Chapter 8: The Binding Fire
The palace trembled at dawn.
Not from footsteps or war—but from magic. Ancient, hungry, and no longer asleep.
Liora stood at the edge of the sacred courtyard, the Crown Tree behind her, flickering like a candle in wind. The visions from her mother's book haunted her—prophecies of a palace swallowed in flame, of kings who lost themselves, and of a queen who could bend the weave of fate.
Kaelen had gone to confront the Council. He wanted to protect her with law.
But the law had never protected women like her. Witches. Heirs of forbidden bloodlines. Queens not born but made.
Liora touched the roots of the Crown Tree. They pulsed faintly, like veins beneath skin.
"I don't want a throne," she whispered. "I want truth."
A soft voice replied, not in her ears—but in her mind.
Then burn for it.
The tree lit up like lightning.
Spirits screamed from its bark, not in pain—but in joy. The Choosing had never been about love. It had been about balance—and Ilyrá was off its axis.
Magic tore through the air.
Fire spilled from the tree in violet flame, swirling around Liora, lifting her off her feet. The sky turned silver. And in the distance, every bell in the city began to ring.
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Elsewhere in the palace, chaos erupted.
Maevia stood on the council dais, pointing at Kaelen. "You've doomed us!"
"No," Kaelen said, his sword in hand, "you doomed us when you turned the council into a cult of fear."
He turned to the others. "You've seen what's coming. The masked figure, the corruption in our wards, the decay in our roots. Liora is the key—not the threat."
"She carries wildfire in her blood," Lord Edrin growled.
"She carries truth," Kaelen shouted. "And she's the only one who can survive what's coming."
The council chamber cracked—literally. Lines of flame burst from the walls as the palace groaned like a dying beast.
The masked figure stepped out of the shadows.
It was not a man.
It was something else—made of smoke and memory, wearing a stolen face, feeding off the throne's ancient bindings.
"You've ruled too long without balance," it hissed. "Now the old fire returns."
Kaelen raised his sword, but the shadow lashed at him with spectral chains.
Then—
Liora appeared.
Wrapped in violet fire, her feet didn't touch the ground. Her eyes were lit with spiritlight. The tree had not chosen her to love the king.
It had chosen her to save him.
She flung her hand toward the shadow.
And spoke a word lost to history.
"Serathiel."
The chamber exploded in white flame.
When the smoke cleared, the shadow was gone, screaming into the depths below.
Kaelen lay on the steps, dazed, burned—but alive.
Liora knelt beside him.
"You still want truth?" she asked softly.
Kaelen coughed. "Only if you're in it."
She smiled.
Behind them, the council stared in stunned silence.
And Maevia—on her knees—knew she had lost.
Not just the crown.
But the war.