Chapter 3: A Throne of Lies

The crimson banners of Vaelvarn still hung from the marble columns of the Royal Court, though the blood that once dyed them was long washed away by rain and years of false peace. The golden sigil of the phoenix glimmered on the throne room’s mosaic floor, a cruel irony to the girl who had once knelt there—pleading, weeping, betrayed.

Now she stood again at those very gates, but not as a girl.

Not as a princess.

Not as Elira.

She was the Empress now.

Her cloak trailed like black fire behind her, each embroidered rune whispering dark truths in an ancient tongue. Her once-soft eyes, once filled with dreams and light, now burned with violet fire—a gift from the forbidden wellspring of magic deep in the ruins of Elaren.

“Open the doors,” Elira commanded, her voice calm as winter, yet powerful enough to make the sentries shiver.

They hesitated.

Then obeyed.

The towering iron gates groaned open, revealing the throne room that had been her prison. Nothing had changed—the same crystal chandeliers, the same scent of rose oil and secrets, the same faces pretending loyalty.

Except one.

King Theron.

The man who had once lifted her in his arms as a child. The man who had kissed her forehead before sentencing her to exile with eyes full of crocodile tears and cowardice. He had grown older, silver creeping into his temples, but his arrogance had aged like fine wine.

“Elira…” he said, standing from his throne, trying to mask surprise with regal composure. “You return at last. And you… have changed.”

“I had to die to be reborn,” she replied coldly, walking toward him. Her boots echoed like drums of judgment. “Did you think your lies would hold forever?”

A ripple ran through the court—nobles shifting uncomfortably, guards tightening their grips, advisors exchanging glances. Even Queen Lysara turned pale beneath her golden veil.

“You were banished to protect the realm,” Theron said, carefully. “The prophecy—”

“Lies,” Elira snapped. “The prophecy you forged. The scroll sealed with my mother’s wax—twisted by your scribes. My blood was your scapegoat.”

The fire in the brazier nearest to her flared violently, reacting to the fury beneath her skin. Shadow and ember danced around her shoulders like a living crown.

Queen Lysara stepped forward, her voice soft and saccharine. “Elira, we all mourned your loss. You must understand—we were afraid. The stars, the omens—”

“I was twelve!” she roared, her power cracking through the air like a whip. “Twelve years old and accused of dooming the kingdom. Twelve, and exiled to the Wastes to rot.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper laced with venom.

“And I did rot. Until I found the tombs of the First Flame. Until the gods beneath the ash whispered back.”

Theron’s gaze sharpened. “You made a pact with the Forbidden Ones.”

“I made a choice,” she said, stalking up the steps toward the throne. “The same way you made yours when you traded me for peace and kept your precious crown.”

Silence.

Every eye watched as Elira stood just a breath away from Theron, her presence radiating the weight of thunderclouds.

“You have returned,” Theron said slowly. “What do you want, Elira?”

She smiled, and the smile was not kind.

“I want the truth.”

The court gasped.

“I want every noble who signed my sentence to confess. I want the priests who spat on me to kneel. I want your scribes to burn the prophecy they wrote in false ink. I want the people to see what a throne of lies truly costs.”

Queen Lysara stepped between them, her eyes flashing with restrained panic.

“You would unravel the kingdom just to heal your pride?”

“No,” Elira said. “I would raze it to end the cycle. I will not be the last girl sacrificed for a crown.”

Theron clenched his jaw. “And if we refuse?”

“Then I will take your kingdom apart, brick by brick, heart by heart.”

He studied her a long time. “You would wage war against your own people?”

“They were never mine. You made sure of that.”

And then, a new voice spoke.

“Elira.”

She froze.

That voice.

Calen.

She turned, and there he stood near the pillars. Captain of the Guard. The boy who once brought her lilies on summer mornings. Her first kiss. Her only real friend before the world turned cold.

Now a man. Hardened, broader, wrapped in polished armor and burdened eyes.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, stepping forward.

“I was,” she whispered. “But your king buried the wrong part of me.”

His jaw clenched. “You seek justice. I understand. But if you bring down this court, what comes next? Chaos? Blood? You are not a tyrant, Elira.”

“Am I not?” she asked, walking toward him slowly. “I carry the magic of a thousand dead witches. I drank from the well of shadows. I command flame and storm. Do you still see a child who can be reasoned with, Calen?”

His hand dropped to his sword’s hilt—not drawing, but bracing.

“I see a woman who hurts,” he said quietly. “But also one who still has a heart. Please. Don’t become what they feared.”

She stopped inches from him.

Their breath mingled. Her fingers trembled. For a moment, the ember inside her faltered.

“I waited for you,” she said. “In the dark. In the ruins. Every night I hoped you'd come.”

Calen’s voice cracked. “I tried. They sent me away to the border. By the time I returned—”

“I was already gone,” she finished.

They stood in a silence that ached.

Then, Theron spoke again. “You may have power, Elira, but we are not without defenses. Do not mistake fear for weakness.”

She turned back to him slowly, eyes blazing.

“I do not fear your blades. Or your gods. Or your lies.”

She lifted a hand. The floor cracked beneath her. From the broken stone, black thorns sprouted, coiling like serpents, reaching for the throne.

The court screamed.

Guards rushed forward. Calen raised his sword—but not against her. He stood between her and the guards, steel drawn in warning.

“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll die.”

“I already did,” she whispered. “Now watch me rise.”

With a wave, the thorns stopped inches from Theron’s feet, frozen mid-surge.

A message.

“I will give you a choice,” Elira said. “A public confession. A royal decree to clear my name. And abdication.”

Theron laughed bitterly. “You ask for my throne.”

“I ask for the truth,” she replied. “And justice.”

“And if I refuse?”

She turned, her cloak sweeping like night behind her.

“Then I return in seven days,” she said. “With legions not born of flesh. With winds that howl your secrets. With fire to burn your lies.”

And then, she walked away.

The doors closed behind her.

The throne room trembled.

The court had seen a ghost.

But they did not yet realize:

They had seen their reckoning.

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