Three days later, the royal gates opened to fanfare and diplomacy.
A procession of carriages and armored riders poured into the capital of Eridia, bearing the azure banners of Ilvaren—white lilies over silver fields. The delegation was modest in size but steeped in wealth. Their armor gleamed with gem-encrusted hilts and silk-lined cloaks, and the air around them smelled of perfume and politics.
At the head of the caravan rode the Princess.
Althar stood atop the palace stairs with his council flanking him. His expression, as always, was unreadable. Eyes calm. Shoulders squared. But inside, a storm brewed. Not from fear—but from curiosity.
Princess Seris of Ilvaren dismounted gracefully, her attendants quickly falling into formation around her. She was tall, with silver-blonde hair that shimmered like starlight beneath her ceremonial veil. Her gown, a cascade of blue and white silk, flowed like water around her. But what caught Althar's attention wasn't her beauty—it was her gaze.
Sharp.
Measuring.
Unflinching.
She approached and curtsied with fluid grace. "Your Majesty," she said, voice like polished steel wrapped in velvet, "it is an honor to stand before you in peace."
Althar stepped down to meet her. "Peace is a rare guest in this land, Princess Seris. I hope you intend to stay a while."
She smiled—but only with her lips. "That depends entirely on your hospitality… and your heart."
His brow arched faintly. "You'll find my heart isn't so easily read."
"Good," she said softly. "I don't trust men whose hearts are open to all."
The court buzzed faintly behind them, but Althar waved the diplomats away and motioned her to walk with him. She followed without hesitation, their steps echoing through the marble halls.
In the privacy of the Winter Garden—a secluded terrace lined with silverleaf trees and enchanted snowfall—Seris finally dropped the diplomatic mask.
"I didn't come here to flirt or flatter," she said plainly. "Ilvaren needs allies. You've fought back the corruption we've only begun to feel. I came because I wanted to see the man who did it."
"And what do you see?" Althar asked.
Seris met his gaze. "Power. Unclaimed. And a man who's either going to save this continent… or burn it."
Althar turned from her, staring at the frost-glazed trees. "I didn't ask to be a savior."
"No one ever does," she replied. "But you are becoming something. We can all feel it. You're changing. Not just in strength—but in presence. It draws people to you."
He was silent for a long moment. Then: "You feel it too?"
Seris nodded once. "Like a pulse in the earth. You're not entirely of this world anymore."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he asked, "And if I become what they fear? Will Ilvaren raise arms against me?"
Seris gave a wry smile. "If you become a tyrant, we'll raise armies. But if you become something more…" She stepped closer, just enough to lower her voice. "Then perhaps we'll kneel. Not in fear—but in hope."
Althar studied her. There was something about her that reminded him of the fire he saw in himself—not magic, not prophecy—but will. She wasn't a puppet princess. She had come with purpose.
And yet, even now, she didn't stir him like…
Ariya.
The memory of the healer's gentle voice surfaced. The girl who didn't want anything from him. Who offered warmth without a bargain. Why was she still in his thoughts?
"You're distracted," Seris noted. "Is it another woman?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "That's none of your concern."
She smirked. "Then she's important."
Before he could respond, a shadow passed overhead. A raven—its feathers mottled with ash—landed on the terrace rail and cawed sharply.
It dropped a scroll at Althar's feet.
The seal bore no crest—only a single black flame.
He broke it open.
"The gate stirs. The stars fall in reverse. Your throne is not yours alone."
Rorek arrived moments later, breathless. "Your Majesty," he said. "Scouts report a breach near the Whispering Hills. Something came through."
Althar folded the scroll tightly. "We ride at dawn."
Seris gave a nod, her voice calm but curious. "Shall I come with you?"
He studied her, weighing trust against caution. Finally, he said, "If you wish to see what I truly am, Princess… then follow me into the dark."
That night, he stood alone in his war chamber, overlooking maps lit by candlelight. The branded mark on his chest burned again—brighter now. As if the crown beneath the mountain had sensed the world changing.
Not all thrones are made of gold.
Some are forged in fire and worn by those who do not ask to rule—but cannot walk away.