The gates of Velgrave opened not with fanfare, but with silent reverence.
They had been warned, of course. Whispers came ahead of her—drifting like smoke through the high courts and low taverns. The Fire Queen was coming. The Hollow-born sovereign who carved symbols into noble doors and made the land bleed for her vengeance.
But when she arrived, she brought no army.
Vex Rhiadne rode through the gates atop a black, obsidian-coated steed, draped in a gown of smoke-colored silk that shimmered with embered threads. Her phoenix sigil shimmered faintly at her back—stitched in silver that burned red beneath sunlight. Her hair was pulled back from her face, a crownless queen who needed no metal to announce her power. Her gaze swept the streets like a sword unsheathed—fire-red, sharp, and unflinching.
Beside her, of course, rode Rhydir Velgrave.
The general of the west was no longer merely a warlord. His once-rogue kingdom now bowed to her rule, and its people watched in wary awe as he rode at her side, his silver hair tumbling down over his armored shoulders, his expression somewhere between possessive pride and smug satisfaction. He was clearly enchanted—and made no effort to hide it.
He leaned toward her slightly, voice just low enough for her ears alone. "You do realize they're all staring at you like you're about to declare war."
"I might," Vex replied, deadpan. "If someone gives me reason."
A beat passed before Rhydir chuckled. "Marry me already. You'd be the most terrifying wife a kingdom could ask for."
She arched a brow, her smirk slow and dangerous. "I'm not in the habit of marrying men who fall in love at swordpoint."
"But you do keep them," he murmured.
Their arrival at the palace was greeted with more restraint than one might expect. The court of Velgrave, formerly Rhydir's alone, now operated under her shadow. And though none dared speak it aloud, there was one shared truth etched in every sideways glance and tight-lipped smile: the queen of fire held power none of them understood—and most were wise enough not to test it.
The council room was dimly lit, the great glass windows shrouded in red silks that doused the sunlight in blood tones. Vex stood at the head of the table, not seated. She never did. To sit was to yield comfort—to suggest permanence or invitation. She was not here to bond. She was here to be seen.
"I am not your enemy," she said, her voice cool, clear. "Not unless you choose to stand in my way."
The council of Velgrave exchanged looks. One man opened his mouth to speak, perhaps out of habit or arrogance—but when her gaze flicked to him, he faltered. Her eyes had the weight of judgment and fire. They stripped pretense to bone.
"I will not ask for loyalty," she continued. "I will not pretend diplomacy. I do not want your allegiance. I only want your silence."
Rhydir, leaned lazily against a stone column nearby, smiled into his wine cup like a wolf at a wedding. He knew her better than any of them. This was her mercy.
"If you speak against me, the land will answer," Vex added. "If you raise arms against me, the Hollow will respond. But if you do nothing—if you stay in your halls and hold your tongues—then Velgrave may remain untouched."
A younger noble cleared her throat. "And… should the king send emissaries?"
"He already has," Vex said flatly. "And they're dead."
The silence was immediate. Absolute.
Rhydir's silver eyes flicked across the table, amused. "She's kidding," he lied, casually.
Vex tilted her head. "Am I?"
He grinned wider. "Gods, I love you."
Her lips twitched. "You're insufferable."
He leaned closer, whispering with mock solemnity, "Say it again."
She didn't, but her smirk deepened—sharp and regal.
The remainder of the Velgrave summit passed like ice melting over steel. Vex answered questions without truly answering, made no promises, offered no peace treaties. She made one thing clear: her rise was inevitable, and opposition would be costly. She wanted no allies—only absence of enemies.
And then, she left.
Not just Velgrave, but on to the neighboring kingdoms who had once aligned with Elaria. Her arrival was never announced, only felt. Cities woke to phoenixes burned into their skies, serpents etched in smoke upon their towers. She came not as a diplomat, but as an omen—and each time she departed, she left behind silence more loyal than any signed accord.
Rhydir followed her through it all.
Every throne room, every foreign court, every long, torchlit hall where lords trembled at the sight of her—he was there, lounging behind her shoulder with that same amused gleam in his eye. He offered no objections when she threatened minor kings. No apologies when she cursed ambassadors. Only sly remarks, whispered suggestions, and the occasional smoldering stare that made even seasoned diplomats flush and fumble their words.
One evening, as they camped beneath the stars on a plateau overlooking the plains of Dareth, he finally voiced what had been brewing for days.
"You're not afraid they'll unite?" he asked, watching her from the edge of the firelight.
Vex, seated cross-legged near the flames, didn't look up. "They're too busy fearing me individually to organize collectively."
He considered that, then added, "Thaesen has returned."
She paused, just slightly. Her fingers tightened around the cup in her hand.
"He's brought rebels," Rhydir continued, casual but not unaffected. "The ones he gathered when he thought you were dead. Now he's brought them to your banner."
Vex said nothing for a moment, letting the fire crackle between them.
"He means well," she finally said.
Rhydir's jaw flexed. "He means to stake a claim."
She looked up, finally meeting his gaze. "You're jealous."
He didn't deny it. "I burned a kingdom for you."
"And he mourned one for me," she countered.
"Not the same," Rhydir muttered. "I made you my equal. He wants to remember you as something you no longer are."
Vex rose slowly, moving toward him. "You think I don't know the difference?"
He stood too, his presence suddenly taller, sharper, his voice low. "I think you're still deciding if you forgive him."
Her expression cooled. Regal. Unreadable. "Forgiveness isn't something I trade in."
"And what about me?" Rhydir asked, stepping closer. "Am I just your blade? Your shadow?"
"You're mine," she said, simply. "That is more than most get."
He stared at her for a beat, then nodded, lips curling. "Fine. But if he tries to touch you, I'm ripping his spine out."
She arched a brow. "Noted."
They fell into silence again, the stars wheeling overhead. The land lay dark and trembling beneath them, kingdoms holding their breath, unsure if they were next to be burned or spared.
Behind them, Irene approached—the ever-silent, loyal maid Vex had taken in weeks ago, now clad in dark velvet and crimson sashes. A former broken thing, now something more.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, bowing.
Vex turned. "Yes?"
"Another gift arrived from the capital. A letter. Sealed in gold."
Vex's lips twisted in disdain. "Alaric?"
Irene nodded. "He requests a summit."
Rhydir snorted. "Let me guess. 'In the name of peace.'"
Vex took the letter without opening it. She tossed it into the fire.
"We do not kneel to ash."