Chapter 5: Whispers Beneath the Dust
The night inside the ruin was colder than the wind outside.
Maret's shelter was little more than stone walls and a roof patched with skins and old banners, but it offered a kind of safety Seraphina hadn't felt since the palace fell. Kael sat near the fire sharpening his sword again, while Maret busied herself with an iron kettle of thin vegetable stew.
Seraphina sat quietly, listening to the crackling flames. Every spark reminded her of the night everything burned.
"You dream loudly," Maret said suddenly, not looking up.
Seraphina blinked. "You heard?"
"Everyone within ten paces heard." Maret stirred the pot slowly. "You called out for your mother."
Kael didn't react, but Seraphina could feel his attention sharpen.
She looked down, ashamed. "I—I didn't mean to."
Maret scoffed. "No one means to bleed when they're wounded either. But it happens."
Silence fell again, thick and uncomfortable. The stew bubbled.
Then Kael spoke.
"When we leave, we'll head toward the old border trail. There's a man in Velthorn who still trades news for silver. If anyone knows where your allies are hiding, it's him."
Seraphina nodded. "How far is Velthorn?"
"Three days on foot. Two with horses—if we can find any."
"Then we'll take three," she said. "We've survived worse."
Maret glanced over, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Brave words for a girl raised in silk."
"I wasn't always sheltered," Seraphina replied. "My mother trained me in more than just court manners."
"She trained you to be a queen?" Maret asked.
Seraphina hesitated. "She trained me to survive."
After the meal, Maret brought out a folded piece of parchment and laid it flat on the floor. It was a map—faded, edges torn, marked with red ink and crossed-out roads. Seraphina knelt beside it.
"This was drawn during the war," Maret said. "Some roads don't exist anymore. Some towns fell."
Seraphina traced the route Kael had described—north, past the Black Hills, through hollow passes and dead forests. Velthorn lay near the edge of the kingdom, half-forgotten.
"And what lies beyond Velthorn?" she asked.
Kael leaned closer. "The Whispering Coast. Smuggler territory. Broken ports. Safe places for dangerous people."
Seraphina looked up. "That's where we'll find the rebellion?"
"If it still breathes," Kael said. "The coast was where the last of your mother's commanders fled."
Maret nodded. "And if they live… they'll want proof you are who you claim to be."
Seraphina sat back. "What kind of proof?"
Maret reached into her cloak and pulled out a small object wrapped in black velvet. She unrolled it carefully and revealed a silver ring etched with the symbol of a phoenix rising from a crown.
Seraphina gasped. "That was my mother's…"
"Her seal," Maret finished. "I took it from the battlefield before the carrion came."
Seraphina reached out, hands trembling slightly as she lifted the ring. The metal was cold but heavy with memory.
"She wore this when she died," she whispered.
"She wore it when she declared you her heir," Maret corrected. "If the right eyes see it, they'll kneel. If the wrong eyes see it…"
"They'll slit my throat," Seraphina finished, nodding grimly.
Kael stood. "Then we'll make sure it's only seen by those who matter."
That night, Seraphina couldn't sleep.
She lay on a bed of furs and torn blankets, staring at the ceiling through broken beams. Her fingers curled around the ring, now hidden beneath her cloak.
What did it mean to be a queen without a crown? Without a court? Without a kingdom?
The fire inside her had grown since the ruins. Each step she took, each truth she learned, made her feel less like a frightened girl and more like someone who might be able to lead. One day.
If the people still believed in the phoenix—if they still remembered the name Seraphina—then maybe, just maybe, this kingdom wasn't dead yet.
She closed her eyes, whispered a silent promise to the stars above, and finally drifted into dreamless sleep.