Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The wind howled through the crumbling towers of Nareth's northern watch, a ghostly cry that wove through broken stone and memory. Ash swirled with the snow—fine, gray flecks dancing on the bitter air, soft enough to look harmless.

But Elira knew better.

This place reeked of endings.

She stood at the threshold of what remained—half-frozen stone beneath her boots, Kael's black coat heavy around her shoulders, its warmth unable to touch the cold burrowed into her bones. Her gown, once silver-threaded and regal, was torn at the hem and crusted with soot from their escape through the burning city.

And yet none of it—the ruin, the cold, the ache in her ribs—was what made her tremble.

It was the voice.

"I knew you'd come home eventually, little flame."

It slithered from the shadows, velvet and rotted all at once. A figure emerged like smoke peeling from fire—tall, draped in a mantle of raven feathers. His skin was pale as old bone, his eyes the color of ruin itself. A jagged crown, forged from what looked like carved bone, sat upon his brow, and with every step he took, the snow beneath him blackened and died.

Elira's heart stuttered. Her magic surged, wild and defensive beneath her skin.

Her voice cracked on a single word. "...Father?"

Kael didn't hesitate. His sword was out in a blink, arm barring her path.

"That's not your father," he said, quiet and grim.

The man—thing—chuckled, and the sound was like dry leaves scraping across a tomb.

"He once was," the creature said. "He once held your tiny hands and whispered that the world would kneel for you. Then he died." His eyes glinted with something ancient. "And something older crawled into the shell he left behind."

Elira's stomach twisted. The air tasted wrong—like burned earth and grave moss.

She'd heard the legends, of course. Whispers of the King of Crows. A fallen monarch who traded his soul for dominion over death. A ghost story. A warning. A myth.

Except he was standing right in front of her.

Real. And smiling.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, voice low but steady, even as her hands clenched. "You don't belong to this world."

The King tilted his head with unsettling grace, eyes dragging over her face like a slow, invasive touch.

"And yet you woke me," he said, almost fond. "Your blood sang when the Binding Throne broke. Your magic danced when the temple burned. All the old doors creaked open with your name on their lips."

Kael didn't wait for more. His sword sparked to life, runes flaring with lightning stolen from the skies.

"We didn't come here for riddles," he growled. "We came to end this."

The King smiled wider. "No," he said, soft as snow. "You came to die."

He raised one hand.

And the dead obeyed.

The snow around them shifted. Mounds stirred. Frozen limbs broke the surface. Half-rotted corpses clawed their way free—old soldiers in rusted armor, twisted priests, creatures whose faces had long since rotted away. Their eyes glowed an eerie blue, and the air filled with the stench of decay and magic unclean.

Elira's breath caught.

"Run!" Kael snapped, grabbing her wrist.

But she didn't move.

Not this time.

Her palm lifted, blazing with flame and sorrow.

"No," she said, voice like iron. "I end this."

She stepped forward as the horde rushed her, and her power answered—fierce and furious. Fire burst from her like a scream, raw and radiant. It peeled across the battlefield, devouring the dead where they stood. Bone cracked. Ash spiraled. One by one, the corpses fell into dust, consumed by the fire she no longer held back.

But it wasn't enough.

The King moved with impossible speed—smoke made flesh. One moment he was at the edge of the battlefield, the next he stood behind her. She barely had time to turn before the cold kiss of a bone blade pressed against her throat.

"Still just a child," he whispered, his breath cold against her ear. "Still reaching for light in a world ruled by crows."

Kael's roar cracked the sky.

He collided with the King like a thunderclap—lightning against shadow, fury against cold. Their swords met with a sound like the world breaking open. Sparks flew. Ice cracked. The ground shuddered beneath their blows.

Elira dropped to the ground, rolling clear of the fight. Her hands scraped against frozen stone as she crawled, her eyes locking on the edge of the ruined courtyard—a circle of runes. Half-buried. Ancient. Familiar.

Her mother's design.

A trap.

A seal.

Her breath hitched. She crawled faster, fingers hovering over the central glyph. She could feel the magic humming—waiting. All it needed was blood.

Her blood.

"Kael!" she cried, reaching for him.

He turned toward her—and in that instant, the King's blade slid through his side.

"No—!" Elira's scream shattered the air.

She was at his side before his knees hit the ground, catching him as he fell. Her hands were soaked in warmth—hot, sticky, terrible. Kael gasped, his breath coming in shallow bursts.

"You have to do it," he rasped, his fingers gripping hers weakly. "Seal him. Now."

Tears blurred her vision. "Not like this."

The King laughed as he stalked toward them, unfazed by the blood or the snow. His smile twisted, monstrous and cruel.

"Ah, love," he mocked. "The first and final curse."

Elira's scream tore from her soul.

She slammed her palm into the center rune.

Blood bloomed.

The circle lit up with golden fire.

Light exploded outward, wild and furious. Runes flared to life, and chains of magic erupted from the earth—wrapping around the King's limbs, coiling around his throat, his arms, his crown. He thrashed, shrieking, not in pain—but in rage.

"This is not over!" he roared, voice like a collapsing storm. "You carry me in your blood, girl. You cannot bury what you are!"

The chains tightened. The light pulsed once—twice—then collapsed inward in a blinding flash.

And the King was gone.

Silence.

The snow fell again.

Soft.

Almost gentle.

Elira sank beside Kael, her hands still drenched in his blood, her body shaking from magic and grief.

"Stay with me," she whispered, pressing her forehead to his, voice cracking around the words. "Please... please don't leave me now."

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then—

His hand twitched. Slowly. His fingers curled around hers.

"Told you," he murmured, breath shallow but alive, "I go where you go."

And only then did Elira let herself cry.

The world spun slowly into darkness around them—but not defeat.

Not this time.