Chains of the Forgotten Princess

Elira stood at the edge of the Moonlit Ravine, her cloak snapping in the wind, the scent of coming rain clinging to the air. Lightning fractured the night sky, revealing the wild river below and the jagged cliffs that looked ready to collapse into the dark.

But she wasn't looking at the storm.

Kael stood behind her, silent, distant. She didn't need to turn around to feel him there—his presence was as steady and heavy as the weight in her chest.

"They betrayed me," she said, her voice quiet—almost lost in the wind.

She wasn't talking to him. Not really. More to the night. To herself.

"The High Council knew," she went on, each word rougher than the last. "They knew my blood was more than royal. They knew I was marked. Bound. Cursed. And they said nothing."

Kael's jaw flexed. His hand curled into a fist at his side. "They feared you."

She turned, eyes flashing like lightning.

"They used me, Kael. They used my mother. Our blood. Our pain. They built their power on our suffering and called it protection."

Silence stretched between them, sharp and bitter. Thunder rolled above.

Kael stepped closer, slow and careful, like she might shatter.

"I know what it means to be used," he said. "But I won't let them use you again. Not the Council. Not the throne. Not even fate."

Elira's chest tightened.

Part of her wanted to believe him. The other part— the louder part—remembered every secret he'd kept. Every time he'd chosen the crown over her.

"Do you?" she asked, voice trembling just enough to hurt. "Do you really know what it's like to have your whole life decided before you were even born?"

Kael's lips thinned. "I do."

"Then say it."

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

"I knew," he said. "About the prophecy. About your binding. What you were meant to become."

It felt like a blow.

Elira stepped back, her boots skimming the edge of the cliff. Her voice cracked, raw with betrayal. "And you still—?"

"I tried to stop it," Kael said quickly, cutting her off. "I looked for a way to break it without hurting you. I thought if I stayed close, I could protect you from it. From them. I was wrong."

She shook her head, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.

"You should've told me."

"I was afraid," he admitted. "Afraid you'd run. Afraid I'd lose the only person who ever saw me as more than a sword."

The silence that followed hurt worse than the words.

"I did run," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "And all I found were more lies."

A rustling in the trees snapped the tension.

Tyreth emerged from the shadows, face grim. "They're coming."

Elira turned sharply. "Who?"

"The Council's Enforcers," he said. "They know the Binding Throne's been broken. They've declared you a threat to the realm."

Kael stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "They dare?"

Tyreth nodded once. "They're not alone. Queen Valina rides with them."

Elira's stomach twisted. "She chose their side?"

"She always did," Kael said bitterly. "Even when she pretended otherwise."

Elira's hands clenched at her sides. "Then it's war."

Tyreth gave a grim nod. "It's already begun."

By dawn, the hidden camp in Ashenwood Forest pulsed with tension. Mages carved runes into the earth. Warriors checked their blades. Scouts whispered of movement along the northern pass.

Elira moved among them—not as a princess, not as a pawn—but as something forged by fire.

Zera caught up with her, breathless. "The mirror mages are in position. They're waiting for your word."

Elira glanced at the ceremonial dagger hanging at her hip—obsidian and old, once used to bind her.

Now, it belonged to her.

Kael approached then, armored in shadow-black steel, ancient runes etched along the seams. He looked every bit the prince of war. But when his eyes met hers, it wasn't command she saw.

It was hope. Fear. Regret.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said. "I'm asking you to let me fight beside you."

Elira looked at him, her heart at war with itself.

"I don't know if I can trust you."

"You don't have to," Kael said softly. "Just don't fight alone."

Before she could answer, a scout ran up, breath ragged.

"They're here."

The battlefield stretched wide beneath the cliffs, once a place where kings came to kneel in peace.

Now, it would burn.

The Council's Enforcers stood in gleaming rows—mages in silver, soldiers in obsidian, Valina's black banner cutting through the morning haze.

Elira stepped forward, flanked by Kael and Tyreth. Behind them, the resistance stood ready—mirror mages, fire-weavers, shadowrunners, rebels with nothing left to lose but their chains.

A hush settled over the field.

Queen Valina rode forward on a black horse, her eyes cold behind her mask.

"Elira Thandrel," she called, voice smooth and sharp. "You stand accused of treason, sorcery, and destruction of the Binding Throne. Surrender now, and your death will be swift."

Elira smiled.

But there was no warmth in it.

"I didn't destroy the throne," she said. "Fate did. I only revealed the truth."

Valina's gaze hardened. "You are a danger to everything we've built."

"No," Elira replied, raising the dagger. "I am the only one who remembers what it was meant to be."

She sliced her palm. Blood hit the ground, and the runes beneath her feet lit in crimson flame.

A roar split the sky.

The ancient sigil of her house flared back to life—burning bright, unbroken, unbowed.

The resistance surged forward.

And the war for the soul of the realm began.