The moonlight glinted off Lysandra's ruby-hilted dagger as she stepped forward, her ice-blue gown whispering against the broken chapel stones like a serpent slithering through grass.
The guards behind her remained frozen in place, their crossbows trained unerringly on Seraphina's heart, fingers tense against the triggers. A cold wind swept through the ruined chapel, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something metallic—blood, or perhaps the lingering remnants of old magic.
"You always were the sentimental one," Lysandra mused, her pale blue eyes flickering toward the diary clutched in Seraphina's trembling hands. The crown princess's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Did you truly believe Mother left you some grand revelation? Some secret to break the curse?" Her laugh rang out sharp and brittle, like shattering glass. "She died screaming, just like all the queens before her."
Seraphina's fingers tightened around the silver hairpin until its delicate wings bit into her palm. The metal pulsed with sudden warmth, not quite painful but insistent, as though responding to Lysandra's words. The sensation traveled up her arm like liquid fire, settling somewhere deep in her chest where it burned with an intensity that stole her breath.
Corvin stepped between them, his hands raised in a placating gesture. His russet hair, usually so vibrant, looked dull in the moonlight, and his freckles stood out like dark stains against his pallid skin. "Lys, don't—"
"Oh, spare me your pathetic pleading," Lysandra snapped, her perfect features twisting into something ugly and cruel. "You were always her favorite. But you never saw what she truly was. What we all are." Her gaze slid back to Seraphina, and for the first time, there was something like pity in those glacial eyes. "The crown doesn't just choose kings, sister. It changes them. Corrupts them. And it will do the same to you."
The silver bird in Seraphina's palm trembled violently, its wings shuddering as though straining to take flight. Then, with a sound like ringing steel, the delicate ornament unfolded itself, the metal flowing like liquid until it formed a slender blade that fit perfectly in her grip. The transformation happened so quickly that Lysandra barely had time to recoil, her eyes widening in genuine shock.
"That's—" the crown princess began, her voice uncharacteristically unsteady.
"Impossible?" Seraphina finished for her, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. The blade hummed in her hand, resonating with something deep in her bones—a song only she could hear. "Mother's last gift."
The diary had mentioned nothing of this magic, but as soon as the blade formed, memories that weren't her own came crashing down like a tidal wave. She saw Queen Celine—younger than Seraphina had ever known her—sliding the hairpin into a hidden compartment in her jewelry box. Heard her whispering voice, strained with urgency: "For my daughter, when the time comes." Then darker visions followed—the king's hands around Celine's throat, the crown on his head glowing with an unnatural crimson light as her mother choked and gasped, her silver eyes bulging with terror and betrayal.
Seraphina staggered under the weight of the vision, her knees nearly buckling. The crown hadn't just killed her mother—it had feasted on her death, drunk it down like fine wine.
Lysandra's smile turned venomous as she watched realization dawn on Seraphina's face. "Ah. So you've seen it now." She twirled her dagger with practiced ease, the ruby in its hilt catching the moonlight and casting bloody reflections across the broken stones. "Father didn't just murder her, you know. The crown made him do it. Just like it made Grandfather kill his queen, and his father before him. It's always been this way."
Corvin made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Lysandra's gaze never wavered from Seraphina's. "Why do you think Mother gave her the hairpin and not you? Because she knew. The crown only takes the strong." She tilted her head, considering her younger siblings with something almost like regret. "And it will take you both, one way or another."
Seraphina's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the torn remains of her emerald gown. The blade in her hand pulsed in time with her heartbeat, as though it were alive and responding to her fear.
"And what?" she demanded, forcing her voice steady through sheer willpower. "You think you're strong enough to wear it?"
Lysandra's laugh was a brittle, broken thing. "I don't have to be. The crown will make me strong enough." With a flick of her fingers, she gave the silent command.
The crossbows loosed with a chorus of twanging strings.
Time seemed to slow as Seraphina moved on pure instinct. The hairpin's blade flashed silver in the moonlight, moving faster than thought—deflecting one bolt, then another with impossible precision. But there were too many, and she knew with sudden, gut-wrenching certainty that she couldn't stop them all.
Then, from the shadows behind Lysandra, a familiar figure erupted with a roar.
Kaelan.
Blood streaked his temple, matting his dark hair to his scalp, and his leathers were torn in several places, revealing angry red wounds beneath. But his sword was steady as he cut down the first guard before the man could reload, the blade finding its mark with lethal efficiency. The second guard fell with a choked gasp, Kaelan's steel slipping between the plates of his armor as though guided by some unseen hand.
Lysandra whirled, her dagger raised in a defensive stance, but Seraphina was faster.
She lunged forward, the hairpin's blade singing through the air as it met Lysandra's steel with a shower of sparks. The impact sent a shockwave through the ruins, the force of it knocking Corvin to his knees several feet away. The ground trembled beneath them, ancient stones shifting as though the very earth recoiled from their clash.
"You don't understand," Lysandra hissed through gritted teeth, her perfect features twisted in rage. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and for the first time, Seraphina saw real fear in her sister's eyes. "The crown wants this. It wants us to kill each other! Can't you see that?"
Seraphina didn't answer. With a twist of her wrist, she disengaged their blades and drove the hairpin's point into Lysandra's shoulder. The crown princess's scream that followed was inhuman—not just from pain, but from something deeper, something like betrayal.
The remaining guards faltered at the sound, their discipline crumbling as they watched their princess fall. Kaelan took advantage of their hesitation, cutting down two more before the rest turned and fled into the night, their armor clanking with each panicked step.
Silence fell over the ruins, broken only by Lysandra's ragged breathing and the distant call of an owl. Seraphina stood over her sister, the hairpin's blade still dripping crimson onto the moss-covered stones. The metal had cooled in her hand, the strange energy that had animated it moments before now faded to a faint hum.
Lysandra slumped against the broken altar, her once-pristine blue gown now stained dark with blood. She didn't weep or beg for mercy—just stared up at Seraphina with something like resignation in her pale eyes.
"You'll see," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "When you wear the crown, you'll understand."
Seraphina said nothing, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. The weight of what had just happened settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating.
Kaelan limped forward, his sword still dripping. His dark eyes met hers, full of unspoken questions and something else—something that might have been admiration, or perhaps pity. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple, carving a crimson path down his scarred cheek.
Corvin was the one who finally broke the silence. "What now?" His voice was small, younger than his years, and when Seraphina looked at him, she saw the boy he'd been before the crown's shadow had fallen over them all.
She looked down at the blade in her hand. Even as she watched, it reshaped itself back into a hairpin, its delicate wings folding neatly against her palm as though nothing had happened. But everything had changed.
Now she knew the truth.
The crown was the curse.
And she was going to destroy it.