She was alive. Still fighting. Still choosing him. And when the door creaked open again, and her fire whispered through the air like a promise… He smiled.
Because this wasn’t an ending.
This was where it all truly began.
FORTY-THREE
SERAPHINE
The throne room was nothing like the old ones.
No gold-gilded floors, gaudy tapestries hung by hollow men, not even high dais to separate ruler from people. Just dark stone, pale sunlight pouring through high arches, and a flamelit banner that fluttered behind her. Woven not with her crest, but the symbol of unity: a rising sun split by fire and storm.
Seraphine stood before it, not in silk or dragonsteel, but in dark leathers scarred from war, her crown a circlet of scorched iron and bone. Fire still licked along her veins, quiet now, steady. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—held that wild light that hadn’t dimmed since she had stepped out of the Hollow ruins with Cassian’s blood still on her hands and her own fire burning the air around them.
“Are you ready?” asked one of the new councilors beside her, voice soft.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. “Does it matter?”
The man smiled, old and wise, one of the few who’d stood for her when the Houses had first split. “It does now. You’re not just flame, Seraphine. You’re the torch.”
Her breath caught—just for a heartbeat. Then the doors to the hall opened, and silence rolled through the room.
The crowd waited.
Nobles and soldiers. Commoners and rebels. People from every House. Those who had bowed and those who never had. All of them here, waiting for something she never wanted and could no longer refuse.
Toreen stood to her right, armored and scowling, his arms crossed like he was daring someone to breathe wrong.
To her left— Cassian. Alive and whole. At her side.
He wore the scars of the Hollow—pale lines up his arms, shadow-smoke still lingering in the sharp planes of his face. But his eyes? Gods, his eyes were alive. That storm still raged behind them, but now it was steady, like he’d learned to sail the chaos.
He hadn’t said much since he woke. Just watched her like she was something worth surviving for. And she’d let that silence sit between them, because when his eyes glowed like that, she didn’t need words either.
The high priest stepped forward, clearing his throat. “By fire, storm, and blood?—”
“No,” Seraphine cut in, voice ringing through the chamber.
Murmurs echoed.
She stepped forward, alone now, her boots striking the stone with purpose.
“I won’t be crowned by tradition. Not by rites written by men who used power to silence love. This kingdom was broken by laws that fed fear and chained hearts. That ends now.”
The priest blinked, stunned.
“I take this crown,” she continued, “not to rule from above, but to stand beside. With fire and truth. With those who fought when it cost everything.”
Her eyes swept the crowd and landed on Vaela.
Bound in chain and shadow at the edge of the dais, guarded by a silent pair of warriors.
The woman didn’t look broken. Not entirely. But the smugness had been stripped. Hollow twisted through her now, faint and flickering, and she’d been silent since Seraphine’s decree.
Seraphine walked down the steps slowly.
“Vaela Drakar,” she said, her voice soft as ash. “For your crimes—collusion with the Hollow, betrayal of the blood you swore to protect, and the lives lost by your hand—you are sentenced to banishment.”
