The betrothal altar reeked of lilies and lies. The scent, once meant to symbolize purity, felt cloying, suffocating. Each petal might as well have been another link in the invisible chains binding Liam and Elara to a fate neither had chosen.

  Liam’s ceremonial robes, embroidered in Greystone silver and Kaelian blue, itched unbearably. Not from the fabric itself, but from the anti-magic runes stitched into the seams—Adrian’s so-called precaution after the garden incident. He resisted the urge to shift, his spine a rod of unyielding steel. The moment he showed weakness, they would pounce.

  Elara stood beside him, rigid and unyielding, her face a careful mask of indifference. Her smile was glassy, false, a mere reflection of the expectations heaped upon her. Even now, her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach for her magic, to obliterate the farce before them.

  Lionel’s envoy droned through the archaic vows, words neither child would remember nor care to.

  “Do you pledge your magic, your might—”

  A wail shattered the stillness, a piercing cry that cut through the hollow ritual like a blade. Amara.

  Every head turned. The child stood at the edge of the chamber, her silken dress glowing with violet energy as her Mark pulsed wildly. The delicate chains meant to suppress it had snapped, unable to contain the raw power within.

  “Now!” Lionel hissed.

  The Greystone mages surged forward, their containment rods crackling with suppression spells. Their robes billowed as they raised their staffs, their incantations thick with urgency.

  But before they could reach her, Elric roared, his aura flaring like wildfire. “Traitors!”

  Chaos erupted.

  Liam felt the tension snap, the weight of expectation dissolving in the face of something far greater—pure survival. The air crackled as containment rods shattered, Spire-fire engulfing them before they could touch Amara. The blue-white flames roared to life, twisting with fury, answering a call Liam hadn’t meant to make.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Beside him, Elara reacted with terrifying efficiency. With a flick of her fingers, the very air crystallized, forming a web of razor-thin shards that snared their would-be attackers mid-lunge. Mages froze, trapped in a prison of their own making, their eyes wide with shock.

  Adrian, perched on the dais, watched with a quiet smile, as if this had been his intention all along. His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Marvelous,” he murmured. “Nothing unites like a common enemy.”

  His words barely registered before Evelina’s voice rang out, sharp as breaking ice. “Enough!”

  The command was absolute. The battle stilled, bodies frozen mid-motion as if a spell far greater than any of theirs had bound them in place.

  She strode forward, past shattered marble and smoking fabric, her presence an avalanche of cold fury. “This farce ends now.”

  Reaching Lionel, she tilted her head, her gaze stripping him bare. “Let’s not waste our time,” she said smoothly. “I assume you thought we wouldn’t recognize possession magic?”

  The illusion flickered, the glamour peeling away like paint under acid. The “Archduke” melted, his features warping until what stood in his place was no nobleman at all, but a scarred Inquisitor captain.

  A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

  Evelina did not flinch. Instead, she sighed, unimpressed. “Pathetic.” Her ice dagger was at his throat before he could even think to react. The blade gleamed, a single droplet of blood blooming beneath its tip. “The real Lionel sends his regards.”

  The Inquisitor’s body slumped to the floor, the spell holding him together dissolving as quickly as his deception. Around them, the dust settled, revealing not adversaries, but unlikely allies. The survivors of the battle—Greystone loyalists, Kaelian nobles, and those who had simply chosen the right side of history—lowered their weapons.

  Amara, now silent, clung to Liam’s hand. Her Mark had dimmed, the raw energy retreating back into the depths of her tiny form. But her violet eyes still shimmered with something ancient, something watching.

  Liam exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing into his chest. The game had shifted again, but the board had not changed. They were still pieces, still pawns in Adrian’s grand design.

  Elara’s fingers brushed against his—scarred but steady. He glanced at her, finding in her gaze a reflection of his own determination. They had been forced onto this path, but that did not mean they had to follow it blindly.

  Together, they would rewrite the rules.