Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The palace didn't sleep that night.

It waited.

From its obsidian towers to the warded marble beneath its floors, the seat of Thandrel held its breath. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Something ancient was waking. And in the Tower of Stars, far above the rest of the kingdom, Elira knelt inside a circle of fire.

The flames didn't burn her.

Not yet.

The Oracle's voice echoed through the chamber, low and steady, like wind moving through stone.

"Blood remembers. Magic obeys. But fate… fate tests."

Elira's hands pressed against the ground, glowing symbols searing up through her palms. They weren't just marks—they were memories. Of power. Of sacrifice. Of promises long buried in dust.

This wasn't a spell.

It was surrender.

"I offer the truth of my name," she said, her voice rough but unwavering. "Not as princess. Not as vessel. But as Elira Thandrel—daughter of broken oaths, breaker of thrones… flameborn heir to the undone."

The fire surged higher.

She didn't flinch.

Across the circle, the Oracle's eyes lit silver. "Then rise. The pact is sealed."

Elira stood slowly, her body trembling from what had passed through her. Every breath felt heavier now. Sharper.

From the doorway, Kael stepped forward.

His voice was quiet. "Is it done?"

Elira turned to him, her eyes different now. Steadier. Older.

"No," she said. "It's begun."

By dawn, the sky above Thandrel was bleeding.

The sun hung behind a veil of red—eclipsed, strange, wrong. No birds sang. The rivers had gone still. And over the far mountains, dark banners began to move.

Vaeren's army.

They weren't men. At least, not anymore.

They rode creatures that shouldn't have breath. Their armor groaned with bones, their banners burned with smokeless fire. And behind them came machines made of rusted steel and ash, grinding the earth to dust as they marched.

Elira watched from the ramparts, the wind biting at her cloak.

"They'll be at our gates by nightfall," said General Oric beside her. His voice was steady, but tired. "We've called every legion. The Sky Mages are en route. But… it won't be enough."

"I know," Elira said.

Kael arrived moments later, dark armor cinched over his frame, sword at his hip. His eyes flicked to the horizon, then to her.

"If we wait," he said, "we die on our knees."

Elira met his gaze. "Then we don't wait."

The palace shifted into motion.

Old siege horns were pulled from the catacombs.

Wards were etched into every threshold. Sigils of shielding and last resorts.

Children, the sick, and the elders were taken beneath the city—into sanctuaries bound with the oldest blood magic still known to the realm.

By sunset, the war council gathered one last time.

No one spoke at first. The tension was a living thing.

Then Elira stepped forward and laid her palm on the war table.

"Tonight," she said, her voice steady but low, "we don't fight for crowns. Or borders. Or history."

She looked at them—each commander, each face drawn tight with fear and fire.

"We fight for the breath in our lungs. For the names we carry. For what it means to stay human when even the gods forget us."

She paused. Let the words sink in.

"They'll come with fear. But we'll answer with fire."

Kael stepped beside her. "If they bring down our walls, we make graves from the rubble."

The Oracle entered silently, her veil fluttering like mist. She walked into the circle, her voice soft but clear.

"The enemy rides under a name that should not rise again. But so do we. Elira bears the mark that once sealed him. And tonight, she completes what began in blood."

The room shifted. A few murmured. One gasped.

"She'll bind him?" General Oric asked, blinking hard.

Elira shook her head. "I don't know if I can. I don't know if I'll survive. But I'm not running. This is in my blood. And I'll meet it face forward."

A long pause.

Then, slowly, one by one, the council saluted her.

Not as princess.

As the last light before the dark.

At dusk, the gates opened.

Elira rode at the front.

Her armor shimmered silver-blue, the runes she'd bled for etched into every plate. The wind pulled her cloak like a banner. Kael rode beside her, his blade humming faintly—forged in dragon flame, and carried like a promise.

Behind them, Thandrel's army marched. Their eyes fierce. Their formation unshaken.

On the scarred plains beyond the capital, they took position as the sky darkened to violet.

Then came the silence.

And the enemy arrived.

They spilled across the field like shadow poured from a broken jar. Armor groaning. Banners burning. Magic bending around them.

Still, Elira didn't move.

She stared into the tide of death and whispered, more to herself than anyone, "I see you. I remember what you were before you forgot who you are."

Lightning cracked across the clouds.

And then—a voice rose over the world.

Deep. Cold. And full of knowing.

"Elira Thandrel," it said. Not shouted. Spoken, like a truth that had always been there. "Come to me."

On the far hill, Vaeren appeared.

His armor looked forged from night and the bones of stars. The piece of the Binding Throne hovered behind him like a heart torn from time.

The war had begun.

And Elira stepped into it.