Chapter 5: Accused by the Crown

The bells of Vaelvarn tolled at dawn—clear, solemn, echoing through the spires and stone corridors like the pulse of a kingdom trying to remember how to breathe.

Today was not a coronation.

Nor a festival.

Today, the court would accuse the returned princess not of treason, but of sorcery, subversion, and heresy.

A final attempt to destroy her.

Elira knew the game. And this time, she wouldn’t play by their rules.

She stood in the shadow of the royal citadel, wearing black robes that shimmered like ink under moonlight. No crown. No royal colors. Only the sigils of her own making—silver threads shaped into wings and flames across her chest. The air around her crackled faintly, as if even the wind feared to touch her.

Calen stood at her side, sword strapped across his back but hands at his sides, eyes scanning the battlements.

“They’ve summoned every noble house,” he murmured. “Even the Veyran lords from the North Isles. This isn’t a hearing, Elira—it’s a trial.”

She didn’t flinch. “Then let them try me.”

“And if they sentence you again?”

Elira’s eyes narrowed, glowing with a faint violet fire. “Then I’ll show them what a real sentence feels like.”

They entered through the eastern gate—no fanfare, no heralds. Just whispers. Whispers louder than trumpets.

“She’s back…”

“Is it true she drank from the forbidden well?”

“They say she walks in dreams…”

“Why isn’t she dead?”

That last question hung thick in the air.

Because the truth refused to die.

---

The Great Hall had been dressed in mourning colors. Silver drapes instead of gold. Sable banners instead of crimson. A mockery of concern.

King Theron sat atop the throne, his crown slightly tilted, his face paler than usual. Queen Lysara sat to his right, draped in emerald and black, her veil sheer enough to see the cold calculation in her eyes.

Before them stood the High Court—rows of nobles, clergy, and generals—eyes sharpened, mouths waiting to strike.

Elira walked the aisle alone.

When she reached the center dais, she stopped without bowing.

Theron cleared his throat, trying to find the voice of a king.

“Princess Elira of House Vaelvarn, first of her name, you stand accused of consorting with forbidden magic, threatening the peace of the realm, and attempting to dismantle the Crown through subversion and terror.”

The words were smoke to her ears.

Lies in velvet robes.

Elira raised her chin. “And yet, you welcomed me back. No armies were summoned. No blades drawn. Why?”

Theron’s jaw tightened. “Because I believed, perhaps foolishly, that the child I once held in my arms still existed within you.”

“She died the day you exiled her.”

A stir rippled through the hall.

Queen Lysara leaned forward, voice as sweet as rot. “No one exiled you, Elira. You were relocated for the kingdom’s protection. You carried a prophecy in your veins. A dark fate.”

Elira’s laugh was low and sharp. “The only dark fate was yours, Lysara. And you ensured it didn’t touch you by forging that prophecy with blood and quill.”

Gasps echoed.

Lysara's fingers curled on the armrest. “You speak without proof.”

Elira didn’t move.

“I have the Echo Scroll.”

The silence was immediate.

Like breath sucked from the lungs of the court.

Theron stood. “Impossible. That scroll is sealed—”

“Beneath the Chapel of Silence,” Elira finished for him. “Yes. Guarded by the voices of the dead. Your father sealed it. Your grandfather used it. And I… unsealed it.”

She raised a hand, and in a flash of violet smoke, the scroll appeared, hovering before her like a blade.

“I could read from it,” she said. “I could name the exact hour your scribes changed the prophecy. I could summon the voice of your wife whispering to the priest of Varell that the child must be removed to secure her son’s claim.”

A noble in the third row dropped his goblet.

Theron’s face darkened.

Lysara rose from her seat, her mask of serenity cracking. “That scroll is heresy! It cannot be trusted! It speaks with the tongues of ghosts and demons!”

“And yet, you fear it,” Elira said.

The scroll pulsed with an eerie hum. A whisper slithered through the chamber—Lysara’s voice, unmistakable, “…the child must be made to vanish. No one will question it if we use the stars…”

Panic bloomed. A few nobles backed away.

Theron bellowed, “Enough!”

Elira turned to him.

“No. You don’t get to shout me down this time, Father.”

The word spat from her tongue like venom.

“You threw me to the Wastes on a false prophecy. You let your court treat me like a weapon before I could even wield a knife. You let her rewrite my fate.”

Theron descended the throne steps, his voice trembling with restrained rage. “You returned to threaten my kingdom, not to seek justice. You wield dark magic. The very essence of forbidden flame.”

“I wield what you buried!” Elira shouted. “I wield truth! And it burns.”

She extended her hand. The scroll flared—and around them, scenes appeared like smoke-painted illusions: her exile, her mother’s tearful pleas, Lysara’s whispers, the forged prophecy inked in crimson.

The court stared. Faces paled. Some wept.

One noble knelt.

Then another.

Until a dozen bowed their heads.

Theron stood frozen.

Lysara’s eyes blazed with fury.

“You’re tearing the realm apart,” the queen hissed.

“No,” Elira said quietly. “I’m cleansing it.”

Theron made one final move—a slow reach for the ceremonial blade at his side.

Calen appeared from the crowd, steel drawn, placing himself between the king and the Empress.

“Don’t,” he warned.

The court held its breath.

“Am I now to be murdered in my own hall?” Theron spat.

“No,” Elira said softly, eyes gleaming. “You’re going to face your own justice.”

She turned to the court.

“I invoke the Right of Reckoning. Trial by truth. Judged not by crown, but by flame.”

A pause.

Then murmurs.

The Right hadn’t been invoked in over a hundred years.

It was a trial of old—where one stood before the Sacred Flame, and if the flame rejected you, it consumed you.

Theron paled.

Lysara whispered, “You wouldn’t dare…”

But Elira was already moving. She raised her hand—and with a thunderous crack, the marble floor split. From the depths, a pillar of violet flame burst forth. It twisted and roared, alive with ancient judgment.

“This fire,” Elira said, “comes from the same source that marked me as cursed. If I’m wrong—if I truly am a threat, a heretic—then it will consume me. But if I speak truth… it will spare me.”

She stepped forward.

The flames licked her cloak. Her skin.

They did not burn.

They glowed.

And in their light, her mother’s face flickered briefly—smiling.

When Elira stepped out, untouched, the hall fell into stunned silence.

Then she pointed to Theron.

“Now your turn.”

Theron backed away.

“No. I will not—this is madness! Superstition!”

“You crowned me with superstition,” Elira hissed. “You exiled me with lies. Now answer them.”

The court watched.