp string hanging in the air like a question no one dared to answer.

She didn't speak right away.

She didn't need to.

Her presence said everything.

Kael rose from his throne slowly, the black cloak draped over his shoulders flowing behind him like a shadow too heavy to shake. His expression—usually unreadable—cracked with something between surprise and concern. He hadn't expected her to show up tonight. He definitely hadn't expected this.

"Elira—" he started.

She raised a hand.

He stopped.

"You crowned a viper in my place," she said, voice cool and sharp as steel. "Did you really think I would disappear quietly into the ash you buried me in?"

A wave of gasps rolled through the room. Queen Saphira, seated beside Kael, clutched her wine glass so tightly that crimson spilled down her wrist, dripping like blood onto her gown.

"You misunderstand," Saphira said, trying for grace but missing the mark. Her voice trembled beneath the polish. "Tonight is not about politics."

Elira's eyes flicked to her. "No. It's about lies."

And with that, she moved forward.

Each step echoed like a drumbeat. Her gold gown shimmered under the chandeliers, fluid and blinding—like molten fire. Her hair, unbound and wild, framed her face like a crown carved by storms.

"Years ago," she said, voice rising, "you all watched as I was dragged through these halls in chains. You cheered when they exiled me. Called it justice. But justice doesn't hide in shadows or dress itself in silence."

Across the hall, Duke Harwyn cleared his throat awkwardly. "Princess, this… this is highly inappropriate. If you have concerns, there are proper channels—"

She let out a sharp laugh, no humor in it. "Your channels are built to bury women like me."

Kael hadn't moved. His gaze never left her.

"Why now, Elira?" he asked, quiet but steady. "Why come back like this?"

She turned to face him fully then—and for a moment, the fire dimmed. Not gone, just… older. Wiser. Tired.

"Because someone needs to remind you who you were before the crown."

His jaw tensed. "You think I wanted this throne?"

"I think you wanted what it gave you," she said. "And you were willing to let me burn for it."

The air seemed to thicken between them. Then, slowly, Kael stepped down from the dais. Not like a king descending—but like a man walking toward a reckoning.

"You weren't supposed to come back," he said softly.

"I know."

He glanced at the broken glass at her feet. "You were supposed to be a ghost by now."

"And yet," she replied, "I'm still standing."

They were close now—closer than anyone in the room dared breathe about. The court couldn't hear their words anymore, but their eyes drank in every movement, every flicker of expression.

Kael's voice dropped. "You keep going like this, they won't just exile you again. They'll destroy you."

Elira tilted her chin. "Then let them try."

Behind them, Saphira stood abruptly. "Guards," she snapped, her voice breaking, "seize her!"

But no one moved.

The soldiers glanced at each other, uncertain. Rumors about the Binding Throne—the cursefire, the shattered magic—had already begun to spread. No one wanted to be the first to test the fury of a woman who had unmade the old powers with her bare hands.

Kael raised a hand. "No one touches her."

"My king—" Saphira began.

"She speaks in my court," Kael said firmly, his eyes never leaving Elira's. "She stays."

Elira gave the faintest smile. "So there's still some of you left."

"Don't push it," he said under his breath.

She stepped past him, turning her attention back to the room.

"This court has been fed on silence for far too long," she said. "But I'm done being quiet. I'm done being forgotten."

With that, she walked away—through the stunned crowd, head high, fury cloaked around her like royalty. No guards followed. No one dared stop her.

The storm hadn't passed.

It had just taken human form.

Kael didn't sit. He remained by the dais, staring down at the broken goblet—its pieces scattered like the memory of what they used to be.

Far beneath the palace, deep in the earth where old magic sleeps, something stirred.

Something broken.

And waking.