The throne room echoed with silence.
Not the peaceful quiet of an empty chamber, but the weighted stillness of collective breath held too long, words bitten back, accusations simmering beneath the surface. Not a single tapestry stirred against the stone walls.
Amriel's knees ached against the cold marble floor. Her fingers found the iron ring hanging from the leather cord around her neck—her father's ring. The metal warmed against her skin, a small comfort against the storm raging inside her. She traced the worn engravings with her thumb, feeling each familiar groove, the way she had countless times when the world tilted beneath her feet.
Blood—dried now—stiffened the fabric of her gown, turning it from pale violet to crusty brown-black. Her chest no longer bore the gaping wound that had killed her hours earlier, but her skin remembered. It tingled with phantom pain where flesh and bone had been torn apart, where her heart had been exposed to open air before failing entirely.
King Marcus Drathex sat rigidly upon the onyx throne, his knuckles white against the armrests. The royal mourning cloak of midnight blue draped his shoulders, fastened with the twin eagle brooch of House Drathex—black silk ribbons draped over the golden wings, signifying a death in the royal line.
To his right stood Lord Severith Caldwell, the High Chancellor, his thin frame draped in robes of slate gray. His face reminded Amriel of the weasels that sometimes raided the chicken coops back home—narrow, watchful, with eyes that missed nothing and revealed less.
Kortana stood at Amriel's right, refusing the King's silent command to kneel. Her deep purple robes hid the color of dried blood better than Amriel and Lyana's pale violet, but it was noticeable all the same. So were the gashes and trails of blood that still marred her face.
Lyana knelt on Amriel's left, a bandage wrapped around her forearm where a shard of stone had sliced deep. Her dark eyes remained downcast, but her shoulders were rigid with tension.
Prince Tristan stood to the left of the throne, the tightness around his eyes betraying his contained emotion. Behind him, Commander Thalon maintained a watchful stance, his emerald eyes constantly scanning the chamber.
The King rose, each movement weighted with the gravity of his position.
"Coven Leader Kortana," he began, his voice brittle, like ice about to crack. "You were entrusted with my daughter's safety. Instead, she lies in the temple, cold as winter stone, while you stand before me with mere scratches."
Kortana met his gaze unflinchingly. "Your Majesty's grief is justified. The loss of Princess Irina wounds the realm deeply."
"Spare me your carefully chosen words," the King snapped. "I want to know how my daughter was murdered within the walls of the Illumination Tower, under the very noses of those sworn to protect her."
Amriel's fingers tightened around her father's ring. The metal grew warmer, almost responding to her rising panic.
Lord Severith stepped forward with smooth precision. "If I may, Your Majesty." His voice was surprisingly melodious, almost hypnotic. "The assassination bears all hallmarks of the Purifiers. The explosive rune, the timing, the precision... they are nothing if not meticulous."
"The Purifiers haven't operated within our borders for a decade," Prince Tristan interjected, brow furrowed. "Why target Irina now? She posed no political threat."
"Perhaps the target wasn't the princess," Severith replied, lips curving in what might have been a smile, "but what she represented—the future of magic within the royal line. Some find such power... unsettling."
Kortana stiffened, the air around her humming with controlled Power.
"A theory without evidence," she said, her tone respectful but steely.
"Perhaps," Severith conceded. He descended the dais steps to stand before Amriel. "But I took a little look into our young friend's history. The Archivists were quite helpful."
He loomed over her, smiling. "You've a past with the Purifiers, don't you, my dear?"
Amriel's brows furrowed in confusion. She knew of the cult—male mages who attacked Witches. But they had been hunted nearly to extinction.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, heart sinking further.
"Your father," Severith said, his tone almost a purr. "He belonged to the Purifiers, did he not?"
"I—I don't—" Amriel stammered, caught completely off-guard.
"Of course you don't," Severith smiled, teeth gleaming. "That's what anyone would say."
"This is absurd," Kortana cut in sharply. "Amriel was a child when her father died. And I knew the man—he was a hero who fought the Fallen."
Severith's smile widened as he turned to Kortana. "Did you know him well enough to see beneath his mask?" He produced a weathered parchment. "This roster from Blackthorn Pass lists Kier Vardon among the Third Company. And this," he revealed a second document, "is a manifest taken during a raid on a Purifier stronghold. The same name appears."
The King's gaze fixed on Amriel. "Is this true?"
Amriel's mind reeled. Her father—the gentle man who told her stories beneath the stars, who taught her the names of every herb—a member of a cult that murdered witches? Impossible. And yet...
Memories surfaced unbidden. Her father's strange silences whenever her mother spoke of the Coven. The nightmares that plagued his final years, when he would wake screaming names she didn't recognize.
"My father was a soldier," she managed, voice cracking. "He fought the Fallen. That's all I know."
"Convenient ignorance," Severith said, circling her like a predator. "You, whose very existence defies death itself."
"That's enough, Severith," Prince Tristan stepped forward, voice carrying authority. "These accusations are reaching. Brother, it's time to rein in your pet."
"Ah, Prince Tristan, defending the Coven Leader again," Severith bowed mockingly. "What would your wife think?"
An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber. The prince's jaw clenched as he stepped back, falling silent.
Amriel clutched her father's ring tighter. It burned against her skin now, no longer a comfort but a question with no answer.
Severith continued smoothly, "I've seen magic restore grievous wounds, Your Majesty. I've seen healers bring back those near death. But what happened to Amriel Vardon was different. My witness says she was gone completely, then wasn't."
The King's expression darkened. "What are you suggesting?"
"Something none of us understand," Severith replied. "Which is precisely why caution is required. Something unnatural has occurred, defying the laws of life and death. Until we know what magic restored this woman—and why—she must be contained."
A chill spread through Amriel's veins. Contained. The Dreadfort—the black prison where those deemed dangerous were sent to be forgotten.
Her fingers gripped her father's ring so tightly the edges bit into her palm. The pain anchored her, kept her from crying out as panic threatened to overwhelm her.
Kortana stepped forward, eyes flashing with rare anger. "Your Majesty, this is madness. Amriel is a victim, not a threat. If her father's past is tied to the Purifiers—which I question—she cannot be held accountable for it."
"Can she not?" Severith raised an eyebrow. "The daughter of a Purifier, miraculously surviving an attack that killed your daughter? The coincidence strains belief."
The King's grief-hardened features settled into something colder, more calculating. He returned to his throne, fingers drumming against the armrest as he considered.
"Coven Leader Kortana, launch a full investigation into this attack," he finally declared. "As for you, Amriel Vardon—until we understand what you are, what brought you back from death, you will be held in the Dreadfort."
"Your Majesty, please—" Amriel began, blood draining from her face.
"Silence," the King commanded. "The northern tower. Comfortable quarters, but secured against any magic within you." He gestured to the guards. "Take her away."
"Your Majesty," Kortana interjected, "I must insist on access to Amriel during her confinement."
The King hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Supervised visits only."
Severith's smile thinned, displeasure flashing across his features before his mask returned. "A wise compromise, Your Majesty."
As guards hauled Amriel to her feet, she felt something strange stir within her chest—where her heart had been destroyed. A warmth not her own, a strength she couldn't explain. The iron ring hummed against her skin, responding to her fear.
Prince Tristan stepped forward. "I'll escort the prisoner personally."
The King waved dismissively. "As you wish."
As they led her from the throne room, away from Severith's calculating smile and the King's cold fury, a strange certainty settled in Amriel's bones.
This wasn't the end of her story but the beginning of something far larger—a destiny set in motion long before she'd collapsed in that blood-soaked corridor. A destiny that had reached beyond death itself to claim her.
Her father's ring warmed against her skin as she walked through the castle corridors toward the Dreadfort. Whatever she had become, whatever had brought her back from the void, she would face it with the same determination that had defined her life.
After all, she had already died once today. What was left to fear?