The Forged Promise

They reached the palace at sunset. The fountains had frozen despite the mild spring air, and the royal banners hung like torn cloth in the stillness.

Arden passed her childhood rooms without looking at them. In the throne chamber, the Ember Crown sat on a velvet cushion, black as cooled coal.

Her uncle was gone. The council refused to say where. Finn examined the crown and found tiny scratches around its inner rim: words in a language Arden had learned from her mother.

“Not a command,” she translated. “A promise.” The councilors shifted uneasily, suddenly much more frightened of her than they had been of the dying fire.