The Shadow Court had not convened in full since the Night of Ten Moons—when Aldric first claimed his crown. Now, they gathered again, but this time in fear.
The central hall pulsed with enchantment as elders argued.
"She invites Heralds to speak her name!"
"She bleeds prophecy!"
"She is the prophecy," Moriah said, voice cutting through the clamor.
Elara stepped forward. "Let me speak."
They fell silent.
"I know what I am," she said. "I've seen it. The glyph isn't a gift. It's a curse, passed down through blood. But I'm not here to inherit a throne. I'm here to end what your generation refused to face."
One elder sneered. "You presume you're strong enough to bind what the Moonmother herself failed to destroy?"
"I'm not," Elara replied. "But I'm not alone."
She turned to Aldric—and he stepped forward to join her.
"Together," he said.
It was the first time the Court had seen them not as lord and consort, but as equals.
And it terrified them.
In the shadows, Daevos watched, unmoved.
But deep below the city, the Herald stirred—and laughed.