Arienne knelt in the center of the grand ceremonial hall, her once-pristine robes tattered and stained with blood.

The regal golden embroidery, which had shimmered under the evening lights just moments ago, now clung to her like a cruel mockery of what she had been.

Her midnight black hair, wavy with crimson undertones, cascaded wildly over her shoulders, strands sticking to the dried blood at her temple.

Her gold eyes, flickering with traces of red, were dull with exhaustion, the fire within them dimmed but not extinguished.

Her slender yet toned frame trembled, but the pain in her body was nothing compared to the weight pressing against her chest.

The very people who had cheered her name mere hours ago—mages, nobles, scholars—now encircled her like vultures, their eyes glinting with twisted satisfaction.

Whispers slithered through the air, filled with venom, filled with certainty.

"Who would have thought the great Arienne Velmira was nothing more than a traitor?"

"She had us fooled, didn't she? Pretending to be our savior all along."

"She deserved worse."

Their voices blurred into an unbearable hum, but it was their gazes that cut her deeper than any wound. She had never craved their adoration, but she had thought—perhaps foolishly—that she had earned their respect.

Now, all she saw was their disdain, their delight in her downfall.

Then, a voice—shaking, desperate—rang through the air.

"Arienne!"

Arienne's head snapped up. Eliora, her younger cousin, broke through the crowd, her tear-streaked face flushed with urgency. Draped in white and gold, she sprinted toward Arienne, arms reaching out.

"Arienne would never betray us! She couldn't!" Eliora's voice wavered, her sobs punctuating each word. "This is wrong! All of it!"

Before Eliora could reach her, a hand seized her arm.

"No," said Cassia, Arienne's mother, her tone icy.

Cassia stood tall, her sharp features framed by raven-black hair streaked with silver. Her piercing blue eyes, cold as a winter's morning, bore into Arienne with unwavering judgment. The regal lines of her face, once softened by maternal warmth, now seemed carved from stone.

Arienne recoiled, not from the words, but from the cold finality in them. The woman who once beamed with pride during her training now looked at her as if she were a stranger.

"You are still young, Eliora," Cassia said, tightening her grip on the girl's wrist. "You do not yet understand the lengths to which people will go for power."

Eliora choked back a sob, struggling against the hold, her face contorted in anguish. "No! You don't understand! Arienne isn't like that! She—she's—"

Arienne's vision blurred. Her body was too weak to move, too drained to even reach out. But her heart ached, a silent scream clawing its way up her throat.

Then her gaze caught onto something—or rather, someone.

Prince Vaelor stood at the edge of the dais, his posture rigid, his face unreadable.

He was supposed to be her betrothed, the one who had sworn to protect her, the one who had whispered promises to her beneath the moonlight.

And yet, his crimson cloak draped around his shoulders like he was prepared for a coronation rather than a condemnation.

His dark eyes, which had once held warmth for her, now glowed with something akin to contempt.

There was no hesitation, no regret.

He stood there as though she were nothing more than a criminal in chains, a stranger, an inconvenience.

And beside him stood Seraphine.

Arienne's breath hitched.

Her younger sister.

The very one she had shielded all those years at the Ardentis Academy of Magic, when the other students whispered cruel words and mocked her for her lack of power.

The sister she had sworn to protect, had fought for, had loved.

Seraphine was looking at her. Not with sadness. Not with regret.

But with a small, satisfied smile.

Arienne's blood ran cold.

Her heart, already broken, splintered into something beyond pain.

She had expected betrayal from the court.

She had prepared for the weight of enemies. But never—never—from her own flesh and blood.

Arienne's breath came in shallow gasps as the weight of realization settled over her like a suffocating fog.

How had it come to this?

Just minutes ago, she had stood before the court, her name etched into history as the youngest High Magus the kingdom had ever seen.

The ceremony had been meant to mark her ascension, a grand ritual to solidify her position as High Magus—a role bestowed upon her not just for her skill, but because of what burned within her: the Phoenix Core.

The Phoenix Core—an ancient and coveted force—had burned within the Velmira bloodline for centuries, a flame of legend and legacy.

It was not merely a source of power; it was a force that defied mortality itself, a convergence of destruction and rebirth.

Those who carried the Phoenix Core wielded a power that could shape empires or reduce them to nothing but smoldering ruins.

It was a force so vast, so unyielding, that even the gods were said to turn their gaze upon its bearer—not in blessing, but in wary anticipation of what they might become.

Throughout history, those blessed—or cursed—with the Core had been hailed as saviors and feared as harbingers.

Revered for their strength, yet always watched with caution, as if the very fire that made them legends could turn and devour everything in its wake.

For to wield the Phoenix Core was to tread the fragile line between divinity and ruin, to know that the flames which set them apart might one day consume them whole.

And yet, she had embraced it. She had spent her life believing that if she proved herself—if she tempered her strength with discipline, if she became what they needed—she would carve out her place in their world.

That she would be seen as something more than a weapon.

But the moment she became inconvenient, the moment their fear eclipsed their faith in her, they had cast her aside.

As if she had never mattered at all.

Had she been a fool?

She had believed—however distantly—that her achievements would mean something. That the battles she fought, the blood she spilled, and the strength she had forged through pain would carve her name among the greats.

That even if they never saw her as one of them, they would at least acknowledge the sacrifice, the devotion—the sheer will it had taken to become their shield.

But she was wrong.

She had never belonged to them. Not truly. Not ever.

And then, she looked up—past the sneering nobles, past the silent Prince, past the sister who had smiled at her downfall—and found her father.

Lord Alistair Velmira stood upon the high platform, gazing down at her with a scowl etched deep into his face. His iron-gray hair was perfectly in place, his robes unblemished, as if the spectacle before him was no more than an unfortunate inconvenience.

But it wasn't his usual coldness that struck her.

It was the belief in his eyes.

He believed she had done it.

That she was guilty. That she was capable of the treachery they accused her of.

Had he ever questioned it?

Had any of them even stopped to wonder if she was truly capable of such things?

A bitter laugh, weak and broken, bubbled up in her throat, but she swallowed it down, pressing her forehead against the cold marble floor.

It didn't matter anymore.

Nothing did.

Suddenly, a commanding voice cut through the silence.

"Arienne Velmira."