The bells of Vaelora rang at sunrise. Low and heavy, their sound echoed across the silver roofs of the city like a warning from the heavens.

  King Alren was dead.

  The people gathered in silence-thousands of them, dressed in greys and shadowed blues. Smoke rose from incense braziers. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Lady Seraya stood at the steps of the Moonspire Palace, where every ruler of Vaelora had been crowned for a thousand years. She wore no veil. Her eyes-sharp, grey, and unreadable-scanned the crowd like she was memorizing each face.

  Some cried. Most looked confused. A few stared at her too long.

  She did not weep.

  "The king passed in his sleep," the High Seer had said only hours ago.

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  But no one truly believed it. Not when Alren had been healthy the night before. Not when there were whispers of arguments behind locked doors. And not when his sister stood on the steps at dawn, already cloaked in royal gold.

  Still, no one spoke it aloud.

  At her side stood High Seer Elorin, robed in starlight-grey, his staff carved with moons and beasts no one could name. His face, half-hidden by his hood, was ancient but calm. As always.

  He raised his hand, and silence deepened like a held breath.

  "Let the blood of kings be answered by the will of the stars," he said. "The crown is heavy, its path cruel. But power does not wait for mourning."

  He turned to Seraya, and for a moment, the air seemed to shiver.

  "Lady Seraya of House Veilaryn," Elorin said, voice carrying like distant thunder. "Do you claim the throne of Vaelora by blood and by right?"

  Seraya did not hesitate. "I do."

  "Do you vow to serve the realm above yourself, and wear the crown even as it burns?"

  "I do."

  He studied her a moment longer. Then he stepped closer, resting the crown-a circlet of molten gold shaped like a coiled lion-upon her brow.

  As it touched her skin, the wind rose sharply, blowing back her hair.

  And Elorin's voice dropped lower, not for the crowd, but for her alone.

  "The crown you claim," he said, eyes locked on hers, "carries a hunger that will one day devour its bearer."

  Seraya blinked, but said nothing.

  The crowd erupted in quiet applause, out of tradition more than joy. But Seraya stood tall, face calm, eyes hard.

  Inside, she felt no fear. Only heat. A rising flame in her chest that whispered: You were made for this.

  Far above, in the highest tower of the palace, a raven watched with one eye closed.

  And far below, behind locked doors and shuttered mouths, the real game began.

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