Chapter 3 003

The manor had not forgotten her.

As dusk thickened across the tangle of wild hedges and leaning towers, Seraphina stood in the grand hall of Trelling House and felt the weight of generations pressing in around her. Every creak of old timber, every sigh of wind through shattered panes felt like a whisper-memories begging to be heard.

Cael lit a single oil lamp on the desk, its flicker sending gold shadows climbing up the cracked spines of books and the ornate wallpaper now faded to ash-gray. He said little as she paced, her boots trailing ghost-dust across marble. She didn't speak either. Words felt too fragile for the storm building inside her.

"You don't have to decide tonight," he said finally.

But she did. She could feel it in her bones, humming like a string pulled taut.

"This blood moon," she said. "Where is it happening?"

"Velgrave," Cael replied. "The High City. Beneath the royal observatory. They gather there every ten years, always under the same pretense-'astral guidance for the realm's prosperity.' Lies. It's where they bargain in secrets."

"And you're certain they'll name a false heir?"

"I'm certain they already have. There are whispers of a girl being groomed in secret. She'll wear a forged sigil, recite a false lineage, and be crowned in your place before the moon sets."

Seraphina turned from the window. "And no one will question it?"

"Some will. The older families. But most won't dare. Too many hands are bloodstained by what was done to House Trelling. If they raise doubts, they'll fall next."

She stared at him, trying to read between the careful words. "And what do you want from me, Cael? Why now?"

He hesitated.

"I served your father for fifteen years," he said. "I watched as he was torn from this house, his name smeared across every court ledger in the realm. And I watched your mother die defending something more than bloodlines-something she never spoke aloud. A truth buried so deep, she thought it might be forgotten."

He stepped closer, shadows playing along the scar on his brow.

"But it wasn't forgotten. Not by me. And not by the people who would see the world burn before letting a Trelling rise again."

His voice dropped, heavy with conviction. "You are the key, Seraphina. Not just to justice-for your family, or even the throne. But to stopping what comes next."

"What comes next?"

"The war they're building," he said. "The false heir is only the beginning."

She crossed her arms, steadying herself. "So we expose her."

Cael nodded. "But to do that, you need allies. You need to be seen. You must become Seraphina Trelling again-not Faye Whitlow. Not a courier girl hiding in alley shadows. You need to claim your name."

The words felt like a summons. Like a trial.

Her name was both blade and burden. But in it, there was also power. She had spent a decade burying her past-but the past had clawed its way back. It had found her, called her home, and now it demanded something more.

"Then we start here," she said.

Cael raised a brow. "Here?"

"This house is my blood," she said. "And if I'm to rise, I do so from where I fell."

The next morning, she rose with the sun.

Dawn broke through the cracked glass dome above the atrium, painting the dust motes in amber and rose. Seraphina found herself in the old music room, hands brushing over a piano long out of tune. She pressed a key. A soft, discordant clang answered her.

Even broken things had voices.

Cael met her in the armory-what was left of it. Most of the weapons were gone, looted or lost, but a few remained. She claimed a short sword, balanced and quick. It fit her hand as though it had waited for her return.

She strapped it beneath her coat, not for show-but because power meant nothing if you couldn't protect it.

In the days that followed, she and Cael began rebuilding. Not the house-though she cleared rooms, swept ash from the hearths, re-hung what few portraits had survived. No, they rebuilt herself. Her image. Her identity.

Cael taught her to ride again, to speak with authority, to read court language like a second tongue. They reviewed lineages, studied current alliances and power blocs. Seraphina trained until her muscles burned and her lungs ached. Until she was more than a girl in hiding. Until she could stand in a room and make others see her.

By the fourth day, word began to stir.

A rider from the north had spotted a fire burning in the manor tower.

A courier claimed he saw a woman with violet eyes cross the East Gate.

In taverns and temples and the edges of court gossip, a name returned like a storm wind: Trelling.

"She'll draw them to us," Cael said.

"Let them come," Seraphina replied.

That night, a messenger came to the gates.

A young boy, barely ten, pale with fright. In his trembling hand was a scroll sealed in crimson wax. Not the royal crest-but a serpent coiled around a rose.

Seraphina broke it open.

To the living ghost who walks the ruins of her inheritance-

You tread ground you do not own.

Leave now, or be buried in it.

There will be no second warning.

The signature was nothing but a stylized M.

"Melvane," Cael growled. "Of course."

"Who is she?"

"Lady Elowen Melvane. Cousin to the High Regent. Ruthless, ambitious, and a high priestess of the Old Faith. She's been angling for power since before the war. If anyone's behind the false heir, it's her."

Seraphina read the message again.

"She's afraid."

Cael gave her a sidelong look. "You think a threat means fear?"

"Yes," she said. "Because if I were nothing, she wouldn't bother threatening me at all."

The fifth night brought the blood moon.

It rose like a wound behind the hills-deep red, full, and monstrous. It turned the broken stained glass windows into rubies, the ivy on the walls into bleeding veins. A terrible, beautiful omen.

Cael stood beside her on the west balcony, his coat flaring in the wind.

"The gathering begins in Velgrave by midnight," he said. "They'll crown the false heir before sunrise."

Seraphina looked down at the grounds. Three riders waited below, each clad in different colors-emerald, cobalt, and onyx.

"They came?"

"They did. Lord Bram of Solmere. Lady Nyla of the Lower Marches. And Commander Ethryn of the Obsidian Guard."

"Loyalists?"

"No," Cael said. "But they are... curious. Enough to listen."

Seraphina drew in a breath.

"Then let's give them something to believe in."

The great hall had been swept clean, the banners re-hung. The raven of Trelling flew once more, black on silver.

She stood at the head of the long table, no throne behind her-only the great hearth and its eternal shadow.

The three visitors entered one by one, their steps cautious, eyes sharp. None bowed. None smiled.

But they listened.

Seraphina spoke not of destiny or divine right, but of justice. Of what had been done.