Arienne's breath quickened. Her pulse roared in her ears.
"How dare you?" The words were a whisper at first, then a growl, then a scream.
Fire surged in her veins, in her bones.
The binds of magic tightened around her wrists and ankles, searing into her skin, but her power—her birthright—fought against them, wild and unyielding.
The air around her crackled.
A fiery aura shimmered around her form as embers lifted into the air, floating like dying stars.
The whites of her eyes darkened with molten gold.
She burned, not just with magic but with betrayal, with fury, with a grief so profound it hollowed her from the inside out.
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
The nobles took a step back.
Mages surged forward, already weaving spells of restraint.
Even Vaelor moved now, his own magic flaring to reinforce her shackles.
She barely felt the pain when Lucien's power crashed down upon her, a suffocating force meant to break her, to silence her.
But still—she stood.
"You liars." Her voice was hoarse, raw. "All of you."
The flames licking at her skin flickered, dimming as more enchantments bound her. But she didn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
"I bled for this kingdom." Her hands trembled as she lifted them, as if reaching for something—anything—to hold onto. "I fought for you. I gave you everything—"
A fresh wave of magic crashed over her.
Her knees buckled.
Her body crumpled to the cold marble floor.
Pain lanced through her limbs as her cheek pressed against the bloodstained stone.
Her vision blurred. But even now, even as her body betrayed her, she refused to look away.
Lucien's voice loomed above her. "And that is not all."
She barely heard him.
"It has also been discovered that she intended to overthrow the kingdom," he declared smoothly, his words polished with venomous certainty. "To use her magic not as a protector—but as a conqueror."
Lies. More lies.
But no one doubted them.
No one questioned them.
Arienne's fingers twitched against the marble.
Her magic stirred weakly, desperate to answer her call, but the bindings crushed it into submission.
Lucien turned toward the king and queen. "What would you have me do?"
King Aldric exhaled, his voice heavy with feigned sorrow. "She is no longer our concern. Do what you see fit."
It was the queen who sealed her fate. "Strip her of everything."
A wave of finality swept over her.
Lucien turned back to her, his voice a decree of doom. "Arienne Velmira will be stripped of her title and her name. Her power will be removed."
A sharp gasp tore from her throat.
Her power.
They weren't sentencing her to death.
They were doing something worse.
The Phoenix Core wasn't just magic—it was her.
It had lived in her since birth, a divine force of creation and destruction. To have it torn from her was to be unmade.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
But Lucien wasn't finished.
"And once it is done," he said, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, "she will be cast into the Abyss."
A humorless, broken laugh escaped her lips.
Of course. Taking her magic wasn't enough. They wanted to erase her entirely.
She closed her eyes.
She had lost everything.
The warmth of fire flickered within her chest one last time before it, too, began to fade.
And then—
A slow, deliberate pair of footsteps echoed through the silent hall.
Vaelor.
He stopped just before her crumpled form, his shadow stretching long beneath the hall's golden torches. He tilted his head, looking down at her with something unreadable in his gaze.
Pity? Disdain? Amusement?
"Stop fighting, Arienne."
There was no cruelty in his tone, only the cold finality of someone who had already moved on. "Accept your fate. There's nothing left for you here."
Arienne's breath hitched.
He didn't mock her. He didn't rage at her. He simply dismissed her—as if she was already gone. As if she had never mattered.
That hurt more than any blade ever could.
Then another set of footsteps, deliberate and unhurried.
Seraphine.
Her sister knelt beside her, fingers ghosting over her bruised cheek, the touch almost tender—almost.
Seraphine leaned in, her breath warm against Arienne's ear. "You should have known better," she murmured, voice laced with quiet cruelty. "You should have been smarter. Stronger. But in the end, you were always too soft."
Arienne's breath came in shallow gasps, her mind drowning in a haze of pain, betrayal, and exhaustion.
A fragile, desperate part of her still wanted to believe this was a nightmare. That Seraphine—her own flesh and blood—would never do this.
But the truth stood before her, smiling.
Seraphine's fingers trailed down her face, a mockery of affection. "Don't worry, dear sister," she said, her voice almost sweet. "I'll take care of everything in your absence. Vaelor. The kingdom. Your legacy."
Her lips curled into a smile—small, satisfied, final.
"You were never meant to keep it anyway."
Something inside her snapped.
The last embers of resignation extinguished.
Arienne's body trembled—not with weakness, but with something deeper. Something raw.
Anger.
No. Not just anger.
Hatred.
A firestorm of betrayal and rage roared through her veins, igniting what little power still flickered within her. The binds seared into her skin, crushing her with their magic, but she didn't care.
She lifted her head, her molten gold eyes locking onto Seraphine's with a fire that refused to be smothered.
"I will come back," she whispered, her voice hoarse but laced with something dark, something terrible. "And when I do, I will burn everything you love to the ground."
A hush fell over the hall.
For the first time, Seraphine hesitated.
But then she laughed.
A soft, almost pitying sound.
"As if you could." She leaned in, her lips brushing against Arienne's ear like a lover's whisper. "No one has ever returned from the Abyss. And that was with their powers intact."
Seraphine's fingers trailed down her jaw, cold despite the warmth in her touch. "You? You'll have nothing. You'll be nothing."
Arienne's breath was ragged, her body broken, but her soul—her fire—refused to die.
She lifted her head, her molten gold eyes locking onto Seraphine's with a fury that sent a shiver through the room.
Seraphine pulled back slightly, studying Arienne's face as if committing this moment to memory.
"The Phoenix dies, sister." Seraphine's voice was softer now, almost gentle. "And this time, there will be no rebirth."
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Seraphine lifted her hand.
A spark flickered to life in her palm—small at first, but then it swelled, twisting and curling into a familiar, golden-red flame.
The air around it shimmered, warped by its unnatural heat.
The Phoenix's flame.