Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The world flickered like the flame of a dying candle—shivering, brittle, on the edge of collapse.

Elira sat in the snow, numb to everything but the weight of Kael's body in her arms. His blood soaked the front of her dress, hot where it shouldn't be, spreading like a slow stain over cold fabric. The snow kept falling, too soft, too quiet—like the sky didn't know someone was dying.

The golden glow of the sealing rune had faded, but its heat still pulsed faintly beneath the earth. Like the land itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what she would do next.

"Kael," she whispered.

Her fingers found the side of his face—cold now, too still. She brushed his cheek, trying to stir something, anything.

"Open your eyes. Please…"

No answer.

No breath.

Just the hush of wind curling through broken stones, tugging gently at his torn cloak. Snowflakes melted on the blood that painted the ice around them.

She pressed her palm to his chest. Nothing. No movement. No rhythm.

Her throat closed around a sob she didn't let fall.

"No," she breathed. "No, no, no. You don't get to do this. Not after everything."

Magic surged through her—wild, untamed, a fire set loose by grief. She pressed her hands over his wound, light flaring beneath her skin. It wasn't healing magic—not the clean, golden kind her mother used to weave.

This was something older.

Something raw.

A scream across the threads of fate, pulled from the marrow of her bones.

"Come back," she begged, voice breaking. "You promised."

For one aching moment—nothing.

Then—

Kael's body jerked beneath her hands.

A sharp, ragged breath tore from his lungs. His eyes flew open, wide and confused, pain cutting through the fog in his gaze until he found her.

"Elira…"

Relief shattered whatever composure she had left. A sob burst from her throat as she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, the weight of her collapsing in against him.

"You idiot," she wept. "You reckless, stupid prince."

A breathy chuckle rumbled from his chest—weak, but real. "Still alive…?"

"Barely," she said, pulling back enough to glare at him through tears. "Don't do that again."

He smiled faintly, hand rising to brush her hair back with shaking fingers. "No promises."

They stayed like that—wounded, wordless—for what felt like a lifetime. The world, for once, gave them space. The snow slowed. The wind softened. Even the ruin around them felt less sharp.

But peace was never meant to last.

A whisper brushed the air. Faint. Like a thought not meant to be heard.

"She sealed him… but she also awakened something far worse."

Elira stiffened.

Kael's body tensed beneath hers.

She turned sharply toward the voice.

They weren't alone.

A figure emerged from the shadow of the ruined tower—hooded, barefoot, gliding over snow without leaving a mark. Their skin shimmered like glass catching moonlight, impossibly smooth. And their eyes—

There were no eyes.

Just light.

Radiant. Blinding. Endless.

"Who are you?" Elira asked, rising slowly, her voice low but steady.

The figure tilted their head. A sad smile curved their lips. "I am the one who remembers. The one who waits. The one bound to watch the bloodlines rise and fall." A pause. "I am the Weeping Witness."

Kael pushed himself upright, still pale but bracing. His hand found Elira's instinctively.

"Why now?" he demanded.

The being's glowing gaze drifted to him, then back to her.

"Because the chains have broken," they said simply. "The Crows were only the first gate."

Elira's pulse quickened. "The Binding Throne… it wasn't just holding him?"

The Witness's voice softened, almost pitying. "No. It never was."

A chill rooted itself in her spine.

"What else was it keeping locked away?"

The Weeping Witness's eyes—those terrible lights—settled on her.

"You."

The word hit harder than any blade.

Silence dropped over the ruins like a guillotine.

Kael's grip on her hand tightened. Elira stood frozen, struggling to breathe.

"No," she said, her voice barely audible. "That's not possible."

"It is," the Witness said gently. "You carry your mother's gift, yes. But there is something else woven in your blood. Something much older. A memory, forgotten even by the stars. You were never just a girl in chains, Elira Thandrel."

They stepped closer. The light in their eyes pulsed.

"You are the door."

A gust of wind shrieked through the ruins, tearing at the snow and whipping her hair into her face. The sealing runes behind them—cracked, dim—suddenly sparked to life again. Lines of violet light fractured outward, bleeding into the snow like bruises.

Elira staggered back.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I closed that gate."

"You closed one," the Witness said. "There are three."

Kael, still unsteady but fiercely present, stepped forward. "Three gates?"

The figure nodded solemnly.

"The crow was death. The serpent is madness. The last… is memory."

Elira's vision swam with fragments she didn't understand—dreams of desert temples, golden walls, symbols older than any language. Voices in tongues she'd never heard, but somehow knew.

"What does it mean?" she asked, barely able to form the words.

Kael turned to her, the look in his eyes firm despite the pain. "Whatever it is… we'll face it. Together."

But Elira couldn't look away from the Witness.

There was more.

"You're hiding something," she said.

The Witness inclined their head slowly, mournfully. "The King of Crows marked you before he was sealed. His echo lives in your blood now. Should you open the second gate, his power will stir again."

A beat.

"You must choose wisely, child of fire."

Then, like mist evaporating under the sun, the Witness vanished.

The wind dropped. The light faded.

And Elira was left standing in the ruins, her hands stained red, her heart a battlefield.

She looked down at Kael—alive, but barely.

She looked at the cracked runes, glowing softly beneath the snow.

And she knew.

This wasn't the end.

This was the beginning.

The war that was coming…

Had already begun.