FANGS OF THE THRONE

The garden smelled of fire lilies and moon petals—an intoxicating blend of heat and serenity. Uncle Rowen had always said it was the perfect balance of flame and calm, just like Seraphine. The garden had been his retreat from the world, a sanctuary nestled behind the golden walls of House Vyreth. It was where he taught her to hold a sword, to read the stars, and where he’d once promised that even in the darkest hour, fire would answer those who remembered its song. Seraphine knelt beside the marble fountain, fingers tracing the rippling surface. The moon’s reflection danced around her fingertips. She closed her eyes and whispered into the night, her voice barely louder than the wind. “Let him return victorious… for the Sun Emperor. For peace.” The words floated from her lips like embers carried on a breeze—light, weightless, yet heavy with meaning. General Rowen Vyreth, her uncle, was more than the last great war tactician of their clan. He had been her shield in a world that bared its teeth at girls born of fire without a crown. He had marched away weeks ago beneath a sky steeped in the promise of war, crimson banners of the Sun Clan unfurling behind him like dragon wings. Emperor Kaedor had entrusted him with the final assault on the rebel mountain strongholds—those who refused to bow to dragon rule. And Seraphine had stayed behind, watching from the highest balcony, clutching the braid he’d tied with a ribbon that still smelled of ash and sandalwood. “Watch the lilies while I’m gone,” he’d said, his rough palm brushing her hair like he used to when she was small. “If they wilt, you’ll know I’ve fallen.” So she had watched them. Every day. And today, they still bloomed—tall, defiant, burning red. But in her chest, something twisted. A chill. She was rising when her mother’s voice shattered the stillness. “Seraphine!” The garden doors burst open with a clang of steel and breathless panic. Two soldiers in crimson and bronze—Sun Clan colors—stormed in, one barely on his feet, the other holding him upright. Their armor was stained. One’s helm was missing. Blood—dark and dried—splattered their pauldrons like claw marks. Seraphine froze. Her mother, Lady Vyreth, staggered into the garden, robes fluttering like torn sails. “No. No… don’t say it.” The younger soldier fell to his knees, breath ragged. “General Rowen… he fell. At the gates of Fyre holt.” Silence fell. The words struck like thunder in a temple. Seraphine couldn’t breathe. Her knees gave way, and she crumpled beside the fountain, hands scraping the cold stone. Her heart pounded violently—like it wanted to break free from her chest. The lilies. The gods. The stars. They had all lied. Her mother’s scream tore through the garden—a sound so raw and feral it scattered the birds from the trees. The soldier turned away, unable to meet their eyes, shame and grief etched into every line of his face. Seraphine pressed a trembling hand to her chest, where her uncle’s pendant rested beneath her robes. It was still warm, still carrying his last prayer. How could the world end in a garden that smelled like peace? And then— Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. A shadow passed over the lilies. Another figure entered the garden—tall, armored, but neither wounded nor shaken. Captain Ryder. Her uncle’s second-in-command. His expression was carved from stone, his eyes fixed on Seraphine. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said quietly. “We would not have come if it weren’t urgent. I carry a message from the Emperor’s court.” Seraphine wiped her face, unsteady as she stood. “Now?” her mother gasped. “She just lost—” “We have all lost him,” Ryder said gently, lowering his head. “But duty waits for no mourning. The Dragon King himself has issued a summons.” He stepped forward and laid a scroll wrapped in black silk at Naeryn’s feet. “The carriage awaits.” Seraphine stared at the seal—obsidian wax, etched with the ancient flame of House Alaric. Her fingers trembled as she unrolled the parchment. One line. You are summoned to court as the future bride of King Alaric . For the good of the realm. She looked up, her heart thundering. “I don’t understand… Why now? Why me?” The captain’s voice was steady. “I am not meant to answer that, my lady. Only to bring you to him.” Behind her, the fire lilies stood tall, untouched by wind. But something had shifted in the garden. The scent of petals was no longer soft. It smelled like smoke. Later That Night… The silence after Seraphine’s arrival lingered long into the night. The court had dispersed, their footsteps echoing through obsidian halls like fading war drums. Only shadows remained—shadows, and the two heirs bound by bloodshed and prophecy. Alaric stood alone on the balcony above the throne room. Moonlight cast silver across his darksteel armor, his cloak rippling in the wind. Below, the city of Ashmere glowed with a thousand flame glass lanterns—a kingdom resting on uneasy peace. Behind him, fabric rustled softly. Her steps were light, like falling ash. “I thought you might not come,” he said without turning. Naeryn’s voice was quiet. “And I thought I’d already arrived.” Alaric half-smiled—sharp, humorless. “Arriving and staying aren’t the same.” She stepped beside him, eyes on the glowing skyline. “You speak as if I had a choice.” “You always have a choice,” he said. “Even when the realm says otherwise.” Naeryn’s hands curled at her sides. “If that were true, my uncle would still live. My people wouldn’t be scattered like ash. And I wouldn’t be here—standing beside the man who burned my world to keep his own from crumbling.” Silence again. Bitter. Cold. “I did what I had to,” Alaric replied. “Rowen was a noble man. But noble men don’t win wars.” Seraphine turned to him, golden eyes burning. “He didn’t want to win. He wanted to end it.” “That’s what made him dangerous.” Their eyes locked. For a heartbeat, something passed between them—grief, recognition, a flicker of kinship forged in fire and ruin. “I didn’t ask to be a queen,” Seraphine whispered. “And I never wanted to be a king,” Alaric answered, the weight of his crown pressing against his soul. Below, the bells of midnight tolled. In her tower, Queen Celeste watched two flames flicker across a scrying mirror. One burned silver-gold—Seraphine’s light. The other, black-blue— Alaric’s soulfire. Alone, they flickered. Together, they might ignite something ancient. Something dangerous. “They don’t see it yet,” she murmured. “But they are the realm’s last chance.” Back on the balcony, Seraphine stepped back. “I didn’t ask to carry this burden. To be born different. Feared. Hated.” Alaric stepped forward. “And I didn’t ask for this throne. But fate doesn’t ask. It gives fire—and watches to see what we’ll become.” She looked away, fists clenched. “Why me?” He reached out—not to touch her, but to let her feel the heat of his presence. “Because you are the first child born of Sun and Moon. The living balance—day’s warmth and night’s mystery. A prophecy whispered before time remembered itself.” Her breath caught, but he continued. “I am a dragon of the night, forged in shadow, descended from the stars. My blood carries fire. My soul, the echoes of storms. Alone, I burn. But with you, I shine.” She turned toward him, eyes wide, vulnerable. “You weren’t meant to be alone Seraphine” ,he said softly. “Neither was I. The world is bleeding. The kingdoms are divided. And only together can Sun and Moon restore the Balance.” He finally took her hand. When their fingers touched, it wasn’t fire. It was peace. “I need you, Seraphine. Not for politics. Not for power. I need your strength. Your stubbornness. Your sorrow. Your light.” A tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with the gentleness of someone who had once been broken too.