The Council of Lords gathered beneath the Great Dome—where the sun filtered through violet glass, casting light that felt like judgment.
They came dressed in tradition: sashes, rings, wax-sealed records of lineage. Not one of them carried a sword.
They didn't need to.
Paper could cut deeper than steel.
---
Kael stood beside me in ceremonial black and silver, his frost barely contained beneath his cuffs. Elyra remained seated behind us in silence, hands folded over a flame-inscribed codex—a relic from the Vault meant to symbolize peace.
But none of the lords looked at her.
They only looked at me.
The woman who had opened the Vault.
Who had cracked the foundation of their legacy.
Who now stood accused of destabilizing the realm—not through violence… but truth.
---
Duke Belmere stood first.
"Lady Seraphina Vale, Flamebearer and Vaultbound, do you deny that since the Vault opened, our crops have failed, our skies have turned, and ancient enemies stir in our borders?"
I spoke clearly.
"No. But I deny that the Vault caused it. The Vault revealed it. The cracks were always there. You simply painted over them with gold."
A murmur swept the chamber.
Lady Marwyn rose next.
"If the Vault awakened these threats, then you must carry the weight of them. Alone. And yet you stand with two others."
She pointed at Elyra.
"A child of prophecy."
Then at Kael.
"A prince not named by the crown."
Kael's voice turned cold. "I never asked for a crown. I asked for justice."
---
The vote began.
Each noble would speak once. A single phrase:
"Preserve" — to retain our guardianship.
"Disband" — to strip it, and name a new heir: Veyra.
One by one, they stood.
Disband.
Disband.
Preserve.
Disband.
The tide was turning against us.
I gripped the edge of the table, heart steady, rage barely contained.
Not because they didn't trust us.
But because they were willing to hand the realm to a ghost in red cloth—someone engineered for control, who had shown no proof of mercy or purpose beyond conquest.
---
Before the final lord could speak, the room grew cold.
Not from Kael.
From the doors.
They burst open on a gust of unnatural wind.
Veyra stood in the threshold, draped in black and crimson, behind her—
Six figures clad in froststeel.
Their armor hissed with elemental power. Their eyes glowed faintly beneath masked visors.
Veyra smiled.
> "You asked for stability," she said. "I offer it."
She walked forward, slow and measured, as the council parted for her.
> "You asked for protection. I give you order."
> "You asked for unity—so I give you control."
She stepped directly in front of me.
Her voice dropped.
> "And you, dear sister, gave them hope. But hope isn't enough."
---
Then she drew something from her robes.
A scroll.
Sealed with the old crown's mark. The one used during wartime succession.
Kael whispered, "That seal's supposed to be locked in the vault of royal annals."
"She's been inside," I muttered. "Deeper than we knew."
Veyra unrolled the decree and read:
> "By right of succession through blood refined, by the codex of the Fractured Crown, and by the authority of warline contingency—I claim the throne."
The lords stared in stunned silence.
Not one spoke.
Because the document was real.
---
Elyra stood then. Calm. Controlled.
"You think legacy makes you righteous," she said. "But righteousness isn't blood. It's what you do when you have power."
She stepped to my side, lifting the Vault codex.
The glyphs inside flickered. Pages turned themselves.
Then the light that poured from it scorched the throne dais.
A new glyph formed in the air—one none of us had seen before.
A crown broken—but mending.
---
The Vault had spoken again.
Not by words.
But by symbol.
By judgment.
---
And far across the western cliffs, a second Vault opened in silence—not from unlocking… but from inside.
And something walked out.
Not human.
Not heir.
Enemy.
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