Thrones of Shadow

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

**** Elara’s POV ****

The morning had the kind of quiet that almost felt suspicious. No birds, no wind, not even the usual clatter from the baker’s down the road. The only sound came from my own footsteps, crunching against the frost-hardened dirt as I walked toward the small village square.

I wasn’t supposed to be out this early, not with the chill still clinging to the air, but the market vendors had whispered of a rare traveler in town — a scholar who’d come from the far reaches of the northern provinces. Supposedly, he knew the histories of fallen houses, the tales the crown tried to erase.

And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, that was enough to make me curious.

I told myself it was just to pass the time, that I was only interested in a good story to make the walk home feel shorter. But the truth was different. Ever since that strange dream of the burning crest and the pendant that appeared on my nightstand — the one I still kept hidden in the false bottom of my chest — I had been chasing any fragment of old history like it might hand me answers.

The village square was already drawing a crowd. Farmers leaned against their carts, wives held baskets, children clung to their mothers’ skirts, all circling a hunched man who sat on a stool beneath the shade of a half-collapsed awning.

His robes were heavy and patched in mismatched places, like he’d collected them over decades of wandering. His beard was streaked with white, his skin darkened by years of travel under unforgiving suns. He clutched a worn satchel close to his chest, as if its contents were worth more than gold.

I slipped closer, edging into the crowd until I could hear his voice.

“They were the rulers before your rulers,” he was saying, his tone a blend of reverence and warning. “Bloodlines older than the crown, older than the capital itself. They built the cities your kings claim to have founded, carved the first roads, brokered peace between rival tribes. And yet… they vanished.”

A child raised his hand timidly. “What happened to them?”

The man smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Some say plague. Others say betrayal. But the truth…” — he leaned forward, voice dropping — “…the truth is, they were hunted. One by one, their houses burned. Their symbols erased. Their children scattered. Some were hidden in plain sight, made to forget who they were. But blood remembers, even when the mind does not.”

My stomach tightened at his words. Hidden in plain sight. Made to forget. It felt too close to the dream that had been haunting me for weeks.

“What did their crest look like?” a woman asked from the back.

The scholar reached into his satchel, pulling out a small, cracked piece of parchment. On it, sketched in faded ink, was a crest — a phoenix rising from a ring of flame.

I froze.

It was the same symbol from my dream.

I had never seen it before that night. And yet, here it was, in this stranger’s hand, as if it had been waiting for me.

“That’s just a myth,” a man in the crowd scoffed. “Old drunk tales to scare children. The crown wouldn’t allow anyone to hide an heir for centuries without finding them.”

The scholar only gave a slow, knowing smile. “You’d be surprised what the crown misses when it believes its work is done.”

The rest of his words blurred in my ears. My gaze stayed locked on that crest, my fingers itching toward my pocket where the pendant sat hidden. My mind spun, replaying every strange moment of the last weeks: the dream, the pendant, the masked man in the capital who had watched me as if he knew me.

By the time the crowd began to thin, I stepped forward.

“Where did you get that crest?” I asked. My voice was steady, but my heart pounded hard enough to hurt.

The scholar studied me with an expression I couldn’t read. “From a place where the past is not yet dead.”

“Does it… mean anything?”

His gaze sharpened, flicking to my throat as if searching for something. “Perhaps. But meaning is a dangerous thing to carry. Especially if you don’t know who might be looking for it.”

Before I could ask more, he slipped the parchment back into his satchel, stood, and began to walk away, his staff tapping against the cobblestones.

I stayed rooted to the spot, my breath fogging in the cold air.

The words from my dream echoed again.

The crest. The fire. The voice whispering my name like it belonged to another life.

And now, a stranger who looked at me as if he knew exactly what I didn’t.

I didn’t know whether I wanted answers more than I feared them.

**** Lucien’s POV ****

The flicker of torchlight along the vaulted corridor stretched shadows into claw-like shapes on the marble floor. Lucien’s boots echoed, each step measured and deliberate. He had not summoned Countess Mireille in years—not since she’d retreated into her countryside estate after the purge. But now, her name had appeared again in whispers from his spies, tied once more to the threads of a bloodline thought extinguished.

She was waiting for him in the council chamber, leaning on her cane like a queen without a throne. Her hair had silvered with time, but her eyes were as sharp as the night he’d last seen her—piercing, assessing, calculating.

"Your Grace," she greeted, inclining her head just enough to be respectful, but not so much as to submit.

"Countess Mireille," Lucien returned evenly, stepping into the light. "You’ve been… elusive."

A faint smile ghosted over her lips. "Age grants one the privilege of distance."

"Distance," he repeated, tasting the word. "And yet your name appears in matters I thought buried with the last of their kind."

Her expression did not waver, though he saw the tightening of her fingers against the cane. "You’ve always had a talent for chasing shadows."

Lucien studied her for a long moment. "Tell me about the girl."

"I deal with many girls," she replied coolly. "Maids. Seamstresses. The daughters of merchants—"

He cut her off with a glance that could freeze stone. "Do not test my patience."

Silence settled between them, heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

Finally, she sighed, almost imperceptibly. "There are whispers, yes. Of a child spirited away before the fires consumed the crest. I heard them, as you have. But whispers are not proof."

Lucien stepped closer, the scent of parchment and old ink clinging to his cloak. "You were close to the royal line. Closer than most. If anyone knows the truth of their final night, it is you."

For the first time, her gaze flickered. "The truth is dangerous, Your Grace."

"So is withholding it from me," he said, his voice dropping into a threat-laced softness.

Mireille’s cane clicked faintly as she shifted. "If the bloodline survives, and if this girl is who you think she is… then her existence is a danger to you."

Lucien’s lips curved faintly, though the gesture held no warmth. "Or an opportunity."

Their eyes locked, and in that gaze lay an unspoken understanding—whatever secrets she kept, they were not given lightly. But he would pry them loose, one way or another.

He turned to leave, his cloak whispering across the stone. "I will ask you again, Countess. And when I do, I expect more than whispers."

Behind him, Mireille’s voice followed, soft but edged like a blade. "Be careful, Lucien. Sometimes, the crown is not the heaviest burden… the truth is."

He didn’t look back. The chamber doors closed with a low, echoing thud, sealing away the woman’s words—but not the seed they had planted.