The archives beneath the royal chapel had been sealed since before Queen Amelthea's reign.
It took Camden, three royal locksmiths, and Elyra's flame-glyphs to open the final door.
What we found wasn't scripture.
It was strategy.
Scroll after scroll of names, rituals, bloodline grafting, magical blueprints for designed heirs—not born of family, but of purpose. Of fear.
Kael read aloud:
> "The Fractured Crown shall rise in the event of Vault failure. It is not a family, but a function. Not legacy, but leverage.
Should the kingdom fracture under moral stewards, a perfected heir shall reclaim it by right of force, not sentiment."
I stepped back, heart pounding.
"They created her," I whispered. "Veyra. Not to inherit the kingdom—but to conquer it if we let it heal."
Camden's voice was dry. "Plan B, in case you chose peace over dominion."
Elyra turned the page.
It showed a symbol burned into parchment: a split crown, flame on one side, void on the other.
"They've always known," she said. "They prepared for it. In case truth wasn't enough."
---
That same night, Kael stood alone on the southern battlements, watching the moon reflect over the glass roofs of the capital.
He hadn't said much since our return from the Hollow Spire.
But I knew what weighed on him.
Frost.
Not just the power. The origin.
---
He confessed in whispers.
"I've felt it since I was a child. The cold. It wasn't just magic. It was… withdrawal. My body reacting to something I never understood."
He held out his hand. Ice coiled around his wrist in patterns that weren't his.
Elyra examined them under the lantern glow. "These aren't natural. They're implanted."
Kael's voice was raw. "The Fractured Crown didn't just build heirs of flame. They made counterbalances. In case the Vault's chosen couldn't be controlled."
I stepped beside him. "You think you're one of their weapons."
He met my gaze.
"No. I think I was made to kill you, if you ever lost control."
The silence between us cut deeper than any blade.
---
Back in the city, whispers spread like rot.
Not of war. Not of magic.
But of doubt.
Farmers spoke of crops shriveling under snow during summer.
Priests questioned if the Vault had truly opened in peace, or if it had cursed the land.
Nobles who once bowed began meeting in secret chambers again.
And Veyra?
She let them whisper.
She fed them.
With forged documents. Twisted prophecies. Apparitions designed to mimic Vault effects.
She didn't attack us head-on.
She made the people start to wonder:
> "What if the real villain wasn't the Cardinal?"
"What if the Vault-bearers opened a door they weren't meant to survive?"
"What if the flame lies?"
---
I stood in the throne room days later, watching Elyra draw diagrams of the three Vaults' magic lines across a table of sand.
She looked up. "She's turning hearts against us."
I nodded. "Then we need to turn truth into action."
Kael entered, frost trailing lightly behind his boots.
"They've called a council of lords," he said. "They want a vote to strip our guardianship. Replace it with a new heir."
I didn't ask who.
I already knew.
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