The obsidian throne was colder than Seraphina remembered.
She sat perfectly still, the golden circlet pressing against her temples like a brand. Three days had passed since the coronation—three days of petitions, of hollow congratulations from nobles who still watched her with knives in their smiles, three sleepless nights listening to the whispers of the castle stones. The Crown of Feathers, they called it now. A divine gift. A miracle.
If only they knew.
The great hall stood empty save for the lingering scent of burnt herbs from the morning's purification rites. Sunlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in fractured colours that shifted with the passing clouds. Seraphina flexed her fingers against the throne's carved arms, the memory of the golden feather's transformation still tingling in her palms.
A whisper of silk announced Lysandra's approach before her shadow fell across the dais. Her sister had forgone her usual ice-blue silks for a simple grey wool gown, her golden hair braided tightly back from her face. The wound at her shoulder had healed into an angry red scar visible above the neckline, but her steps were steady as she climbed the steps, a scroll heavy with seals clutched in her pale hands.
"They're calling it the Crown of Feathers," Lysandra said, her voice carefully neutral as she offered the parchment. "The people believe the gods themselves placed it upon your brow." A faint smirk twisted her lips. "Some are even saying it's a sign of Celine's blessing."
Seraphina took the scroll, the wax seals cracking under her fingers. The words swam before her tired eyes—reports from the northern borders where the harvest had failed, rumours of unrest in the western provinces where Lord Dain's influence ran deep, a dozen petty grievances from nobles suddenly eager to test their new queen's patience.
"And what do you believe?" Seraphina asked quietly, rolling the scroll shut with more force than necessary.
Lysandra's smile was a razor-thin thing, her ice-blue eyes glinting in the colored light. "I believe my sister wears it well." She tilted her head, studying the golden circlet with a courtier's practised detachment. "Though I wonder if it feels as heavy as the last."
Before Seraphina could reply, the great doors crashed open.
Kaelan strode into the hall, his boots leaving muddy prints on the polished marble. Rain still glistened in his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead, and his riding leathers were damp with the storm that had rolled in at dawn. Though his sword remained sheathed at his hip, every line of his body thrummed with tension, his scar pulling tight as his gaze locked onto Seraphina.
"Your Majesty." The title still sounded foreign on his tongue, though not unpleasant. He bowed just deep enough to be proper, his eyes never leaving hers. "We have a problem."
Seraphina's fingers tightened around the scroll. "Show me."
The dungeon smelled of damp stone and old blood.
Torchlight flickered along the narrow corridor, casting writhing shadows across the slick walls. The deeper they went, the thicker the air became, heavy with the metallic tang of iron and the sour stench of fear.
Lord Dain hung from rusted chains in the deepest cell, his once-fine ermine robes reduced to bloodied rags clinging to his swollen frame. His face was nearly unrecognisable—one eye swollen shut, his lips cracked and crusted with dried blood. Yet when he lifted his head at their approach, the eye that wasn't swollen burned with the same defiance he'd shown in the throne room.
Kaelan's hand hovered near his sword as he spoke. "He was caught at the western gate an hour before dawn." His voice was low, meant only for Seraphina's ears. "With this."
He produced a scrap of parchment from his belt. The wax seal was broken, but the insignia remained clear—a serpent coiled around a sword, the mark of House Dain.
Seraphina took the note, her stomach turning as she read the coded words:
"The crown is weakened. Strike at moonrise."
The golden feathers at her brow pulsed suddenly, sending a sharp ache radiating through her skull.
Dain coughed, a wet, rattling sound that sprayed flecks of blood across the stone floor. "You think you've won," he rasped, his voice raw from screaming. His remaining eye fixed on Seraphina with unnatural intensity. "But the darkness isn't gone, girl-queen. It's only sleeping." His swollen lips twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. "And it dreams of you."
The circlet burned against Seraphina's skin, the pain sharp enough to draw tears. Without thinking, she reached out and pressed her palm to Dain's forehead.
The vision struck like a lightning bolt—
A castle she didn't recognise, its black towers clawing at a sky the colour of fresh blood. A red moon hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows that moved when they shouldn't, pooling at the feet of a figure in familiar ermine-trimmed robes. The air reeked of rotting roses and something darker, something that slithered between the stones. And beneath it all, a whisper that wasn't a voice but a feeling, a knowing: "The crown is not the only thing that hungers."
Seraphina staggered back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The dungeon walls seemed to tilt around her, the torchlight flaring bright then dim.
Kaelan's hand was at her elbow, his grip firm as he steadied her. "What did you see?" His voice was rough with concern, his dark eyes searching hers.
Behind them, Dain began to laugh—a broken, wheezing sound that echoed off the damp stones.
Seraphina met Kaelan's gaze, the vision still burning behind her eyes like an afterimage from a bright light. She didn't need the circlet's warmth to know the truth in her bones.
"War," she whispered.
And in the depths of the dungeon, something in the darkness laughed back.
The dungeon's oppressive silence swallowed Dain's dying laughter. Seraphina pressed her palms flat against the cold stone wall, letting the damp chill steady her racing thoughts. The golden circlet still pulsed at her temples, each throb sending fresh images flashing behind her eyes - that blood-red moon, those slithering shadows, the whisper of something ancient stirring beneath the world's skin.
Kaelan's hand remained on her elbow, his calloused fingers warm through the thin fabric of her sleeve. "We should go," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose hairs at her temple. "This air is poison."
Lysandra stood motionless by the cell door, her sharp features carved into a mask of icy calm. But Seraphina saw the way her sister's fingers worried at the frayed edge of her gray wool sleeve, the subtle tension in her shoulders. "He's not working alone," Lysandra said, her voice carefully measured. "That seal wasn't meant for domestic correspondence."
A rattling breath drew their attention back to the prisoner. Dain's head lolled against his chest, spittle and blood dripping from his broken lips. "You'll see," he wheezed. "When the red star rises... you'll all see..."
His words dissolved into wet coughing. The torchlight guttered, casting grotesque shadows across his ruined face. For a heartbeat, Seraphina almost pitied him - this broken old man who had once commanded entire armies with a flick of his jeweled fingers.
Then the circlet burned again, and through its golden haze she saw -
Dain standing in a moonlit courtyard, handing a velvet pouch to a hooded figure. The gleam of gold changing hands. The flash of a dagger in the dark.
The vision shattered as Dain's chains clanked violently. His body convulsed, back arching unnaturally as foam bubbled between his lips. His one good eye rolled back, showing only white.
"Poison," Kaelan snarled, shoving Seraphina behind him as black veins spiderwebbed across Dain's skin. "Get back!"
The death throes lasted only seconds. When it was over, Dain hung limp in his chains, his face frozen in a rictus of agony. The stench of voided bowels and bitter almonds filled the cell.
Lysandra pressed a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, her eyes watering. "How poetic," she murmured. "The serpent's own venom."
Seraphina's stomach churned. The circlet's warmth had faded to a dull ache, leaving behind a terrible clarity. This wasn't just treason - it was a web, carefully woven through the very heart of her court. And Dain had been merely one thread.
"We need to—" she began, but a sudden commotion from the stairwell cut her off.
Boots pounded on stone. A guardsman appeared, his face ashen beneath his helmet. "Your Majesty!" he gasped, dropping to one knee. "Forgive the intrusion, but—"
Kaelan's sword was half-drawn before the man could finish. "Speak."
"The western watchtower," the guard stammered. "They've lit the beacon."
Seraphina's blood turned to ice. The western beacon hadn't been lit in her lifetime - not since the last invasion.
Lysandra's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the sudden stillness. Then the circlet flared white-hot, and Seraphina knew -
The game had changed.
And the first move had already been made.