The capital had been warned. Not long, not with the speed of riders against winter winds, but warned enough. By the time the Crown Prince’s party crested the rise of the great northern road, the streets of Valenfor were already filled with banners and bodies. Bells rang in uneven rhythm, as though pulled awake too early from sleep, and the soldiers of the royal guard had scraped together a parade that looked polished only because of their discipline.

  Merchants shuttered their stalls and crossed themselves with nervous hands. Beggars spat curses as the procession passed, while children craned between their parents’ legs, eyes wide with equal parts wonder and fear. From a high balcony, jeweled courtiers leaned out, whispering, ‘LeFaye’s blood, here?’ with sharp delight.

  From the alleys came the hiss of Sanctum loyalists, spitting on the cobblestones as she passed. Yet not all voices cursed. A farmer’s wife pressed her child forward for a better look, her eyes wide with something closer to awe than fear. An old man stared at Selene, and a single tear rolled down his face. He bowed his head, murmuring, “The First Coven will walk again.” he then vanished into the crowd. The city breathed with a divided pulse, half venom, half wonder.

  Eyes darted between the Prince on his black charger and the woman who did not bother to ride a horse at all.

  Selene drifted forward upon her staff, feet dangling lazily, her back reclined as though the whole procession were beneath her notice. The iron-shod hooves of the guard’s horses rang in harsh counterpoint to the soft hum of Vaylora that bled from her hovering staff.

  The guards flanking her hated it. Their jaws were clenched tight, hands white-knuckled on spears, as though her defiance mocked their formation. Kaelen finally muttered under his breath, “A witch flaunts herself in the Emperor’s city…”

  Selene turned her head, the violet tint in her black hair catching the light, and let her smile stretch just wide enough to sting. “I act as what I am,” she said clearly enough for the front ranks to hear. “Princess of the Hallows. Princess of Altheryon. Both free magic states. Why should I pretend otherwise?”

  The Crown Prince, riding tall beside her, smirked faintly. “She’s right. Better to wear what she is openly. Shows she has no ulterior motives.”

  Maelis snapped back as she whispered, “But she does.”

  Selene arched her brow, eyes glittering. “True,” she said sweetly. “But not everyone needs to know that.”

  She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers toward a cluster of children squeezed together on a corner. They squealed, half giggling, half terrified, and fled back into the crowd. Selene’s smile softened.

  Her gaze rose to the city. She had expected every archway to be branded with the Sanctum’s sigils, every corner watched by their priests. Yet the church’s mark was not as suffocating as in the outlying cities. Theirs was a quieter presence here — subtle crosses etched into marble, a shrine’s lantern here or there. Still, she caught the glares, the narrowed eyes that followed her: some from fear, some from hate. She could not tell if they saw a witch or a rival princess. Perhaps both.

  The great iron gates of the palace loomed soon after, flanked by armored guards in dragon-crested helms. They saluted the Crown Prince with booming voices, then their eyes cut toward Selene.

  “Your Highness,” one said stiffly, “all weapons must be surrendered before entering, even by foreign guests.” His chin pointed toward Selene’s staff.

  Selene’s laugh was quiet, almost pitying. “Ceremonial at best, good soldier. Take it if you wish, but I can call it back to my side from anywhere on this planet. Your regulation is… quaint.”

  The guard blinked, frozen.

  His hand twitched toward the haft of his spear, but he did not lift it. The man beside him whispered a prayer, thumb brushing the sign of thorns across his chest, while another shifted as though to step between Selene and the Prince. The formation bent like iron under heat — discipline holding, but barely.

  The Prince pinched the bridge of his nose. “Selene. Can you please just play nice? Put the damn thing away, love.”

  She sighed, then twirled her fingers. The staff dissolved into a swirl of black void that snapped shut at her side. Selene lifted both hands in exaggerated surrender toward the still-dumbstruck guard. “There. You see? I obey when commanded sweetly.”

  The guard swallowed hard, nodding once, and stepped aside.

  The palace was less a fortress of sorcery than of power. Gothic arches climbed like ribs above their heads. Great silk banners hung between iron sconces. The stone was carved not with spells but with the hard, clean precision of masons who knew permanence mattered more than ornament.

  Statues of dragon-progenitors lined the corridor, their stone eyes polished smooth by centuries of fearful hands brushing them for luck. Murals of conquest stretched across the vaulted ceilings: kings in ash-helmets carving empires. The air smelled faintly of soot and incense, as though fire had long ago seeped into the bones of the stone.

  Selene’s eyes traced the lines, comparing without thinking. “It may lack the living pulse of the Clock Hand Tower,” she murmured, “but not the worst.”

  The Prince chuckled. “Not as grand as your crystal monolith. But it has its charms.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He led her deeper, boots striking hollow against the marble floor, until they reached the throne room’s great doors.

  Inside, the hall was already heavy with bodies and voices.

  Two Princesses, three Princes — the Emperor’s brood, scattered along the flanks of the chamber like glittering ornaments. Many were older than the Crown Prince, their eyes sharp with calculation. Grand Dukes stood with their retinues, draped in silks and steel. Nobles pressed shoulder to shoulder. One princess, tall and austere, lifted a fan to her lips and whispered behind its painted silk, her eyes never leaving Selene.

  A younger prince leaned eagerly forward, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile too quick to hide. And all the while, the Sanctum’s clerics stood unmoving, their eyes burning holes through Selene as though they could set her alight by hatred alone.

  Selene’s breath stilled as her gaze finally lifted to the throne.

  The man who sat there looked no older. His hair was a glossy black, his face sculpted like a warrior’s in his prime, his frame broad as if carved from iron. Yet Selene knew the truth — he was her senior by at least 50 years.

  Dragon-blood ran in his veins, twisted by mutation. He could not wield Vaylora as a spell or seal. Instead, his body itself was magic: muscles like stone, bones that mended in days, skin that shrugged off blades. He aged more slowly than any man should, healing as monsters did. This was the curse, or blessing, for all those who inherited the blood of ash. All except Cassian, who was blessed with his father's body and the magic of his mother. Of his siblings, he is the only one who shares blood with his mother.

  The Emperor sat upon a throne of hardened Ash, carved with the shapes of dragons. Its edges smoldered faintly, soot drifting off into the air, but its dark sheen never dulled. Its structure is never faulting.

  For an instant, Selene felt like she was looking at a being comparable to her grandmother: implacable, vast, impossible to ignore.

  The Emperor leaned his jaw upon his hand and smirked.

  Selene bowed low, grace in every line of her motion. “I, Princess Selene Altheryon LeFaye, greet His Majesty.”

  A scoff rumbled from his chest. “My son finally brings home something interesting. Tell me, little witch — why have you come to my capital?”

  Selene’s lips curved bright. “To rebuild the First Coven. I have heard whispers that descendants of its blood may sit among your nobility.”

  The chamber fractured into uproar.

  Gasps first, sharp and disbelieving. Then the shouts — denial, curses, accusations- were hurled across the chamber. A noble shoved another aside, snarling, “Your grandmother’s line was close to hers — admit it!” Priests raised their staves and made the sign of thorns in the air, warding themselves against corruption.

  Grand Dukes murmured to their retainers, calculating lineages, their glances cutting across the hall like knives. One Duke muttered, too loudly, “If she is right, half our houses are compromised.” Another, younger and sharper, leaned to his retinue and whispered, “Or strengthened. Imagine binding that blood to our line.” One of the Emperor’s daughters hid a smile behind her fan, eyes glittering as though she had just discovered a new game.

  At Selene's side, the Prince leaned low, whispering through his teeth. “Wise, to speak so plainly?”

  Selene’s gaze flicked over the crowd. “Do you suggest I work in shadows? Kidnap nobles in the night? That would cause war faster than the truth. This way, at least, the game is honest.”

  The words had barely left her lips when one of the Sanctum’s representatives stepped forward, his face a mask of fury. “This girl cannot be heard! She is a witch drenched in blood, responsible for the death of countless Inquisitors!”

  Many nobles shouted in agreement. For a moment, the throne room was less a court than a marketplace brawl, voices colliding until the Emperor’s silence cut them down.

  The Emperor raised one hand. Silence fell like a hammer. His eyes bored into Selene. “That remains to be seen. Tell me, little lady — are you the Selene the church speaks of?”

  Her chin lifted. “Yes.”

  “Did you kill Garran and his men?”

  “Yes.”

  Murmurs rippled again, choked and sharp. The Emperor’s smoldering throne creaked faintly as he shifted, ash scattering like snow. Heat seemed to roll from him, subtle but undeniable, and even the nearest nobles leaned back as though scorched.

  Someone whispered, “She’ll hang for this,” but another, older and sharper, murmured, “Or she’ll break the Sanctum’s chokehold.” Each answer from Selene fanning ambition and dread alike.

  “And what gives you the courage to waltz into my hall after causing such trouble?”

  Selene’s smile sharpened. Her eyes flicked deliberately toward the priest. “Your son asked me the same. My answer remains: I cause no trouble for your empire. My quarrel is with the church. So tell me, Emperor — does the throne rule this land, or does the Sanctum?”

  For a long moment, there was silence. The Prince and Princess looked at Selene like they were observing the most fascinating creature they had ever seen. Then the Emperor’s laugh burst out, deep and rolling, filling the vaulted chamber. He turned his head toward his son. “And what answer did you give her, boy?”

  The Prince straightened. “None. Not then.”

  “Then give her one now.”

  The Crown Prince’s eyes cut to the Sanctum’s men. His voice rang out clearly. “We answer to the ash. The only authority in Valenfor sits on the throne.”

  The Princes and Princesses all smiled as they looked at their youngest and then smirked at the representatives of the church. None of them cared much for the Sanctum of Thorns.

  The Emperor nodded, satisfaction thick in his smile. “Well said.”

  The words had barely settled when the chamber doors slammed open.

  A guard stumbled in, bowing low. “Your Majesty! Garran’s heir requests to join the proceedings.”

  The Emperor chuckled low, eyes sliding to Selene. “Do you mind, Princess?”

  Selene’s laugh was bright and cutting. “Another pair of eyes will not matter. And I would hate to rob you of your entertainment.”

  The Emperor’s shoulders shook with amusement. “The LeFayes are as interesting as I hoped. Very well. Let him in.”

  The doors yawned wider.

  Boots struck the stone. The echo carried down the hall, each step deliberate, unhurried, impossible to ignore. A hush fell heavy over the nobles; even the Sanctum priests stiffened, their mouths pinched shut. Selene turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing, as the doors gaped wider. A figure in bloodstained armor filled the frame, the firelight from the Emperor’s throne painting him in stark silhouette.

  Darius Veyle had come. All eyes turned to him, but Selene’s smile only sharpened. A new piece had stepped onto the board.