Beneath the gleaming halls of Vireth's palace, past sealed doors and winding staircases carved into black stone, the air grew colder. The sounds of court faded, replaced by the low hum of ancient wards vibrating through the walls. Magic—old and restless—hung in the air like fog.
Serenya stood before a towering obsidian arch etched with glowing runes. In its center: a sealed gate pulsing with golden light. It didn't open with keys or spells—only Solmar blood could awaken it.
Kaelith stood beside her, calm and poised. Corvin lingered near the entrance, tense but silent. Kael had not followed them—he said court politics needed him to remain, but his final glance had lingered too long for it to be mere duty.
"Touch the center," Kaelith instructed. "Speak your name. The gate will judge you."
Serenya pressed her palm to the center of the door. The stone was warm—too warm. She swallowed, then spoke:
"I am Serenya Solmar. Daughter of Elyria. Blood of the flame."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the stone beneath her hand flared with fire, and the gate groaned as it unlocked, sliding open with a sound like stone exhaling after centuries.
Inside was darkness.
But not empty darkness. It breathed.
Kaelith nodded. "You must go in alone. If you survive, you'll come out changed."
"What happens if I fail?"
"The vault doesn't open for corpses."
Serenya stepped forward.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the door sealed shut behind her.
—
The chamber inside was enormous—far larger than it should've been. The walls shimmered with half-formed illusions: figures from another time, flickering like candlelight. Voices echoed in the distance. Some whispered in languages she didn't know. Others called her name.
In the center of the chamber, a pedestal rose from the floor. Upon it, a mirror.
But this was no ordinary reflection.
Serenya stepped toward it—and froze.
The figure staring back at her was herself, but not. Her eyes glowed molten gold. Flames curled from her fingertips. Her crown was made of living fire, and behind her, the world burned.
"Is this what I'll become?" she whispered.
The mirror-self moved, independent of her. It smiled.
And then it stepped out.
Serenya stumbled back as the reflection solidified, fire flaring around it.
"You fear me," the doppelgänger said, voice echoing with power. "You think I'll consume you."
"You're not real," Serenya said, drawing breath—and courage.
"I'm what you'll become if you lose control. If you let rage guide you instead of wisdom. I am the queen who burns cities to avenge her pain."
The reflection raised her hand, summoning a sword made of fire. "Face me, Serenya. Or I will rule in your name."
The chamber burst into flame—and the battle began.
—
Serenya had never truly fought before—not like this. But instincts rose within her like buried embers reigniting. She dodged, blocked, struck—each movement rough but full of desperate resolve. The fire sword grazed her shoulder, searing her skin, but she didn't scream.
"You are nothing without me," the reflection hissed. "You were a girl hiding in a fishing village. You were no one."
"I was free," Serenya shouted, striking back. "I wasn't afraid of becoming something I couldn't control!"
The two clashed—flames against will, fear against defiance. The battle was not about skill. It was about choice.
Finally, Serenya dropped her sword and reached within—into the flame inside her.
It pulsed, wild and alive.
But she did not fear it now.
She accepted it.
A blaze erupted from her chest—not burning but illuminating. It engulfed her reflection, who let out a scream that dissolved into light.
And then… silence.
The fire dimmed.
Serenya stood alone, her body glowing faintly with golden light. The mirror was gone. In its place was a small, glowing ember—hovering in the air.
She reached for it. It settled in her palm, warm and steady.
Her first spark of power, earned—not inherited.
The gate behind her reopened.
—
Kaelith watched her step out, breathing hard, her dress singed, her shoulders scorched—but her eyes were bright.
"You passed," he said simply.
"What was that thing?" she asked.
"A piece of you," he replied. "And a warning. You are the fire and the hand that wields it. Remember that."
Corvin approached with a silent nod, his eyes filled with something close to pride.
As they climbed back toward the light, Serenya realized something:
She had gone in as a lost heir.
She was leaving as something more.