Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The chamber held its breath as Lord Arthen stepped forward, his presence thick and rotting—like magic that had gone bad and soaked too deep into the stone to scrub clean. His jagged crown caught the dying light, and the air soured with the stench of old power and fresh blood.

Elira didn't move.

She tightened her grip on the Blade of Memory. It hummed in her hand, steady as a heartbeat. This wasn't just another fight. This was the moment everything had been building toward.

"You're bold to walk in here alone," Kael said, stepping up beside her. Whatever tension had existed between them before was gone—replaced by something simple and instinctive: protect. Survive.

Strike.

Arthen smiled. "Alone?" He laughed under his breath. "You still don't get it. I was never alone. I was just the start."

And then they came—dozens of them, slipping through the doorway like smoke, cloaked in crimson, eyes pale and empty. The Blackblood Order.

Kael's blade lit up with silver fire.

Thorn swore and spun his dagger. "Cultists. Because of course it's cultists."

Maerin moved toward the memory pool, already working a protective sigil. "They broke through all the wards. We're out of time."

But Elira stood firm. "No. This is why we came."

She faced Arthen, voice low and even. "You betrayed my father. You twisted magic that should've been sacred. You lit the match that burned half the realm."

Arthen didn't flinch. "And I'll finish what I started. Because you're still just a child playing at power. That fire inside you? It was never yours. And things that don't belong to you… don't stay."

Elira felt the blade respond to her anger. The runes on her skin pulsed with heat.

"I didn't steal this," she said. "I took it back."

Kael glanced at her. One look—sharp, sure, trusting. Then he turned to face the enemy. "Let's make sure no one takes it again."

The chamber exploded into motion.

Kael was first to strike, his sword carving through red robes with brutal grace. Thorn and Maerin followed—dagger and spell moving in rhythm, cutting down anything that got too close.

Elira stayed still.

She closed her eyes.

Reached inward.

And the blade answered.

A heat rose through her—not flames, but something deeper. Memory. Her mother's scream. Her exile. Kael's blood on her hands. The Raven Queen's voice in the dark.

When she opened her eyes, the runes along her arms glowed—not red, not gold—but a deep violet. The color of something long buried.

She stepped forward—and the storm stepped with her.

The Blade of Memory didn't just cut. It revealed. With every strike, it peeled back lies, burned away illusions. Her enemies dropped like shadows under a rising sun.

At the far end of the chamber, Arthen raised his hand. The air thickened. The memory pool began to boil, dark magic surging.

"Elira!" Kael shouted, pinned down.

"I see him," she whispered.

She moved fast. Fire trailed in her wake. Arthen released a blast of black energy—

And she met it head-on.

It hit her like a hammer—and broke like glass.

She raised the blade high and drove it into the stone at his feet.

The floor cracked.

Arthen screamed—not from pain, but recognition—as the sword forced truth into the open.

Visions burst into the air—Arthen kneeling before something ancient, a throne buried in the Wastes, a creature not of man or god, all wings and hunger and eyes. Arthen wasn't in control.

He never had been.

"You weren't the beginning," Elira said. "Just a coward hiding behind stolen power."

Arthen lashed out, desperate.

Kael was already there. His sword sank into Arthen's shoulder, driving him to the ground.

Elira stood over him, breathing hard.

"You lost," she said. "And now everyone knows it."

She let the Blade of Memory fall one more time.

It struck the ground—and Arthen's magic snapped like a snapped bone.

The cultists cried out. Some collapsed. Some just… vanished.

Silence followed, thick and raw.

Kael dropped to one knee, blood trailing down his face. Thorn leaned against a cracked pillar. Maerin sank beside the pool, chanting softly to hold what magic remained.

Elira stood alone, the blade dim in her hand. The runes on her skin were fading, the fire cooling.

Kael looked up at her. "You didn't just survive that. You owned it."

She gave a small nod. "Because this wasn't the end."

Thorn wiped blood from his face. "No kidding. Did anyone else see that vision? Whatever Arthen served…"

Elira stared at the shattered floor. "It's older than the Order. Older than the war. We're not fighting politics anymore."

Maerin's voice shook. "Then we find it first. Before it finds us."

Elira turned toward the broken doors, the last of the smoke curling at her heels.

And somewhere beyond the temple, in the silence of an empire lost to time, something was watching.

Waiting.