The wind howled like a warning through the charred remains of the capital. What once stood as the gleaming heart of the kingdom of Elaria was now only rubble, ash, and silence. Somewhere beneath that silence, a heartbeat remained.
She woke to the taste of smoke and blood.
Her name—Seraphina—barely echoed in her memory as she pulled herself from the broken stone. Her hands were scraped raw, her clothes torn, but she was alive. Somehow.
The last thing she remembered was the fire. The flames had swallowed the palace whole, and with it, the only life she had ever known. Servants screaming. Blades clashing. Her mother, a shadow behind the golden curtain, pushing her through a hidden passage with one final command:
"Run. Hide. Never speak your name."
Now, the world was quiet. Too quiet.
She stumbled through the alley behind the ruins, clutching the silver locket that had hung around her neck since childhood. It was cracked, soot-covered—but inside, untouched, the miniature painting of her mother still stared back at her. A queen without a crown. A mother without a child.
Seraphina's breath caught. She wasn't just a survivor.
She was the only living heir.
And no one could know.
Far across the kingdom, in the darkened court of King Malrec, a raven landed on the obsidian windowsill.
The message was short:
"The flame did not kill her. The girl lives."
Malrec's lips curled. "Then we burn the ashes again."
As Seraphina crossed the ruined village outskirts, a hooded figure stepped from the trees. Sword at his hip. Scar across his cheek. Eyes full of recognition.
"You shouldn't be alive," he said.
She stood straighter, hiding the trembling in her limbs. "Neither should Elaria. Yet here we are."
He narrowed his gaze. "If you are who I think you are… they'll hunt you to the ends of the world."
"Then they better start running," she whispered, fire in her voice for the first time.