Thalia's POV

The moment King Vaelion's heavy words sank into the folds of my thoughts, I felt my breath hitch. I turned my head, away from his stern, weathered face—those eyes like old steel, unmoved by time nor sentiment—and found my gaze drawn, as it often was, to the shadow leaning by the window.

Zagan.

Gods help me, but he did not even look my way.

He stood with arms crossed, the light from the crimson dusk slicing across his sharp profile, outlining that marble-like jaw, that grim line of a mouth so skilled in both command and dismissal. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking or simply disassociating from the room’s heavy air.

I excused myself from the king with grace, my voice as calm as still water, though my heart was a tempest. The moment the door closed behind me and we were alone, I turned to face him fully.

“We need to talk,” I said.

He didn’t move.

I folded my arms. “Your father wants you to take the throne. With me.”

“I gathered as much,” Zagan replied, his tone as bland as overboiled tea.

“Why won’t you even consider it?”

He exhaled slowly, almost as though bored. “Because he already abandoned me, long ago. I am no prince. I am no heir. I am the sword he unsheathed and thrust toward Noctharow, and once bloodied, forgot.”

His words struck deeper than I’d expected. I stepped closer. “Then don’t do it for him. Help me instead.”

That got his attention.

His eyes—dark, narrowed, storm-forged—landed on mine, and there was something in them I couldn’t name. Not fury. Not hatred. Something quieter. Something tired.

“Thalia,” he said, low and rough. “It is not I who you want to be king. Do not be selfish. If you wish for the throne, claim it for yourself. I want no part of your schemes.”

“My schemes?” I repeated, heat rising in my chest. “Is that what you think this is?”

“You asked,” he said simply, pushing off the wall. “I told you.”

“But you’re helping me—”

“I said I’d help clear your name. That’s all. Allies, kingdoms, political bedfellows—those are your burdens to bear. I’m not here to hold your hand.”

“So why are you here, Zagan?” My voice trembled, more from frustration than tears. “Why waste your time with me? Why fight beside me?”

“I’m not wasting time,” he said, turning away. “I’m helping you find the truth. And if you need allies to support your claims, you’ll find them yourself. I’ve done what I must. No more, no less.”

With that, he walked out.

Just like that.

Cold.

So painfully cold.

I stood there for a moment, watching the door sway ever so slightly on its hinges, as if even it mourned his departure.

I sighed, brushing the invisible dust off my skirt as though I hadn’t just been gut-punched by the frostiest man in Alazne.

A wall, that’s what he was. Handsome, broad-shouldered, soul-wounded wall.

“Seduction won’t work on you, will it?” I muttered to no one. “Of course not. You’d rather kiss a blade.”

But I knew him too well. That hurt in his voice wasn’t a fabrication. Zagan didn’t lie—he didn’t care enough to. Which meant every bitter word was rooted in something real. In a past scarred by abandonment, duty, and a king who sacrificed a son to save a border.

A king who was my ally.

A king who may have caused my mother’s death.

And there it was again—that ache. That question. Why had everyone I loved betrayed me?

My father, too cowardly to speak. My step-sister, ever so kind to my face, but quick to hand me a blade in the dark. Yvonne—

My eyes snapped wide.

Yvonne.

If I could prove she wasn’t human…

The thought spiraled into clarity. If I could uncover the truth about Yvonne—that she was no more than a Celestian masquerading in silk and lies—then perhaps I could unveil the plot that damned me.

And wasn’t there something Lucian had said during the duel? About peace being bartered? It could mean one thing...

I had scoffed then, but perhaps I should not have.

He might have taken Celestians into his kingdom as citizens… and then perhaps the answer lay not in burning my enemies but revealing them. Turning light on their secrets.

I moved to the window, fingers brushing the cool stone ledge. Somewhere below, Zagan’s boots would be striking against the flagstones, cold and deliberate. Always walking away. Always retreating behind duty.

But if he would not take the throne for himself, nor for his father—then maybe… just maybe…

He would take it for me.

Not for love.

But for justice.

Because beneath all that frost, beneath the weight of command and pain… I knew Zagan still bled.

And the one thing he hated more than betrayal—was injustice.

I would find the truth.

I would find proof.

And perhaps then… he’d come back through the door.

Not as a pawn.

But as a king.

-----------------

Third Person POV

The following morning arrived with fanfare and festivity. Valtara gleamed like a kingdom kissed by the gods—their sun dappled the white marble towers and golden-tipped spires, while colorful banners flared from every arched balcony. Trumpets called the people to the heart of the capital, Ashenreach, where the final day of the Festival of Blazing Glory awaited. It was a day of celebration, the last hurrah of the season, and no less than a hundred thousand citizens surged toward the Colosseum of Fire, hearts high with anticipation.

Thalia stood atop the grandstand balcony, flanked by nobles, ministers, and the Phoenix King himself—Lucian in all his regal charm and striking armor, catching every curious gaze in the crowd. But Thalia’s attention was elsewhere. Beneath the golden helmet and shining breastplate, her eyes sought the arena floor. Her guard. Her loyal shadow. The one Lucian had sent to her side as a protector: Caelis.

He was one of the final contenders in today’s gladiator championship, and from the moment he stepped onto the sand, the air grew still.

Caelis was no ordinary man. Towering, broad-shouldered, with jet black hair and burnished bronze skin, his muscles flexed like steel cords under his armor. The cheers fell into hush as the first gong rang. His opponent, a brutish warrior from the northern tribes, lunged forward with a massive axe, swinging with the full weight of his body.

Caelis sidestepped. Clean. Effortless. Then twisted, grabbing the axe handle with one hand and the warrior’s wrist with the other. In a blink, the brute was flung across the arena like a ragdoll, sand flying as he landed in a heap.

The crowd roared.

The second challenger was leaner, faster, wielding twin sabers and a dance-like rhythm of blades. Caelis met him with calm precision, blocking strike after strike until their dance turned deadly. He feigned a stumble, lured the man in close, then disarmed him with a twist of his wrist. The sabers clattered to the sand.

In the third and final round, Caelis faced a beast—a true giant of a man with a chain-mace, snarling through broken teeth. The crowd leaned forward. Even Lucian tensed beside Thalia.

The fight was brutal. The chain-mace whirled like a storm, biting into Caelis’s shoulder once, drawing blood. But he didn’t falter. He ducked, rolled, and rose like a shadow reborn. Then, when the mace caught the pillar behind him, Caelis surged forward with a shoulder slam, crushing the man’s chestplate and sending him tumbling backward into the sand. The gong sounded thrice.

Victory.

Lucian raised a goblet beside her. “Your guard does not disappoint,” he murmured with that sly half-smile.

Thalia, breathless, whispered, “You picked the best one.”

"For you, my future-queen," he cheered.

Far from the cheers and celebration, beyond the grandeur of Valtara’s heart, beneath the stone catacombs of the city, shadows moved with quieter purpose. In an abandoned wine cellar hidden beneath the ancient aqueducts, cloaked figures stood in a circle.

Their hoods were thick, faces obscured, but if one looked closely, their eyes gleamed faintly with unnatural hues. Human Celestians.

One woman stepped forward, her cloak torn at the hem, eyes golden beneath the darkness.

“The Queen orders you to kill her,” one of the shadows said in a low voice.

The golden-eyed girl remained still. “Give me more time.”

Silence lingered.

“She’s gathering allies. Gaining support,” said the shadow. “She’s dangerous.”

“She’s clever,” the girl corrected, her voice almost a whisper. “But not yet invincible.”

A figure stepped forward from the edge of the circle. “Do you question Her Majesty’s orders?”

“I question nothing,” she said. “But killing her now would make her a martyr. Let me... tarnish her first. Break her image. If we make her the enemy of both kingdoms, she’ll fall with the world cheering.”

There was a moment of consideration. Then a nod.

“You have three days.”

With a wave of a cloak, the meeting dissolved like mist in moonlight, leaving only the girl behind, her thoughts swirling like the storm within her golden eyes.

She looked toward the city, to where the cheers of mortals still echoed in delight. Her lips curled slightly.

“Enjoy your last moments, while it lasts...”

--------------------

The caravan trundled through the outer gates of the Valtaran encampment, its wheels groaning beneath crates marked with the sun-sigil of Alazne. Dust rose in plumes behind it, caught in the golden light of the afternoon sun. Inside the canvas-covered wagons lay the goods Thalia had requested—vials of glimmerroot extract, silver-threaded gauze, enchanted salts, and every alchemic compound rumored to slow the spreading of miasma. It was preparation. Hope. Desperation wrapped in burlap and iron.

As the soldiers began unloading the crates under the strict supervision of a Valtaran steward, a small group of workers lingered at the edge of the clearing. Their uniforms were common, dust-caked and unremarkable, but their eyes gleamed with a sharp, otherworldly luster. They spoke low and fast, in a tongue twisted softly at the edges—a dialect of the outer wilds. Human Celestians. Hidden in plain sight.

One of them, a wiry woman with sun-browned skin and calloused hands, dipped her fingers into a crate of alchemic soil and whispered to the others, “It’s confirmed. These people are planning something… dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” murmured a younger male, his tone skeptical but alert.

She glanced around. No guards were near, only merchants and handlers busy with parchment and stamps. She leaned in. “They were talking—two soldiers near the barracks. I overheard them while I unloaded grain. They’re searching for the ancient lure.”

His eyes widened. “The weapon we used on Eldermere?”

She nodded. “To draw them in. To see if there were humans among us still loyal to the realm. If they find it... if they learn how it works…”

“They’ll destroy us.”

A silence stretched between them like a blade. Another man, broader than the rest and wearing a stitched-on leather patch over his heart bearing the sigil of a trade guild, exhaled through his nose. “It was foolish to ever think they’d keep peace. Look what they did to the Skyborne.” (Skyborne - refers to underdeveloped Celestians, those with wings grotesque creatures)

“That was not the girl’s doing,” the woman said. “It was that merciless High Commandant of the borders. His Majesty, Lucian was the one who saved us.”

“Saved for now,” the younger one spat, bitterness creeping in. “Do you think he’ll still protect us until the end?”

“He’s like the rest of them. Human. Bound by politics. We are useful… until we are not.”

Another stepped from the shadows of the wagon’s edge, a tall figure with a hood drawn low and a serpent tattoo coiled down the side of his neck. His voice cut like a blade. “Enough whispering. We’ve received word from the Bleeding Hallows. Our Empress’s order has changed.”

They froze.

“She wants her dead,” he continued. “No more watching. No more waiting. Kill her. Kill the white silver girl. Kill them all if necessary.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “The Phoenix King swore peace. He made a pact.”

The tattooed man sneered. “And he broke it. He shelters these people in Valtara, who are a threat to us, and now he offers her sanctuary too. A girl with power she does not understand. He dares to shield her—perhaps even crown her. He promised to protect us.”

“Foolish,” muttered the young one. “Peace is bartered, not broken into submission. His mistake will cost us.”

“Then we move at the Bleeding Hallows?” asked the broad-shouldered man.

The serpent-tattooed figure nodded. “Yes. Once the final rites of the festival are over, and the roads grow crowded… they’ll be vulnerable. The caravan’s arrival will be the signal. They’ll believe it’s preparation for miasma defense.”

“And what do we do until then?” the woman asked.

He stepped into the sun, revealing slit-like eyes and skin almost too flawless, the uncanny stillness of one touched by celestial lineage.

“Keep smiling,” he said. “Keep stacking crates. Keep serving their bread and tending their beasts. When the time comes—”

He smiled. It was not warm.

“—we slit the throat of peace and blame the knife on their own.”