Seraya’s POV
The bells began at dawn.
Wedding bells. The kind meant to stir celebration.
Not the soft toll of morning prayer, but the full ceremonial call—deep and solemn, echoing across Lysavia’s stone corridors.
I stood before the mirror in my old chamber, the white gown already laced tight to my ribs, the crown polished until it gleamed like firelight. My hand rested upon my abdomen. It was still, quiet beneath my palm, but I knew what grew there. And so would they.
The maids worked in silence, their eyes avoiding mine. Even now, they feared what I might say—or what I might do. Good. Let them.
When they finished, I dismissed them with a nod. Alone, I breathed once, long and slow, and lifted the weight of the crown into place. Then I turned, spine straight, and walked the corridor as though I had never been broken.
The great doors of the ceremonial hall were already open, music swelling faintly from within. The court had gathered—draped in silks and feigned smiles, their heads craning as I stepped forward. They were not expecting me.
I entered first.
White against gold. Silence followed. It fell like a stone. A few gasps echoed from the upper balconies. Somewhere to my left, a noble dropped her fan.
I moved forward, every step deliberate, the train of my gown trailing like a banner of defiance. At the center of the chamber, beneath the high dome, I stopped. Slowly, I turned to face them all.
“My lords,” I began, my voice steady. “My ladies. People of Virelia.” The words did not shake. I spoke with the clarity of someone who had known silence too long. “I have been called many things in this court. Queen. Wife. Relic. Obstacle. But today, I do not stand before you as a discarded consort.”
I placed both hands upon my abdomen, letting them see.
“I speak as the bearer of Virelia’s heir.”
The chamber gasped as one. Like a beast startled.
On the high dais, Theron rose to his feet in fury, his voice sharp as a blade. “Lies,” he spat. “This is nothing but spectacle—another of her schemes!”
But even as he shouted, movement stirred beside the columns. A figure stepped forward—cloaked in temple grey, marked with the sigil of the healers’ guild. An old woman, sharp-eyed, unbending.
“She speaks the truth,” the healer said. “By the rites of soul and seed, her blood bears the mark of life. The heir grows within her.”
The enchantment began to glow. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the stone floor. The priestess raised her hands, and a soft light enveloped me. Then the sound came—the echo of a heartbeat, small but fierce.
It silenced even Theron. His face drained of color.
Cries broke from the balconies. One woman wept openly. Others covered their mouths. The nobles turned toward each other in a frenzy of whispers.
Elowen collapsed.
I saw it as though through glass—her pale form buckling, her magic flaring with a sudden gust of cold before it flickered out. A few aides rushed to catch her, guiding her away from the dais.
I did not move.
Caelum stood in shadow, cloaked and silent, far from the altar. But I felt his eyes. He watched not the king, nor the healer, nor his sister. He watched only me—as though I had become the axis upon which the realm turned.
Theron’s voice cut back through the room. “This is treason,” he shouted. “She seeks to divide us—to seize power she was not meant to hold. Arrest her!”
But none moved.
Not the guards.
Not the high priests.
Not the council.
They watched me. And waited.
“You would let this traitor dictate your fate?” he roared.
Still, silence.
The high priest lowered his head. One by one, the others followed. Then came the nobles. And the court. Slowly, like a tide. Not kneeling—but turning. Toward me.
Theron’s fury turned white.
But no one answered his call.
I stood unmoved, the weight of the child beneath my hand the only thing anchoring me. I had done what I came to do. There would be no wedding today.
The chamber erupted into chaos—shouts, cries, the scrape of chairs and boots. I turned and walked from the dais.
As I passed the arch, Caelum was there, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped before him. I did not stop, but as I moved past, my fingers brushed his. He caught them in his for the briefest of moments. It was not a promise. It was not a plea. It was a reminder—of everything that had been risked, and everything still to come.
Then he released me, and I continued forward.
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