The beacon fire clawed at the night sky, staining the western horizon in streaks of blood and gold.
Seraphina stood at the castle's highest parapet, her fingers gripping the cold stone ledge until her knuckles ached. The wind howled around her, tearing at her unbound hair like restless spirits. Below, the city of Valemont stirred—shutters slammed against window frames, torches flared to life in hurried succession, and the distant clang of the alarm bell echoed through the winding streets like a death knell. The golden circlet burned against her brow, its feathers humming with a warning that vibrated through her very bones.
She didn't need to turn to know Kaelan had joined her. His presence announced itself in the familiar cadence of his boots against stone, in the scent of sweat and steel and something darker—the metallic tang of blood that wasn't his own.
"Scouts report movement at the border," he said, his voice rough from hours of hard riding. He came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Not an army. Not yet. But the roads are crawling with Dain's men." His jaw tightened as he followed her gaze westward. "They're waiting for something."
Lysandra appeared at his shoulder, her ice-blue eyes reflecting the distant flames. The wind tugged at the simple grey wool of her gown, moulding the fabric against her slender frame. "And the beacon?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled.
"Lit by our own guards," Kaelan said, his hand flexing around the hilt of his sword. "After they found the watch captain with his throat slit." His dark eyes met Seraphina's. "There was a note pinned to his chest."
Seraphina didn't need to ask what it said. The words from Dain's cell echoed in her skull like a drumbeat: When the red star rises.
She turned her face to the sky. There, just visible above the western mountains—a pinprick of crimson light where no star should be. It pulsed like a living thing, its glow deepening as she watched.
The council chamber smelled of fear and candle wax.
The remaining lords of the realm sat stiffly around the massive oak table, their fine silks and velvets rumpled from being roused in the dead of night. Lord Marence, his jowls quivering beneath his elaborate moustache, stabbed a sausage-like finger at the map spread before them.
"The western garrisons are undermanned," he wheezed, his breath coming in laboured gasps. "If Dain's allies push east through the Black Pass—"
"They won't." Seraphina's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. The circlet's weight pressed down on her, its golden feathers whispering secrets against her skin. She studied the map—the winding border roads inked in black, the treacherous mountain passes marked in red, the lonely watchtowers denoted by tiny silver stars. But the circlet showed her what the parchment couldn't: shadows moving where they shouldn't, gathering in the places the torchlight didn't reach.
A stunned silence fell over the chamber.
Kaelan leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. In the flickering candlelight, his scar looked freshly livid, a stark contrast against his tanned skin. "Dain was buying something before he died," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Gold for secrets. Secrets for—"
"Power," Lysandra finished smoothly. She stood by the arched window, her silhouette framed by the dying beacon's glow. "The same thing they've always wanted." Her fingers traced the edge of the stained glass absently. "Though I wonder what they promised the watch captain before they slit his throat."
Seraphina's circlet pulsed, sending a sharp ache radiating through her skull. The crimson star's light seemed to seep through the windowpanes, casting strange shadows across the council table.
"They're coming tonight," she said softly.
As if in answer, the castle bells began to toll.
The attack came from within.
Seraphina smelled the smoke before she heard the screams. By the time she reached the main courtyard, the east wing was fully ablaze, orange flames licking hungrily at the night sky. The heat pressed against her face like a physical force, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning tapestries and melting lead from the stained glass windows.
Guards and servants ran in panicked circles, their shouts drowning beneath the relentless clanging of the alarm bell. A stable boy darted past, his arms full of squawking chickens. Two kitchen maids struggled with a heavy chest of silver, their faces streaked with soot.
Kaelan appeared at her side like a shadow given form, his sword already drawn and gleaming in the firelight. "The stables," he barked over the chaos. "Someone lost the horses." His dark eyes scanned the courtyard, missing nothing. "This was planned."
Lysandra emerged from a billowing cloud of smoke, her grey gown streaked with ash. A thin trail of blood trickled from a cut above her eyebrow, stark against her pale skin. "The prisoners are gone," she panted, pressing a hand to her side. "Every traitor we locked up after the coronation—vanished." Her ice-blue eyes met Seraphina's. "The guards at the dungeon door were found with their own daggers in their backs."
The circlet burned white-hot against Seraphina's brow, its warning a physical pain. She whirled just in time to see the arrow streak from the shadows of the armoury.
Kaelan moved faster than thought. His blade flashed in a silver arc, deflecting the missile with a shower of sparks. More arrows followed, raining down from the darkened battlements like deadly hail.
"They're herding us," Lysandra realised, her voice tight. She grabbed Seraphina's arm, her fingers digging in painfully. "This isn't an attack—it's a distraction."
A figure emerged from the smoke—a young guardsman, his uniform torn and bloody, his face a mask of pain and terror. He collapsed to his knees before Seraphina, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. "Your Majesty," he choked, blood bubbling at his lips. "The crypt—they've broken the seals—"
The world narrowed to a single, terrible point. Seraphina was running before she fully understood why, the circlet screaming in her skull, Kaelan's shouts fading behind her as she sprinted through the chaos.
The great oak doors of the crypt stood open, their ancient locks shattered.
And inside, the shadows moved on their own.
The crypt was alive with whispers.
Seraphina's breath fogged in the sudden chill as she descended the spiral staircase, the circlet's light her only guide. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that smelled of turned soil and opened graves.
Her mother's sarcophagus lay in ruins. The alabaster lid had been smashed to pieces, the delicate carvings of roses and vines reduced to powder. The bones within were scattered across the stone floor, the skull resting upside down near the base of the dais, its hollow eye sockets staring blindly at the ceiling.
But it was what stood in the centre of the chamber that froze the blood in Seraphina's veins.
Seven figures in tattered black robes formed a circle around a pool of inky darkness that hadn't been there before. Their hoods were raised, their faces hidden, but their hands—pale and long-fingered—moved in unison, tracing symbols in the air that left faint trails of crimson light.
At their feet, the darkness pulsed like a living heart.
One of the figures turned, and even beneath the hood, Seraphina felt the weight of its gaze.
"Welcome, queen of nothing," it hissed, its voice the sound of dry bones rubbing together. "We've been waiting."
Behind her, Kaelan's sword rang free of its scabbard. But Seraphina knew—with a certainty that chilled her to the core—that steel would not save them here.
The darkness was waking.
And it remembered its name.