Chapter 2 002

In the shadowed city of Halverton, where the fog hung thick like secrets and the river ran black with forgotten sins, Seraphina Trelling walked the world like a ghost.

Ten years had passed since her name was last spoken without fear. Ten years since the flames tore through Trelling House, licking at marble walls and silken banners, devouring the remnants of a noble bloodline that once stood unshakable. The fire had consumed her childhood, her mother, and the innocence of a girl who had yet to understand the weight of legacy.

Now, she was Faye Whitlow. A quiet girl in a gray cloak, her hair always tucked beneath her hood, her voice low and her steps measured. She delivered letters, helped the cathedral sisters with their ledgers, and kept to herself. It was a small life-but a safe one.

Or so she had believed.

It began with a whisper-an old woman in the bookbindery murmuring of a bounty posted in secret: Five hundred crowns for the name of a girl with violet eyes. A trait that had once been the pride of House Trelling. A trait that marked Seraphina like a target no cloak could hide.

Then came the man in the dark coat, gloves on in the heat, glassy-eyed and asking questions. And then, the letter. Tucked inside an old law book beneath her floorboards. Inked in silver.

They know you live. You have until the blood moon. Come to Trelling House.

There was no signature, but the words carried the weight of the man who had written them-Lord Auren Trelling. Her father.

A traitor. A man imprisoned behind mountain walls for plotting against the Crown. He was supposed to be rotting away, his name erased from every ledger that once bore it. So how had he written to her? Who had helped him?

And more importantly-why now?

The blood moon rose in five days. A sign, the old texts said, of endings. And of things buried clawing their way back into the light.

Seraphina packed lightly. She took only what she could carry: a satchel, a flask of bitterleaf, a knife, and a ring shaped like a raven-her mother's ring. The symbol of House Trelling. Once, it had been her talisman. Now, it was a reminder that the past could never truly be forgotten.

The path to Trelling House was overgrown, its cobblestones cracked and devoured by moss. The city had turned its back on the estate long ago, shunning it like a cursed relic. Windows shattered, doors left to rot. The once-manicured gardens were now a snarl of wild vines and thorns, crawling up the gates like they too were trying to escape.

She hesitated at the threshold. The iron gates groaned as she pushed them open, and the scent of damp stone and ash filled her lungs. The house loomed before her, just as she remembered-grand, imposing, and silent. It was as if time had stopped the moment she fled, freezing everything in grief.

Inside, the halls were dark. Dust clung to every surface, and echoes trailed her footsteps like the ghosts of the people who had once filled this place with laughter and music. Her mother's portrait still hung above the staircase, its eyes following her with the same sad wisdom Seraphina remembered. She reached up and brushed her fingers along the frame.

"I came back," she whispered.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

She spun, knife in hand.

But it wasn't a ghost. Not yet.

He stood at the edge of the shadows-a tall man with a soldier's posture and sharp eyes that gave nothing away. His coat was dark, buttoned high, and a faint scar split his brow. She didn't know his name, but something about him pulled at the edges of memory, like a voice once heard in a dream.

"I didn't expect you to come," he said.

Seraphina tightened her grip on the knife. "And yet here I am."

"You shouldn't have come alone."

"I didn't have much choice."

He stepped into the light, and she caught the glint of something silver at his collar-a pin shaped like the raven of Trelling. No one had worn that symbol in a decade. Not without risk of death.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm called Cael," he replied. "I was your father's steward. Once."

"And now?"

"Now," he said, voice quiet, "I serve you."

She stared at him, disbelief clawing up her throat. "You're mistaken. I don't need a steward. I'm not-"

"You are Seraphina Trelling," he said. "The last living heir. Whether you claim it or not, the blood in your veins says otherwise. And the blood moon is rising."

She faltered.

"How do I know this isn't a trap?" she asked.

Cael didn't flinch. "If it were, you'd already be dead."

He turned and began walking toward the study, expecting her to follow. She did.

The room was just as she remembered. Her father's desk-enormous and baroque-stood at the center, layered in dust. Shelves lined the walls, most of them empty now. Looted. The family seal had been scorched into the hearthstone, half-erased by time and ash.

Cael pulled a faded map from a drawer and unrolled it across the desk.

"Your father escaped three months ago," he said. "But he's not the one sending bounty hunters after you. He's trying to stop them."

She blinked. "Stop them? Why?"

"Because the people after you don't just want your blood-they want your name. They want the last heir of Trelling to legitimize their claim."

Seraphina felt the blood drain from her face. "Claim to what?"

Cael looked up at her, his expression grim. "To the throne."

The revelation settled over the room like smoke. Trelling had never been royal. Nobility, yes-ancient, proud, powerful. But not of the direct royal line.

"At least," Cael said, "not until now."

He slid a second piece of parchment from the drawer-yellowed and brittle. A birth record. Seraphina's.

She scanned it quickly, her eyes catching on the seal pressed into the lower corner.

It wasn't the Trelling crest.

It was the royal one.

"This is a forgery," she said, but her voice shook.

"No," Cael said. "It's the truth your mother died to protect. You're not just a Trelling. Your mother was of royal blood-hidden, married in secret during the war to keep her safe. The line that died in the fire... it wasn't the end."

Seraphina stared at the document, her world tilting.

"You expect me to believe I'm the heir to the throne?"

"No," Cael said. "I expect you to understand why they want you dead."

The pieces began to fall into place like shards of broken glass. The bounty. The message. The shadows following her through the alleys. The man in gloves.

"They want me gone because I'm a threat," she whispered.

Cael nodded. "Your blood could undo everything they've built. There's a faction-hidden within the court-who rose to power after the fire. They've ruled in the vacuum your family left behind. But they rule through fear, not law. If the people knew the heir still lived..."

He didn't need to finish.

Seraphina turned away from the desk and crossed to the window, staring out over the overgrown gardens. The wind tugged at the ivy, and something ancient stirred in her chest. A memory of her mother's lullabies, her father's booming laughter, the feel of marble floors beneath her bare feet.

"I don't want to be Queen," she said.

Cael's voice was soft. "Wanting has nothing to do with it."

She closed her eyes.

For ten years, she had run from her name, her blood, her birthright. She had buried it beneath layers of silence, afraid that remembering would destroy her. But now, forgetting might destroy everything else.

"What happens at the blood moon?" she asked.

"There's a gathering," Cael said. "The conspirators meet to renew their pact. If you appear-alive, undeniable-they'll be forced to reckon with the truth."

"And if I don't?"

"They'll name a false heir. A puppet. And crown them in your place."

Seraphina turned back to face him. "Then we don't wait for them to come to me. We go to them."

A faint smile ghosted across Cael's lips. "Then the Trellings rise again."

Outside, the wind howled through the hollow bones of the house, and the sky darkened with the coming storm. But within the manor's ruined heart, something stirred. A fire, long buried, flared to life.

The hidden heiress had returned.

And the game had only just begun.