Chapter 5 005

The road to Velgrave wound like a serpent through thickets of pine and veils of fog. It was not marked on any map-not the one Cael carried tucked in his cloak, nor the one etched into the minds of old couriers. This road was memory-born, made by the steps of those who'd fled or returned in silence.

The party traveled with quiet urgency. Four riders. One carriage. No banners, no livery. Only the crunch of hooves on damp earth and the rustle of wind through leaves.

Inside the carriage, Seraphina sat with gloved hands folded on her lap, posture straight despite the jostling. Across from her, Nyla sipped broth from a pewter cup, fingers stained with ink. She'd spent the previous night redrafting an old House Trelling lineage scroll, tightening language, inserting annotations. There could be no gaps. No missteps. A single contradiction in court and Seraphina would be laughed out as a girl playing at crowns.

"You'll enter the city not as a beggar returned," Nyla had said, "but as a contender. They must never see you kneel."

Outside, Cael rode just ahead of the carriage, scouting bends and shadowed glens. His sword rested loosely across his lap, eyes ever-watchful. Behind them trailed Bram and Thorne, grim silhouettes against dawn.

They made camp in a hollow the first night, tucked between two outcroppings of moss-slick stone. No fire. Only salted meat and dried apples, eaten with eyes fixed outward.

It was Thorne who finally spoke as they settled beneath tarps.

"You've read the laws, studied the houses. But do you know the city?"

Seraphina glanced up. "Enough to know it won't welcome me."

Thorne snorted. "It won't even notice you. Not at first. It's too busy pretending not to rot."

"Then I'll give it something it can't ignore," Seraphina said, her voice low.

Bram, who had been rolling a map beside her, gave a grunt. "You'll have to. Velgrave is a feast of old blood and newer gold. And right now, it's hungriest for silence."

They traveled through villages where windows shuttered at the sound of hooves. Through woods too quiet for spring. Past crossroads where scavenger crows circled lazily, as if waiting for something to die.

At midday on the second day, a rider passed them going west-young, hurried, his cloak torn, eyes wide.

"Ahead," he said, barely slowing, "troop patrols, twenty strong. Black helms. Not High Guard."

Thorne swore under her breath. "Mercenaries."

Seraphina pulled back the curtain. "Sent by whom?"

"No sigils," Cael said. "But armed like royal sanction. Someone doesn't want the borders too quiet."

They veered east, into a game trail barely wide enough for the carriage. Tree limbs clawed at the canvas, tore at cloaks and sleeves. But they pressed on.

That night they rested in a sunken ruin-once a watchtower, now a graveyard of ivy and stone. Thorne stood watch with Bram while Nyla tended Seraphina's garments with expert hands.

"You must learn to turn their eyes, not just their ears," Nyla said. "They see before they listen. Dismiss before they doubt."

Seraphina studied her reflection in the shard of mirror Nyla handed her. The steel-blue gown had held its shape despite travel. The pendant gleamed faintly with each movement. Her face was pale, cheeks hollowed by weeks of training and grief-but her eyes were firelit.

Not the wide, frightened gaze of the girl who had fled the palace after the coup-but the stare of someone who had walked through embers and come out etched in smoke.

She set down the mirror.

"Will I pass for power?" she asked.

Nyla looked at her for a long moment.

"No," she said softly. "You'll pass for reckoning."

At dawn on the third day, the spires of Velgrave broke through the mist like blades stabbed into sky. The city loomed vast and uneven-half of it built on ancient hills, the other half spread like a tangle of roots. Bastion towers flanked the northern gates, manned by guards in crimson cloaks.

"New regency colors," Bram muttered.

"Red for blood," Cael said.

They took the lower gate-the traders' path-where bribes spoke faster than titles. Bram and Thorne handled the gatekeeper. Cael watched the rooftops. Nyla adjusted the folds of Seraphina's cloak.

Inside, the city was a fever dream of contrasts. Ornate balconies and soot-streaked alleys. Perfumed nobles drifting past fishmongers. Criers preaching war beside beggars with empty bowls.

Whispers chased them through the lanes.

"Did you see her?"

"Looks like-no, it couldn't be-"

"A Trelling ghost, some say."

They arrived at the townhouse that night-a half-abandoned estate in the Lavender Quarters, its once-white stone gone gray with age. Ethryn's captain had secured it under a merchant's alias.

It would be their base. Their forge.

The interior still bore the dust of neglect. Tapestries moth-eaten. Staircases creaking. But the bones of nobility remained.

"Clean it," Nyla ordered. "Light no fires at the windows. And send no letters unless coded."

That evening, Seraphina stood on the balcony overlooking the garden. The scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. Below, she saw Cael pacing, muttering under his breath as he reviewed their plan.

She turned at the sound of soft steps.

Bram.

He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

"You did it," he said. "You're in the city. With allies, even. That's no small thing."

"No," she said. "But it's not enough."

He nodded, silent for a moment. Then: "You should know, there's been word. The coronation is moved up. Five nights from now."

Seraphina's breath caught.

"So soon?"

"They're rushing," Bram said. "Someone knows you're close."

She looked down at the city, its lights flickering like a nest of fireflies. "Then we move faster."

The next morning, the city buzzed with news of an anonymous claim to the Old Line. Rumors spread like spilled ink. A noblewoman from the North. A bastard daughter of the late queen. A ghost risen from the Trelling ruins.

It was working. The tremors had begun.

But with every rumor came danger.

That night, as Seraphina studied an old record of treaty law, a dagger embedded itself in the wooden post beside her head.

She froze.

Cael was there in seconds, sword drawn, scanning the shadows. Bram burst through the far door. Nyla followed with a lamp.

A slip of parchment was tied to the dagger's hilt.

"Go back to dust. Or we'll bury you in it."

Nyla cursed. "We need tighter security."

Seraphina pulled the dagger free and handed it to Cael. "Let them send threats. It means they're afraid."

But fear had a cost. They doubled the guard at the townhouse. Thorne brought word that a bounty had been posted under the name "The Violet Flame"-code for any claimants tied to Trelling.

Still, they worked.

Seraphina walked the old chapel hidden beneath the city-the one where the last Queen had prayed during the war of succession. She lit candles in silence. And with every step, she felt something ancient stir.

The people were not yet hers.

But the city? The city was beginning to remember.

Two days before the coronation, they received an invitation.

A ball. Held in honor of the regency council. Hosted by House Elvarre-neutral in name, but known for weighing favor by the coin.

Seraphina stared at the parchment, the calligraphy precise, mocking.

"They know we're here," Cael said. "And they want to see you up close."

"Then let them," she replied.

Nyla summoned the dressmaker again. A new gown-darker, sharper. Black velvet laced with sapphire, stitched with the old sigils in thread visible only in low light. A gown not for mourning, but defiance.

Thorne secured escape routes. Bram arranged for diversionary riders in case of ambush.

The night of the ball, they rode in silence.

The palace of House Elvarre rose like a crown of thorns-glass and onyx, all angles and flame-lit grandeur. Courtiers gathered like crows in finery, laughing through their teeth.

And when Seraphina stepped onto the marble floor, time stilled.

Every head turned. Whispers halted mid-word.

She walked with deliberate grace, chin lifted, steps echoing against a music that suddenly felt too soft.

At the top of the grand stair, the regent stood.

Tall. Smiling.

And beside him... a girl.

Wearing sapphire.

With Seraphina's eyes.

Cael tensed at her side. "What in the-"

"She's not you," Nyla said flatly. "But she's meant to be."

A pretender. A puppet in her image.

Seraphina felt the heat rise to her throat-but she didn't falter.

She stepped forward, voice clear.

"You have my eyes," she said to the girl. "But not my name."

The room gasped.

The regent's smile wavered.

And Seraphina knew then-the war had moved from whispers to war drums.

And she would not yield.