Chapter 279
The vault’s stone walls trembled from the force of Kyral’s roar.
Fire slammed into Mirella’s shield of emerald magic, the sound like a clash of gods. I stood between them, heart racing, the Elderblade gripped tight in my hands. The air shimmered with heat and fury.
“Mirella, don’t make me do this!” I shouted over the roar.
Her eyes flashed, not with hatred — but sorrow. “I don’t want to hurt you, Aria. I never did. But if you become what Saelith was—”
“I am not Saelith!” My voice cracked, and the vault itself responded, the torches flaring with my rage. “And you don’t get to decide what I become!”
She launched a blast of green fire.
Kyral shielded me with her wings, the spell striking her side and sending her skidding backward. She shook it off with a growl, but I could feel her pain spark in my chest like a dagger.
I stepped forward, blade raised, flame curling around my fingers. “You served my mother. You taught me to trust.”
“I served the Flame Crown,” Mirella spat. “And when your mother showed signs of corruption, I stood by her. Until she died because she wouldn’t face the truth about Saelith’s bloodline. I won’t make that mistake twice.”
Tears burned my eyes. “Then you were never loyal to me.”
Mirella hesitated.
And in that moment, Kyral lunged.
She didn’t aim to kill. Just to knock her down — to give us time to escape.
The blast threw Mirella into the wall with a thud. Her shield flickered, then dropped. She groaned, dazed.
I didn’t wait.
“Kyral, move!”
We burst from the vault, magic exploding behind us as alarms rang through the halls. Guards were already rushing in — half confused, half prepared for war. But they didn’t raise their weapons when they saw me.
They saw the Elderblade.
They saw my dragon.
And they stepped aside.
We didn’t stop running until we reached the tower above the library — the highest point of Westeroz.
The moment we reached it, I collapsed onto the stone, chest heaving, blood singing in my ears. Kyral paced in front of the door, wings twitching, tail lashing like a whip.
“I should’ve known,” she said, voice vibrating with fury. “She never liked what you represented.”
I stared down at my hands. They were shaking — not from fear, but betrayal.
“She held me when I was little,” I whispered. “She was there the day my mother died. She told me I would be a light in the dark.”
Kyral’s golden eyes softened. “Maybe she meant it. Then the fear swallowed her.”
We sat in silence, the wind tugging at my hair, the moons casting pale silver across the stone.
Then Kyral turned her head sharply toward the horizon.
“What is it?”
She didn’t answer. Her wings opened slowly, instinctually.
I followed her gaze.
Something pulsed from beneath the earth.
From the very roots of Westeroz.
Kyral inhaled slowly. “There’s something hidden. Something calling.”
We returned to the chamber beneath the throne.
The firelight had dimmed, but the faint hum of power still lingered. Kyral’s claws tapped against the ancient stone tiles as she sniffed the air. She moved toward the back wall — the very one Thalara’s message had been hidden behind.
Without a word, she pushed her claws into the cracks.
And the wall split.
Behind it: a spiral staircase. Ancient. Sealed in dust.
We descended in silence.
Each step down felt like slipping into another world. The air grew colder. Thicker. Every stone was etched with symbols — dragon runes, forgotten words. The kind only a true Flame-blood could read.
As we reached the bottom, the final chamber came into view.
It was round. Vaulted. Silent.
In its center stood a pedestal.
On it sat a crystal orb — cracked, but glowing faintly with firelight.
I stepped closer. Kyral’s growl was low but didn’t stop me.
The moment I touched it, it flared.
And I was elsewhere.
The memory took me — not mine, but someone else's. A woman’s. Powerful. Grieving.
I stood in her body, her hands stained with blood, her robes scorched.
All around me, the ruins of a battlefield. Dragons lay dead — impaled on blackened spears. Their riders gone. Flame smothered by shadow.
And in her hand?
The first Elderblade.
Before it was broken. Before it was reforged.
She turned toward a man — tall, wrapped in darkness. His face was beautiful, terrible.
The Bone King.
Only he hadn’t taken that name yet.
He held out his hand to her.
“You and I,” he said. “We can remake this world. With fire and bone.”
She almost gave in.
Almost.
But instead — she drove the blade through her own chest.
A sacrifice.
A seal.
And the vision shattered.
I gasped, stumbling backward.
Kyral caught me.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“She wasn’t just a queen,” I said, voice shaking. “Thalara was the keeper of the seal. The last one. The Bone King—he’s not just trying to rise. He’s trying to reverse what she did.”
I looked at the crystal again, now dim.
“That orb held the last of her memories. The final spell. But it's breaking.”
“And if it does?”
“Then everything she locked away… comes back.”
Back above, chaos reigned.
Word had spread — the queen had turned on her own mage. Accusations. Doubts. Whispers through the stone.
I walked straight into the war chamber, Kyral at my back.
Everyone fell silent.
The Alpha stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I heard about Mirella,” he said. “She’s recovering.”
“She betrayed me,” I said simply.
“She thought she was protecting you.”
I turned, startled. Lilah had entered quietly. Her expression was unreadable.
“She believed in a version of you that didn’t exist,” Lilah continued. “And when that illusion cracked, she tried to fix it the only way she knew how.”
I nodded slowly. “Then maybe she wasn’t the only one.”
The Alpha’s gaze flickered. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve made peace with who I am,” I said. “I am a daughter of fire and shadow. I carry the blood of queens and traitors. And I’m done apologizing for it.”
No one spoke.
Then Zaerion landed outside the window, his cry echoing through the city.
The council of dragons had arrived.
In the Grand Hall, the dragons assembled in human form — regal, ancient, eyes like starlight. Kyral stood beside me, larger than before, wings folded, golden scales catching the torchlight.
They looked at me with curiosity. Some with reverence.
One with open challenge.
“You bear the mark of Saelith,” one said. “Why should we trust you?”
I met his gaze. “Because I didn’t choose my blood. But I choose what I do with it.”
Another asked, “And what would you do, Queen of Flames?”
“I would finish what Thalara started. I would burn the Bone King from every corner of this world.”
Silence.
Then Kyral spoke — not with fire, but with truth.
“She is not her bloodline. She is her bond. And we are not broken.”
The oldest dragon stepped forward, his beard like smoke, his eyes molten.
“Then we will fight beside her.”
That night, alone in my chambers, I stood before the mirror.
For the first time in a long time… I saw myself.
The scars. The soot. The streaks of silver in my hair. The fire behind my eyes.
Not the girl from the sea.
Not the orphan from the ruins.
Not the pawn or the prophecy.
But a queen.
Forged in flame.
And tomorrow, the war would begin.
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