Crown of shadows and sin

The Hollow Hall did not rejoice.

Despite the retreat of the Choir of the Dead, the fortress felt like a tomb. The once-shining banners of flame and frost hung limp in the airless corridors. Torches flickered weakly, their light unable to chase away the chill that had seeped into every wall.

Alera lay in her chambers, staring at the ceiling where cracks webbed out from the center like the veins of a dying god.

She hadn't spoken for hours.

She hadn't wept, either.

Kieran sat at her bedside, hand wrapped in bandages, cheek swollen where he'd slammed into the wall. He hadn't left her side. Not once.

"You don't have to pretend," he finally said.

Her eyes didn't shift.

"You hate me for offering myself," she murmured.

He shook his head. "I hate the world for making you think you had to."

She closed her eyes.

The child stirred again. Not violently, not painfully but with the same quiet intensity that now governed her thoughts. Something about his presence inside her had changed. She could sense not just life, but will. He had begun to form desires. Dreams. Memories that didn't belong to him, yet echoed in his soul.

Memories of fire. Screams. A crown made of bone.

Elsewhere in the Hall, Kael stood before the war table, pressing his knuckles into its worn surface.

Cayle was there, alongside two senior commanders and the palace steward.

"She offered herself," Cayle said, trying not to raise his voice. "That should've bought us time. But the men are shaken. The people think she surrendered."

Kael didn't respond at first.

He stared at the edge of the map, where the Bone Court had once been marked as myth, a forgotten ruin from the Elder Wars.

Now it was real.

Now it was where she would be taken.

"She didn't surrender," Kael said finally. "She infiltrated. There's a difference."

One of the commanders scoffed. "Infiltrated? Alone? Against him?"

Kael looked up.

"When she touched the Ember Throne, it didn't kill her. It chose her. That's never happened before. Not in a thousand years of bloodlines. So don't question her strength."

The room fell silent.

Kael's voice lowered. "But we don't wait. We prepare. Because if she fails…"

"We all die," Cayle finished grimly.

By nightfall, word had spread.

People whispered that the Queen had made a pact with the Death-King. Some said it was part of the prophecy. Others claimed she had been corrupted by the throne and was leading them all into doom.

Rumors spun faster than the winds above the Black Cliffs.

Kieran didn't care.

He sat in the garden, beneath the twisted fireleaf tree where Alera once taught orphan children how to read. He stared at the leaves, now ash-colored and curling inward. The magic in the land itself was recoiling. Everything living had begun to sense what was coming.

Kael approached, silent as snow.

"I need your help," he said.

Kieran didn't look at him. "With what?"

"War."

Kieran snorted. "She hasn't even been taken yet."

"She agreed to go. She will go."

"And what? We build a weapon while she sacrifices herself?"

"No," Kael said. "We prepare for when the Bone Heir breaks his bargain."

Kieran finally turned. His face was tired. Not just physically, but spiritually. Like someone who had run out of gods to pray to.

"You really believe he will?"

Kael nodded. "Of course I do."

A long silence.

Kieran closed his eyes.

"She's the only thing holding me together," he said quietly. "And now she's going into hell… without me."

Kael's jaw clenched. "She doesn't need protection. She needs time."

"And if she runs out of it?"

"Then we make sure hell regrets ever opening its gates."

Alera rose at dawn.

She dressed herself in black: a high-collared gown with no embroidery, no crest, no rank. Just silk and shadow. A cloak pinned at the neck with a shard of bone the same piece she had shattered from the throne the day it marked her.

As she stood before the mirror, she barely recognized the woman reflected there.

Not the child who once dreamed of love.

Not the queen who once ruled in hope.

This woman was war given flesh.

Her door opened slowly.

Kael stood in the threshold.

His limp was more noticeable today, and the scar on his cheek had reopened.

"Come to stop me?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Came to say goodbye."

She blinked.

"I thought you'd try to talk me out of it."

"I would," he said. "If I thought it would change your mind."

Alera walked to him.

"You were right," she said. "About the throne. About the prophecy. But this isn't about that anymore."

"What is it about, then?"

She placed a hand over her belly.

"It's about what kind of world I'm bringing him into."

Kael looked at her for a long time.

Then he offered her a silver blade. Small. Concealable.

"Then make sure it's a world where he never has to see you kneel."

That evening, she walked the length of the Hollow Hall one last time.

The people did not gather to cheer.

They knelt in silence.

She passed mothers holding children.

Veterans standing with wooden legs and shattered swords.

Priests clutching ruined texts.

And yet not one of them looked away.

She didn't weep.

She only whispered one word as she passed:

"Endure."

Kieran waited at the gates.

His bruises had worsened. His eyes were hollow.

He didn't speak when she approached.

Only reached out.

She took his hand.

"I should've chosen you," she said.

"You still can," he whispered.

She smiled faintly. "Not until I've ended this."

He kissed her hand.

Then her wrist.

Then let go.

"I'll be behind you," he said. "Even in the dark."

She didn't answer.

Because she knew it was true.

They came for her at midnight.

The Choir returned as silently as they had vanished.

Thirteen specters in bone-white armor, their faces masked, their footsteps like feathers on marble.

No words.

No threats.

Only inevitability.

She followed them without resistance.

Without fear.