"When the wrong queen is crowned, the throne bleeds first."
—Ancient Spellweaver Proverb
The bells of the capital tolled at dawn twelve peals of silver that echoed across the palace gardens and into the farthest alleys.
Coronation day.
But not for the rightful heir.
No, this was for the False Flameborn, the girl who wore my face and magic like a tailored robe.
"Seraphina of the Unburnt Flame," they called her.
"Phoenix Reborn. Gatebreaker. Queen of the New Empire."
Every title they chanted had once belonged to me. Or worse were ones I'd refused to claim.
She hadn't earned them.
She'd simply taken them.
And now, she was being crowned by the High Church, not the Emperor.
It was a move as bold as it was blasphemous. And it meant only one thing:
The Church was breaking away from the Empire.
And they were using her to do it.
"I should just burn the entire cathedral," I muttered as Kael helped fasten the enchanted mask over my face.
"You'd be doing their job for them," he replied, tightening the illusion charm at my throat.
I looked in the mirror.
Gone was my silver hair and rune-marked collarbone.
In its place: golden curls, soft hazel eyes, a freckled noblewoman's face utterly unremarkable.
A disguise designed to be ignored.
"How do I look?" I asked.
"Like the least important person in the room," Kael smirked. "Perfect."
I slipped a dagger into my sleeve, layered spells over my gloves, and hid my true flame deep inside my chest.
"I go in as a shadow," I said. "I leave with answers."
The Grand Cathedral had once been a temple of balance built with obsidian and moonstone, runes of flame and water etched side by side.
Now, every banner bore the mark of the Phoenix.
But not the one I knew.
This crest was distorted a phoenix with wings of fire, but claws bound in chains. A symbol of false resurrection, of control disguised as rebirth.
The aisles were lined with guards. Rows of nobles in golden masks watched with gleaming eyes as the impostor walked slowly toward the altar.
She looked radiant.
Dressed in ceremonial white trimmed with scarlet threads, her hair fell in perfect waves, a golden circlet resting lightly on her brow.
And on her neck?
My rune.
My. Exact. Rune.
Etched in gold, pulsing faintly with a mimicry of power.
I clenched my fists to keep from shouting.
She had gone too far.
The High Inquisitor stepped forward, flanked by Church Wardens.
He held the Flame Chalice, the same artifact used to crown the old Phoenix queens filled with sacred fire drawn from the Eternal Pyre.
"Seraphina of the Unburnt Flame," he intoned, "do you accept the Rite of Sovereign Light?"
"I do," the impostor said sweetly, bowing her head.
He dipped a ceremonial blade into the flame and pricked her palm.
Her blood hissed on contact and I felt the ripple through my own hand, even across the room.
My blood.
My magic.
She was using something that belonged to me.
A chill ran down my spine.
How did she even get it?
Unless…
She hadn't just taken my magic.
She had stolen a piece of my soul.
I slipped past the crowd during the final chant.
My enchanted glove glowed faintly as I activated the cloaking spell. I moved beneath the pews, avoiding detection as the coronation neared its climax.
But something was wrong.
The guards weren't just positioned to protect her.
They were surrounding the crowd.
They were waiting for something to happen.
And then I saw it at the cathedral's western gate, a member of my rebellion cell, cloaked and wide-eyed.
Too early.
They weren't supposed to be here yet.
"No," I whispered.
The impostor raised her hands high above the altar.
And the flame behind her throne surged.
"Let this fire seal my name," she declared, "and burn all who stand against me."
My heart dropped.
She knew we were coming.
This wasn't just a coronation.
It was a trap.
Flame exploded from the upper arches, raining sparks down on the pews. Nobles screamed. Chaos erupted.
But the impostor didn't flinch.
She turned, eyes glowing gold, and pointed directly at the western entrance.
"There! The heretics! The rebels who threaten peace!"
Guards surged forward.
My people were about to be slaughtered.
I had no choice.
The illusion dropped.
I stood on the altar rail, my flame erupting in a brilliant arc.
Gold and blue. Dual-colored. Pure. Untamed.
The impostor turned, her smile vanishing.
And for the first time… we locked eyes.
Not through mirrors. Not across memories.
Face to face.
"You," she hissed.
"Me," I replied. "The real one."
Her eyes flicked to my rune, then to the dagger in my hand.
"You shouldn't have come."
"You shouldn't have pretended."
I leapt, our blades clashing midair flame and shadow colliding.
The entire cathedral trembled under the pressure of our magic. Stone cracked. Runes flared.
The crowd scattered.
Kael joined the fray, cutting through guards to reach my rebellion cell. "Get them out!" he shouted.
But I had only one focus:
Her.
The impostor fought like a mirror anticipating every strike.
Until I did something unexpected.
I stopped.
Lowered my blade. Let her lunge.
Then whispered a spell directly into her mind:
"Your soul isn't whole. Mine still remembers."
She faltered.
Her flame flickered.
And in that moment of hesitation, I struck not to kill, but to mark.
My blade carved a glowing crescent rune across her shoulder.
A seer's brand.
The truth spell.
Her entire body locked mid-motion.
And her voice, now laced with compulsion, whispered
"I am not the true Seraphina.
I was made… from her fear."
Gasps rang out from the few witnesses left in the wreckage.
The Inquisitor tried to shout a command, but Kael silenced him with a flash of silver steel.
The guards froze.
The rebellion members formed a protective circle around me.
The impostor crumbled to her knees, still glowing with the rune's truth-mark.
Tears streamed down her face but they weren't human tears.
They were made of flame.
Not blood.
Not soul.
Just magic.
I stood over her.
"You're not nothing," I whispered. "You were born from what they tried to make of me. But I won't let you wear my name again."
She didn't answer.
Her body began to flicker… unraveling.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Just fading.